Author's Note: Thank you to Gaston Leroux for PotO, Jamie L. Vaughan for the idea of setting PotO in WW2, Schattenfreude for the idea of having Christine as a resistance worker and Erik as a Nazi infiltrator, Mr. Robert S. for sharing his memories of WW2 and the French Resistance with me, everyone who told me that I could do this (especially Shay, Jenn, and Maggie), and those of you who have read the old story.

I removed Das because I was frustrated with my inability to do justice to this story idea; I am hoping that this second time through will be better.

This story is lovingly dedicated to Shay, for without her this story never would have existed. Many thanks to Jennyfair for betaing, giving advice, listening to me complain, and telling me to tone down the history nerdiness.

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June 14, 1940 – Paris, France – Christine

The day was sticky without the slightest hint of a breeze to carry the sound of the thousands of booted feet that must be stomping along the streets of Paris, yet I could still feel the Germans approaching. I stood quietly on the sidewalk, blending into the nearly silent throngs of people that lined the avenue, all of us looking for the first sign of the conquerors, all of us waiting – it was the only thing that could be done now.

The man standing beside me began to sob and a woman passed him a handkerchief as she hissed sternly that we had to be strong. I clenched my fists and closed my eyes, remembering how often I had heard that same admonition during my life and hating it. I’m tired of being brave, I thought to myself as my fingernails dug into my palms, I’m tired of losing everyone and everything. When will it end?

“They’re coming.” The words raced through the crowd and I opened my eyes. I had never known an era of vicious war; by the time I had been born, Europe had already fought la der des ders, the last of the last, or so everyone said. Too much had been lost in the war that had engulfed the Continent – money, land, an entire generation – and it seemed impossible to believe that such a tragedy could be repeated, especially so soon. Our politicians had been quick to reassure us that diplomacy could solve everything and that there would be no need to fight the Nazis, but my guardians, the Valériuses, had always looked to the east with caution.

My heart beat painfully as I thought of Mama, and for a selfish moment I wished that she were here with me so I would not be alone. It’s a mercy that she died before this, I reminded myself as the faint sound of hobnailed boots meeting the pavement reached my ears, and even though I knew it was true, I still longed for someone to be here with me, someone who had experienced war before and could reassure me that everything would be fine.

“They’re not animals,” someone nearby whispered, although to my ears it sounded more like a prayer than a statement. I shivered in spite of the heat and wrapped my arms around my midsection as the sound of their marching grew louder, fervently hoping that the Nazis were human beings after all, or at least acted like it.

“We should have left,” another voice declared half-hysterically, nearly drowned out by the noise of the advancing German soldiers. “Even the government had enough sense to leave!” Many of my neighbors had packed their belongings and fled the city; it was rumored that over a million Parisians had gone south into the countryside in an effort to escape from the invaders, and not for the first time I wished that I had run away too, although I knew that I had nowhere to go. Mama had been all I had left in the world, and she had died a few months before.

I could see them now, a thin line snaking its way down the street, and their metal hats gleamed so brightly in the sun that I had to shield my eyes with my hand. I noticed that their dark green uniforms were neat and well-tailored, but I could not help but compare them to a plague of locusts, as destructive and unwanted as the insect hoards that sometimes invaded southern France, and I felt numb inside as I watched them. Soon they were close enough that I could make out their faces, several sporting grotesque smirks of triumph but none meeting our eyes as they passed us by, every last man staring straight ahead and marching so perfectly that they resembled toy soldiers more than real ones.

Unable to watch the horrid display of power any longer, I turned away from the endless parade of soldiers and blindly pushed my way through the crowd, wondering why I had come at all. I walked as quickly as I could, trying to get far away from the nightmarish sound of those boots stomping along the Champs-Elysées, and I didn’t stop to collect my thoughts until I had crossed the Seine. I stared at the Eiffel Tower as I leaned against the bridge, the flag of France still waving proudly from the top of the building, and I could not imagine a Nazi flag in its place.

The streets were nearly deserted as I wandered back towards my apartment, with most of the shop windows boarded up and every business closed; even the Opera had canceled performances for an undetermined amount of time, and the managers were unsure if they would reopen this year. There was nothing to do in the city except to hope that the worst was over, and I was in no hurry to return home to stare at the blank walls of my sitting room or listen to the radio play outdated news programs.

I thought of Mama again and how much easier life had been knowing that she was waiting for me to return to our flat after a brutal rehearsal. She had been the grandmother I had never known, my only source of comfort when I had been overwhelmed by grief after my father’s passing, and the one who had encouraged me to stay in the Conservatory after I had lost all will to sing. Her death had been an incredible shock to me, even though she had been ill all of the years that I had known her – “a weak heart and a frail constitution” the doctors had declared – but she had clung to life with a fierce tenacity that had convinced me that if anyone could possibly be immortal it would be her. Discovering one morning that she had quietly gone to sleep and would never wake again was devastating.

I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn’t notice three German soldiers approaching me until it was too late to politely turn down another street to avoid them. It felt as if every muscle in my body tensed as they came closer, although I tried to keep a neutral expression on my face. I had heard frightening tales of the brutality of the Nazis, how they raped and murdered as they pleased, and I clutched my purse to keep my hands from shaking too noticeably. The soldiers tipped their soft-brimmed hats to me, one even daring to smile when he caught my eye, and I quickly focused upon the sidewalk and hoped that they would pass me by without saying a word.

“Excuse me Mademoiselle?” One of the Nazis asked in garbled French, and I stared at his feet, refusing to meet his gaze. “Can you tell me where the Champ de Mars is?”

I stood silently, still looking at his boots, too afraid to answer or even to walk away. One of the other soldiers grumbled something in German and all three of them laughed. I tried to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat and wondered what the man had said. Were they mocking me or did they have more sinister intentions?

I remembered the advice Mama had given me only a few days before her death: “If the worst comes to pass and I am not here with you, remember that you are Swedish and the Nazis have no quarrel with your country. Be a good girl, give them no cause to look at you twice, and everything will be fine.” Oh Mama, I thought dismally, the Nazis have scarcely been here for half a day and already they are stopping me in the streets!

“Perhaps you can understand me,” the soldier who had spoken in German gently said in nearly perfect French, only a hint of an accent marring his speech. “I’m afraid Otto did not pay enough attention in French class as a youth. Could you please direct us to the Champ de Mars?”

Hesitantly I peeked at him from beneath lowered lashes. He didn’t seem like a vicious savage, standing there in the sunlight with a smile upon his face, and I turned around to point in the direction of the park. “There, before you reach the Eiffel Tower,” I managed to squeak, even though I felt like crying.

“Thank you,” they all said in unison, bobbing their heads and touching the brims of their hats. Otto, the one who had spoken to me first, stuck his hand in his pocket and searched for something, causing me to grow tense once more. Handcuffs? I wondered as I debated whether I could outrun them if I needed to do so, deciding that it was unlikely even though I obviously knew the city better than they did. A gun? The soldier gestured for me to hold out my hand and I did so instinctively, and he pressed something against my palm and folded my fingers over it before they all bowed again and ambled towards the park.

I waited until they were out of sight before opening my fist and discovering that they had given me a piece of wrapped hard candy.

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Author's Note: Every detail in this chapter is historically accurate as far as I can determine; apologies for any unintentional historical inaccuracies.

Soon I hope to create a comprehensive list of the sources I have used when writing this story.