Chapter 1: Phoebe, Paris, France, 1942
I still remember him, walking by the Effriel tower, nine days after they became in control. They've taken over France... Ugh, such a pity.
I've come to learn English over my past years, with a tutor and all, but I'm afraid there is no reason to speak it here. You either speak French, or unfortunately, German.
You see, the Nazi corporation has well, taken over France. Well not, "taken over" more like, "occupied".
I was riding in a black car on my way to Amelia's restaurant. Amelia is my best friend who lives fairly close to the tower. She is a dear sweet heart truthfully, although I do say, clever. Clever meaning, she talks her way out of everything with her fake smile and curly brunette hair.
The driver, my uncle, stopped immediately making me go forward a little in my seat.
"We're here, Phoebe." my uncle said in French.
"Thank you." I replied. He gave me a weird glance considering he doesn't know a word in English. I gave him a nod instead.
I don't like speaking French, I am fond of speaking English. I get scared sometimes, on the Effriel Tower, and thinking of France, I think of that tower.
I got out of the vehicle and stepped out on the sidewalk in front of, "L'escargot", which means "the snail" in French. Amelia has an obsession, over snails. That's mostly what she eats, and at her restaurant she makes snail at a high price so no one eats it. Quite odd, but I have to live with it.
The door rung as I opened it. As soon as I got inside the store I heard a, "Bonjour Phoebe!"
It was Amelia. She was in an apron walking out of the kitchen to me with her arms open. I hugged her.
"Bonjour." I said while hugging her.
"Come in, come in! Get an apron! Seriously, dear, I need help. Hansel is somewhere in town." Amelia replied in French. She went in to the kitchen and came back out with a white apron. Suddenly she paused and turned her head to a man eating at a table.
He gave her a worried glance smashing his potatoes gently with a fork. She narrowed her blue eyes.
"You're German, aren't you?" Amelia asked him. The man blinked.
"Yes, mam, I am." he replied in French with an obvious German accent.
She scoffed and began to walk again towards me.
"Thanks, Amelia." I smiled as I took the apron.
"No issue, dear."
"How did you know he was German?" I whispered.
"Gram taught me before her passing, when this was her restaurant." she replied firmly and wiped off an empty table with a rag. I put on the apron that was originally Amelia's brother, Hansel's.
"But really, what's the trick to determining whether or not someone is German?" I asked.
"French people cut their potatoes right?" she asked me.
"Oui." I said saying yes.
"Germans mash their potatoes."
"I didn't know that."
Amelia hates Germans with a passion. Her mother, Gretta Foster or should I say, Gretta Walters, (Gretta Foster is her maiden name) was interrogated on her farm. They searched for two hours since she has a large territory of land.
Amelia originally lived in Spain but when her father and her grandmother disappeared while on a boat ride, she decided to take over her grandmother's restaurant and rename it.
When Amelia lived with her mom, she sneaked into the barn and hid, but the Germans found her. They were looking for Jews all around her village.