The Frenchman's Table:following chapter

The Truth will set you Free
Paula sat in the stark room, an unwitting captive in the theatre of uncertainty. The harsh light hung above, flickering like a hesitant heartbeat, casting shadows that danced on the scuffed floor. Paula had been interrogated for hours. She concentrated on keeping her nerves about her; under the table, she picked at a scab on her finger. Her fidgeting foot, a silent protest to the oppressive atmosphere, danced relentlessly beneath the table. She sat in the center of the enclosure. A large glass window loomed behind her, a constant reminder that unseen eyes dissected her every move. The still cone domed light hanging with it one lone bulb flickered ever so slightly two feet above her head. As she sat there, she kept her mind busy counting the tiles in the ceiling and the scuff marks on the floor. The heavy dark wooden door remained closed and locked. Stripped of her belongings, the room embraced her vulnerability. The cold seeped through the concrete, an unwelcoming presence crawling up through her bare feet, left her shivering. She was pretty sure they knew nothing, and that was what she kept saying as well. She prayed this would end soon, and they would chalk her questioning up and release her. So far, no physical abuse, but her mind wondered how far they would go-she had heard stories, and it was her biggest fear. She didn't know if they started to go there what she could endure. She was scared. Very scared.
She worried whether Tom had been found and listened carefully for his recognizable voice. She strained to catch familiar voices, seeking solace in the midst of her ordeal. Footsteps echoed in the corridor, a ceaseless parade of chaos. Finally, a woman in uniform walked in, closing the door behind her with a finality that reverberated through the room. The chair scraped against the floor as the woman took her seat, a folder bearing Paula's name signaling the start of the inquisition. "As I have said before, I think there's been a mistake. I don't have any info ..." Paula blurted, but was abruptly cut off. "Who was John Gunther?" The woman abruptly cut Paula off.
"What?"
"Who was John Gunther? How did you know him?" the inquisitor repeated peering over her glasses, watching Paula's reaction.
"John?" Paula, shifted looking down at her hands, "John was a friend."
"Where is John now?" the interrogator's gaze remained unblinking.
Twisting away as if she had been touched, "John is dead. He died in an accident. I'm sorry, what does this have to do with me?"
"How did you know him?" her queried further.
"We used to date." She answered, her tone somber as she revisited the chapters of her past. A picture of health--Paula thought at their last meet.
"When was the last time you saw him?" The interrogator pressed. Paula looked up at the woman and answered as straightforwardly as she could, "At his funeral."
The guard's agitation was palpable, the room charged with unspoken tension. "When? The date?' the woman tapped the table, her thick glasses giving her an insect-like appearance.
"I don't know, ah, ah, a few years ago- six, no seven; I think," Paula answered, not clear on the exact date but trying to respond quickly.
"So, you have not seen him?" the guard probed further and leaning forward, making the table scoot toward Paula.
Paula leaned back in her metal chair and answering, "Not since we laid him to rest." Paula's mind raced trying to fathom why John's ghost had resurfaced in this interrogation. Memories flickered, a reel moment from a Berlin summer. They had met while she was on a modeling assignment. He was a correspondent for the Daily News for the London Bureau. A novice of modeling she took just about any job offered to get her name and face exposed. After one long day of photo-shots, her girlfriends talked her into going out to the local pub. The girls all arrived in the sweaters and scarves they had been modeling that day. His face and magnetic smile had her the first time she saw him. Funny how she just remembered, he had been standing next to Yves. But John had a brighter smile, and the wink made her blush. They all had become fast friends. John and Paula relationship had flourished. She dreamt of marriage and kids, and before you knew- she was pregnant. It wasn't planned, and John didn't back away. Another buried memory flashed, clawing its way back to the surface. A day of laughter and camaraderie on the ski slopes in Garmish, the trio sharing tales of comedic adventure. The lodge's warm ambiance echoed their joy, a stark contrast to the impending darkness. Paula sipping on water while the other two were clearly enjoying their beers recanting the comical landings the boys had made, always racing each other to the top and bottom. During the meal, John injected a note of seriousness into the jovial atmosphere. His article had just been submitted and accepted for print and would be out the next day on the front page. And then, casting a shadow over the lively conversation, he lowered his voice, murmuring, "If