Jörg paid for his meal and left the café, once again entrusting the simulacrum with his next destination. The markets of Paris still carried food and the daily necessities. There were some glaring vacancies on the shelves, but compared with Germany, they still had plenty.
In Jörg’s town, food shortages had begun soon after the start of the war. Food was requisitioned for the war effort, a rationing system was put in place, and ration vouchers were required for bread or meat. Germany relied on imports for many goods, and when the Allied forces cut off those supply lines, things got even tougher.
Paris had ration distribution centers, too. Apparently, it was already impossible to get hold of some items.
Jörg strolled leisurely past posters meant to inspire the French citizens. They featured brave slogans inviting men to join the fight, supportive words for the women protecting the home front, and harsh criticism painting the Germans as beasts.
Poking his head inside a bookstore, Jörg saw stacks of books critical of Germany with bold titles like J’accuse! and People of Germany, Wake Up! He was surprised to find that the authors weren’t French—Germans were criticizing Germany. The books had been translated into French and then mass-produced, written by German lawyers and reporters who must be discontent with their government.
He picked one up and scanned the pages, but it quickly gave him a headache, so he closed the book and returned it to the table. Every citizen in every country had the right to criticize their nation, but the arguments and allegations contained within these books were too extreme for Jörg to accept. He felt as if they were being unfairly critical, which made him a little angry.
As evening approached, men and women appeared from the various buildings and began walking down the boulevard and crowding the sidewalks. Jörg wandered over hills and went up and down stairs and eventually found himself leaving the commercial area for a residential district.
He sensed a presence and, glancing up, saw a solitary pigeon flying towards a seven-story apartment building. The window of the attic room sat half-open, and the pigeon flew inside with practiced ease.
Jörg immediately recognized it as a carrier pigeon.
He didn’t know why someone would choose to communicate via carrier pigeon in the city, but with restrictions on collection and delivery times at the post office, they were certainly still convenient. Even if the small message cylinders couldn’t carry much information.
Lowering his gaze back to street level, his eyes met those of a woman walking toward him. She looked about twenty-five or twenty-six years old. Her dress was old and worn, and she had her hair pulled back into a ponytail. When she noticed Jörg, her pale cheeks drew taut.
“Fabrice?” she exclaimed. “When did you get back to Paris?”
Jörg was even more stunned than the woman, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. It seemed she recognized the face the Count had given him.
He never mentioned anything about that!
“Don’t you remember me?” she pressed.
“…My name is Pierre Arche,” Jörg said, finally forcing his stiff tongue into motion. “I’m very sorry, but I think you must have mistaken me for someone else.”
The woman staggered and slumped against the wall of a building. “You’re really not Fabrice LeRoy? Not even his brother or a family member?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Maybe you got injured on the battlefield and lost your memory. Do you remember something like that?”
“I’m very sorry, but nothing of the sort happened to me.”
The woman covered her mouth with her hands and gave a muttered apology. “Sorry. You look just like him. You could be his twin.”
“If you don’t mind, would you tell me a bit about him? I might be able to help.”
Jörg didn’t understand the situation, so he thought it might be a good idea to do a little information gathering. His words were driven more by self-preservation than by kindness, but the woman politely answered him.
“That’s very kind of you. My name is Christine Duran. I have a brother, Hubert, who’s five years younger than me, and Fabrice was on his soccer team. The two of you look identical.”
Fabrice LeRoy had often gone to Christine’s house with the other players.
When Europe erupted into war, Fabrice and Hubert had enlisted and been assigned to the same unit. They had both written to Christine frequently, but she hadn’t received any word from them since April. She was worried their battalion might have gone to Verdun, the thought of which tore her apart every day.
“I don’t know Fabrice. I didn’t see him on the front.”
“I see. Then where could they be?”
“You would have been notified if they’d died. So don’t give up hope.”
Christine seemed overwhelmed with grief, and Jörg didn’t want to leave her there by herself. He had asked about Fabrice for purely selfish reasons, but now he wanted to provide her with some comfort before leaving. Times were tough both on the front line and behind it. The soldiers longed for home, while their families worried over the state of the battlefield. He knew he couldn’t do anything to help her, but he at least wanted to try.
