Digested, earmarked, tea stained, and relished, each book written by Colette percolated through Bridgette’s veins as a rich café laced with precisely the right amount of sucre and crème fraîche. Stacked upon her desk askew, there they lay lonely; only the dust now touched the acclaimed author’s books, the single most source of inspiration for Bridgette’s own rough draft she had laid to rest and placed on a war time pause.

The days were long and upside down, strangled and hung by the hint of death and extinction in the Paris air and in the next room. He didn’t have to know. A lie of omission when stacked against starvation should surely be forgiven by an ailing heart. How could her dear le Père know what she was doing all day when she wasn’t tending to his needs. He could barely see and barely walk to the latrine and back to his sick bed unattended, let alone over to her Triumph typewriter as she wrote word after word of erotica.

At a penny a word she did the math.

*“His tongue traced my skin like a cartographer, traveling from head to toe and back, lingering just the right amount of time between my legs before he thrust himself inside me,”….

Equals Une pound of Le boeuf haché

**“Her supple breasts longed for his touch, and she could see how much he wanted her,”....

Equals Une grande baguette

***“They are alone now casting naked shadows by candlelight, ready to pleasure each other until the sun comes up,”....

Equals Une douzaine d’oeufs

“Ahh ma chère fille, they are paying you well now, no? A dying old man can appreciate a warm egg yolk sliding down his gullet.”

“Oui, mon père. The magazine editor told me the reviews on my short stories are quite favorable and the work will be steady. For now anyway. So eat up mon cher père.”

“You must read some to me later, oui?”

“Oui, of course mon père.”

Bridgette knew she was skilled at changing the narrative. If she wasn’t, she would not have landed her current job. Later that night she read right from her daily passages to her audience of one, her dear le père, handily cleaning up the pleasure seeking text from X to G rated.

*“The cartographer traced the lines of the map as he traveled north to south, lingering just the right amount of time between the mountainous ridge, enjoying the view, then thrusted the throttle towards home,”....

**“The supple ripe melons he collected along the way looked too good to eat, too juicy enroute, yet he longed to rip into the fruit right then and there,”.....

***“When he arrived home, he lit the candle, unable to detect the fatigue cast in his shadow. He lay down knowing he would sleep soundly through the night until the sun came up,”....

“Très bon! Ma chère. Merci beaucoup for taking such good care of your old père with your marveilleux words! Feeding us and entertaining us at the same time! Time to close my tired eyes. Bonne nuit, mon amour. Till the morrow. You bring me such pleasure."

Bridgette kissed her father on the top of his head, and turned to walk out of his room, lowering her eyes and her voice, sheepishly whispering words out of earshot,

“That’s what they all say. If you only knew the half of it.”

From Berlin~ she ran

Not ever lookin’ back

Soon she was in Brussels

Where she rested for a while

Then later made it further

To the city of Love, Paris!

It was there that she met him

She fell head over heels.

He had sang songs to her

& read many sweet poems.

Telling her that she was his muse

In all of his wonderful stories....

They had great chemistry;

A love unlike any other.

But one day— he found out

That she was from the other side

He told her to pack her things

She carried her stuff, his pennies, too.

Her leader asked her for a report

She only handed him a single note.

He stared at the note in wonder...

She explained to him what it was..

He asked if she could write some—

She raised her brow & said- ‘‘I’ll try.’’

#DerSpion

14th June, 2020 (SUNDAE)

I decamped Le Sphinx when curfew broke,

before sun's rays had dawned,

ensoddened by the German blokes

that haunted la maison.

Midst fetid fog of poverty,

I lugged my bones toward home

to pen tales of debauchery

with goss relayed in code.

'Cause high-born whores knew how to read,

but few could also write,

the SOE enlisted me

to help France in her plight.

Young soldiers bragged of strategies

when plied with alcohol;

spilled secrets faster than their seed

as I held them in thrall.

Their leaders then paid half a franc

per sex-enshrouded word,

which netted thrice my nightly bank

for stories thus conferred.

The Nazi presses pumped my vice

throughout the Paris streets,

out to the demarcation line

with unsuspecting speed.

For three long years I undermined

their tyrranous regime;

amassing wealth, I walked the line,

avenging the marquis.

“Que fais-tu ici?”

“I am here to take in the surroundings to use for my next novel.”

“Mais monsieur, les alarmes ont sonné, cela signifie que les bombes reviendront!”

