I wish things could be different for us.He put away the letter, and then retrieved a straight razor and clean uniform from his case. In a small, windowless room off the kitchen, he bathed in a tarnished copper tub. Although the water was cold, it was far better than his last bath in an old wine barrel, of which the water was used, over and over, by over a dozen officers until the water turned the color of the trenches. Using a chunk of lye soap, which omitted a strong ammonia odor, he washed his oily hair and body. He scrubbed until his skin turned raw but was unable to cleanse the horrid visions that lingered in his brain.
Dressed and clean-shaven, he followed an aroma of sizzling sausage to the kitchen, where Celeste was standing by a stove. His stomach ached with hunger.
“Have you changed your mind about eating?” Celeste asked. Using a fork with two long tines, she rolled sausage over a hot pan.
“Ja,” Bruno said. He left the kitchen and sat at a table in the parlor. A moment later, Celeste delivered a plate of sausage and roasted potatoes, and then retrieved a bottle of wine from the cellar.
“Will there be more officers staying with you this evening?” he asked.
“Non,monsieur.” She poured wine into a glass.
“Danke.” He took a sip. The wine was dry and crisp, with a hint of toasted vanilla. “Have you eaten?”
“I will have something after I clean your uniform.” She placed the bottle on the table.
A decision burned inside him. He craved solitude, yet he wanted to know more about what life was like for Celeste and the citizens of Lille. Before he changed his mind, he stood from his chair and said, “Would you like to join me?”
She clasped her hands. “I only made enough for you.”
“I’m not that hungry,” he lied. “We can share the food.”
She glanced to the wall, as if she were pondering his offer, and then nodded. She retrieved a plate setting and wineglass, and then sat, draping a napkin over her lap.
Bruno cut the sausage in half. He placed it, along with a helping of potatoes, on Celeste’s plate and poured wine into her glass.
She forked a bit of potato.
He chewed a piece of sausage. Containing spice and fat, it was far more savory than the dry field sausage which tasted like baked leather. “It’s good.”
She nodded with her eyes lowered.
For several minutes, they ate without speaking. Utensils clicked against porcelain plates.
His mind raced with what to say. “Do you often encounter ill-behaved soldiers?”
She took a drink of wine. “More often than I would like.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Merci.” As she attempted to cut her sausage, the knife slipped from her fingers and clanged against the plate.
“Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“Non,” she said, her eyes avoiding him.
“Your German is quite good. Where did you learn to speak it?”
“When I was a young, my parents took me and my younger sisters on summer vacations in Switzerland.”
A childhood memory of Bruno’smutter—abandoning him with nannies and spending months at a time in a Swiss chalet—flashed in his head. He buried the image and asked, “Is your family in Lille?”
“Paris,” she said. “It’s where I’m from.”
“Oh,” he said. “Why are you in Lille?”
She paused, rubbing a finger over her glass.
“It’s okay, if you don’t want to tell me.” He forked a piece of potato, crusted with bits of caramelized onion. “You’re an exceptional cook. It’s been many months since I’ve had something—”