Jörg recalled something the Count had told him:
“Up until now, you’ve only seen French people as the enemy. Even though, logically, you know they’re human beings just like you.”
He was right.
Jörg pushed open the large doors of a housing complex and led Christine inside.
He glanced up at the gigantic spiral staircase stretching high above him. Taking Christine’s hand, he sat her down on the fifth step from the bottom, then lowered himself to the floor and leaned against the metal railing. “Were you working today?”
“Yes. The army has taken all the men, so us women are working in the factories now.”
Munitions factories, textile workshops, and all the other jobs that until recently had only hired men were now relying on women to pitch in. It sounded as though conditions on farms were far worse, however, as women had taken over the backbreaking labor, leaving children to tend the fields.
The same thing was happening in Germany, so Jörg understood the situation well.
According to Christine, an even wider array of jobs was available to women in Great Britain, including train conductor and police officer.
“The women working in England apparently even wear pants. With their uniforms and hats on, they look exactly like men. They’re very proud of their work and consider it an honor. Women even shame men in town who haven’t already enlisted.”
“The world is changing so incredibly fast.”
“It is. I get so filthy working at the factory from all the machine oil and paint that I’d wear pants, too, if they provided them.”
Christine let out a sigh. Milk and butter would most likely switch to the ration system soon as well. Daily necessities were becoming even harder to acquire.
“Where was Hubert’s last letter from?” Jörg asked.
“Artois. The French Army joined up with the British to attack the Germans there. Where did you come from, Mr. Arche?”
“Champagne, so a little south of that.”
“Were you at Verdun?”
Jörg considered how to respond, ultimately saying, “For a little while.”
“Is that where you picked up your injury?”
“Yes. That place was truly hell.”
“I heard Artois was horrible, too. The French suffered a lot of casualties.”
“We made good use of the vehicles we had, though. Injured soldiers were immediately driven to the back lines and treated in field hospitals. It worked much better than the Germans’ system, since they relied on trains for supplies. If anything happened to Hubert, I’m sure they got him out right away.”
In reality, nothing ever went that smoothly on the battlefield. Not a day had gone by since Jörg looked down from the observation tower at Fort Douaumont that he hadn’t thought about what he’d seen there. Corpses blown apart by explosions and buried in the mud that covered the barren field. Broken weapons strewn about the ground. Metal helmets riddled with holes. Dying warhorses being shot by soldiers. Even the lucky survivors stared off into the distance with lifeless eyes, thinking that while they had lived through today, their turn to die might very well come tomorrow.
However, it wouldn’t help to tell Christine all that. He didn’t know how much the French newspapers reported, but there was no need to share any more of the cruelty of war than was necessary.
Christine looked blankly at Jörg. “Are the German soldiers really so savage?”
“No. They’re not as bad as people say.”
“The German Army used airships to bomb Paris. They moved along the Seine and kept dropping bombs one after the other. It sounded like hundreds of lightning strikes—tore giant holes in the roads, big enough for a taxi or horse-drawn carriage to fall into. I watched from near Notre-Dame Cathedral.”
“When war breaks out, nobody has a choice but to become a savage.”
“But bombing a city is so cowardly! What if they hit children?”
“Soldiers have no choice but to obey the commands of their superior officers. If they don’t, they’re either punished or killed.”
“That might be true for the German Army, but no one with the Allied forces is that cruel.”
Jörg started to argue but then stopped himself. French planes had shot at and dropped bombs on young German men who had just arrived on the front line. The Allies were just as brutal. There was no such thing as a noble army; all those heroic tales of the battlefield were pure fiction. They stirred hearts and spread far and wide, causing nothing but harm.
“I wonder where Fabrice is now,” Christine murmured. “Neither I nor his family have received so much as a letter.”
Jörg released the railing and stood up in front of her. He clumsily raised his trembling left hand and gently stroked the mask covering his wound.
“See this? The war irreparably damaged my left arm and gave me this large scar on my face. But I’m still alive. Don’t give up hope until you know for sure and see it with your own two eyes. That’s the only advice I have for you.”