“Yes, I have heard the sirens go off. I know it means I should seek shelter before the bombs drop, but right now, look around you. The sky is a peaceful blue. The quiet of the moment pervades our very essence.

“Even in the event of death, even that, the Germans cannot take that away from us.”

“Oh mon ami, tu dois te mettre à l’abri avant qu’il ne soit trop tard!”

“ Don’t worry. When I hear the planes, and I will, then I will seek cover, but for now, I must write.

“There is a saying, ‘In for a penny, in for a pound’. And right now, if I ended my story today, I would have amassed enough pennies to buy you, me and two friends lunch. Isn’t that such a grand thing! We could do lunch at the Paris en Scène, have a dish of foie gras, a glass of champagne, and enjoy what life offers us.”

“Tu es fou, mon ami!”

“Wait, don’t run!”

As Claude hurries to a shelter two blocks form this bistro, I simply shake my head. He may be right. Maybe I am crazy like he said, but I have a story to write.

I have lovers who cling to each other as dust settles over their heads, shaking the rafters above, with bombs going off all around them. They hold each other tighter, knowing in this hour, this very moment, there may be no tomorrow, but they are passionate for one another, and not even impending doom will separate their hearts, their very souls from this moment.

… and that was as far as I got when the first bomb hit.

distilled anxiety

pulses through the blood

as heavy intoxication catalyzes her shortness of breath.

a wet finger tip falls

with precision

from her inner lip 

caresses her chin,

then drags

down her body

creating a path along her chest

that glistens from the dim artificial light.

the heat of her body

forces condensation

against the cold cement floor.

her breath

resonates in his chest,

her taste

slipping down his throat.

their eyes meet;

pupils dialate;

pulses quicken,

and she learns his name. 

I’d love to whisper with soft strokes

your lips on my ears telling me

exactly what you want to tame

heated madness of smoky languid look

but my lover just came home

so I must fantasize your slippery fingers

tongue moving, silently stirring

supple whimpers of wetness

creamy bliss of wanderlust pleasures

melting into your nirvana skin, arching

and flipping like morning pancakes

exploring our globes in wanderlust

milky strokes in desire’s valley

climbing to grasp erotic prize

utopia in City of Love

pretending my lover is YOU

Said the Storyteller to the crowd:

“The swarthy, tall, muscular man strode up to the elegant woman and swept her off her feet.

‘Oh, monsieur,’ she breathed, her long dress flowing in the wind like satiny ripples. Her auburn hair shone in the morning light, a vibrant contrast to the green grass of the meadow.

‘We shall make love right here in the pillowy bosom of nature,' said the man. 'No one shall disturb us. Not even se birds. It will be a day you will remember for se rest of your life.’ He spun her round.

‘Oh, you are so tall and handsome and brave,’ she said. ‘Well, not brave, I suppose. I mean, maybe you are, but you are a lover, not a fighter.’

‘Exactly!’ he set her down and they skipped about the meadow. ‘I am the best lover. No one’s a better lover than I!’

‘Oh, I know. I can’t wait! It will be like a dream.’

Indeed, it wold be. And the meadow was like a dream, too. A fantasy. The grass like verdant carpet. The sun a glimpse of heaven, as if angels and harps might descend and sweep them both off their feet, floating in ecstasy. Floating on the clouds. In the sky. A day that would last forever, yet be over too soon. Eternity, yet finite. Bittersweet, only in the tragedy that it would eventually end. But they would drag it out and make the most of it and linger in each other’s company long after. Savouring the sweet-”

“Okay. Wait bud. Are you ever going to get to the actual freaking lovemaking?”

The storyteller glanced around at the crowd, then back at the man who’d spoken.

“I am building anticipation, good sir.”

“No, sir. You are just engaging in these flowery… unnecessary, purple prose.”

“Purple?” The storyteller cocked his head.

“Yeah,” the man said, and a couple audience members nodded in agreement. “Like… showy and flashy just for the sake of it. Like a distraction from the freaking lovemaking. It’s almost like you get more money for. Every. Word. You. Say.”

The storyteller looked aghast. “Certainly not. This is simply artistic expression. And if you do not appreciate it, I say adieu to you, good people. I shall find an audience who appreciates my vision.” He swept away with a flutter of his coat-tail.

And that is how purple prose was born.

Fin

Write what you know, they said. Six months ago, I didn’t know much of anything beyond the bitterness of life and the stench of death. Now, I know a little bit more. I know love, lust, ecstasy, and heartbreak.