anything were to happen to me, I have some papers I need you to get to my contact at the London Bureau." "What kind of papers?' queried Yves leaning back in his chair. "My contacts on the story. Shit will hit, so there may be some fodder from all this," John warned, leveling his eyes at Yves. "Who did you go after?" Yves leaned forward, wanting to know more. "Is this, that Hitler guy again?" Paula interrupted, annoyed about the seriousness of the conversation and killing the once happier mood. "Oh, yeah, I've heard about him from some of my German friends. Isn't he running for Chancellor? A lot of them like him. What's he's done to have gotten on your radar?' "Are either of you aware of his direction?' looking across the table at both Paula and Yves. Clearly, neither did. "I managed to get a seat at one of the beer halls where he was giving a speech. The crowd erupted and were literally standing on chairs to get a better look at him. He's pushing this nationalist agenda and blaming the stock market crash on his opponents and the Jewish community leaders." "So? What has this got to do with you being worried about your print?" John's revelations painted a different picture. A chilling narrative unfolded- "I interviewed several social, political leaders who are extremely worried about his mesmerizing message to the German people. They are seeing a rise of parties- hell-bent on correcting their problem-which frankly put, by them, not me, eradicating the Jews from Germany." The air grew heavy as Yves grappled with the inconceivable reality. "Like kill them?"-Yves questioned, incredulity etched on his face. "Yes, kill them, all." "No, no, that would be murder. He's just trying to position himself as the next Chancellor." Yves responded, attempting to rationalize and reassure everyone at the table. "No, Yves, he isn't. He is trying to start a war." Paula put her fork down; she was no longer hungry. Their once-enjoyable meal turned cold, mirroring the unsettling revelations. Yves snapped his fingers in the air, capturing the patron's attention, and motioned for more drinks, a futile attempt to drown the gravity of the conversation. "We've just gone through a war," Yves stated after the pitcher arrived. "Well, we are about to go through another, and he will be the leader who will drag Germany into another war. I also purchased a book he wrote several years back while in prison- he not changing and he's indoctrinating the state," John warned, his voice laden with the weight of foreknowledge. "Should we be nervous?" Paula now starting to let the conversation sink in. "We should," John responded, not looking up. The shadow of unease settled, the trio contemplating the magnitude of the impending storm. Yves shared recent incidents from his father, hinting at the ominous clouds gathering in their homeland, "Dad had said there had been some recent issues at home; people had been attacked on the streets and some houses burned," Yves added. "And when you say people, did your dad mean, Jews?" Yves nodded, responding to his friend. "Are we done here? Maybe we should go somewhere where we are not overheard," John suggested, breaking the silence. Yves nodded, "Let's go to my place. I have a bottle of wine with my name on it." "I'll get the car," rising John smiled back, adding, "you get the bill- you loss the last two races down the hill." There was an abrupt giggle from Paula- as it was true, but John during the race had cheated a bit, and knocked Yves over as they had rounded the sharp steep gradient of the snow covered slope sending Yves off through the trees." Yves helped Paula with her chair and coat. Outside the lodge's vestibule they stood shivering, waiting for John. Yves opening the passenger's front door for Paula, heard a small click- and then boom. The rented convertible, a symbol of their fleeting joy, transformed into a fiery inferno. On John's side of the large car, the hood blew open, and his door flew off its hinges hurling out in the street. Nothing remained in the seat where John filled just moments before. John was gone, leaving behind debris and shattered memories. Yves thrown backward, found himself shielding Paula from the falling fragments. The loud hum in their ears lasted only a few moments, with others running from inside to see what had just happened. Yves's face peppered with tiny shard of shrapnel stung, cradled Paula in his arms until the snow of debris and shattered glass stopped falling. Patrons continued piling out of the building, standing in awe while faceless others stood around gaping and giving their versions of events. The aftermath was a chaotic symphony-stray howling winds, hard rain, and the echoes of shattered lives. It was past midnight when Yves and Paula emerged from the police station, their foreheads bandaged, their world forever altered. Yves took Paula to his place, not sure what was safe for her. And there they sat huddled together in uncertainty, in his apartment, shocked. There would not be wine tonight, only the bitter taste of secrets and shadows.