Her name was Adrienne.

. . .

Six months ago, I found myself in a dusty, cramped office space, standing in front of a heavyset man with a handlebar mustache. His girth reassured me; he was eating well, which meant he could afford to pay well. “Do you have examples of past works?” he asked me.

I winced. “I’ve never been published before, but my father is a well-known author—Pierre Badeaux. Perhaps you’ve read something of his?”

He scoffed. “Are you seeking employment for your father? If you have no experience, I cannot hire you.”

“I trained under him for years. I know how to write,” I insisted.

He pulled at his mustache. “Very well. I happen to be in need of an erotica writer. Write me something, and make it good. I’ll pay you one centime per word. If I like the story, the job is yours, at the same rate.”

“Erotica?” I stammered out.

“Oui, our magazine has a mainly male readership. They like a little bit of spice in their weekly reading. Maybe you can offer a unique perspective, as a woman. With a name like Juliette, I’m sure you can write about love, yes?”

I nodded. For one centime per word, I could write about anything.

. . .

I soon discovered that I could not write about sex. After all, how does one write about something one has never taken part in? No, I’m not ashamed to admit that in March of 1945, I, Juliette Badeaux, was a virgin at 19 years of age.

For the sake of my writing, I set out to remedy my lack of knowledge. This meant reading as much erotica as I could get my hands on. Unfortunately, my mother had run a tight ship before her passing, so despite having four brothers in the house, there was not a scrap of indecent literature to be found.

Instead, I turned to our local bookstore, owned by a white-haired old man who was probably too deaf and blind to be operating the store on his own. This turned out to be an opportunity for me, as I was able to spend long stretches of time flipping through books in the restricted section before he noticed me and shooed me away.

Finally, I was able to piece together a 1983-word short story.

. . .

Monsieur Boulanger twirled one end of his mustache as he read, then set the paper down. “This is not bad, but it is a little...stiff. Mechanical.” My heart sank at his words. I really needed this job. “Now, I’m thinking maybe you could do better if you put more of yourself into your writing. I want to see more emotion, more heat.”

I nodded vigorously. “I can do that, if you give me another chance.”

He chuckled at my apparent eagerness. “I don’t have another writer lined up yet, so I’ll give you one more try. This story is only good enough for half price, but make the next one better, and you’ll receive full payment.” He slid a crisp 10-franc note across his desk.

I opened my mouth to argue—he had promised me one centime per word, after all— but then decided against it. I would make up the difference soon. Clutching the bill tightly between my fingers, I left his office in search of experience.

. . .

The bar was full of patrons, some drowning their sorrows in a tall glass, others looking for the same thing I was. I had purposely come late at night, when inhibitions were loosened and everything had fuzzy edges. I took a seat at the bar and glanced around at my prospects. It wasn’t long before a man sidled up to me. He was older than me, but not yet middle-aged. If I were to guess, there was a decade between us.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, smiling in a way that he probably thought was charming.

I nodded, and soon a glass of whiskey was placed in front of me. I had just taken my sputtering first sip when his hand was on my thigh.

“What’s your name?”

“Juliette,” I answered, before I could second-guess the wisdom of revealing my true name to a stranger.

He smirked at that. “Are you looking for your Romeo tonight?”

I rewarded his unoriginality with a smile and shrugged.

“Come home with me,” he said in my ear, his mouth close enough for me to smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Let me use the restroom first, and then we’ll go,” I told him.

. . .

I left the bar through the back exit. I shook my head at myself, wondering why I thought this would be a good idea. There had to be another way to get this job without prostituting myself. As I wove through the dark back alleys that would lead home, flashing lights drew my attention. They belonged to the only establishment in the city besides the bar that was still open at this time, Madame Lefleur’s House of Pleasures. Not very subtle. The place had seen quite a lot of action in the wake of the wars. People had decided now was the time to start living.

Before I knew it, the bell on the door was ringing, announcing my arrival. The woman behind the desk recited, “Three francs for thirty minutes, five for an hour,” without looking up. I wondered if this was Madame Lefleur.

Having entered the house, I couldn’t think of a suitable reason for leaving. My silence caused her to look up, her gaze raking over me. “You’re not one of the regulars,” she said, pausing. “We have enough girls already, and you’re too skinny anyway.”

My face reddened as the meaning of her words dawned on me. “I’m not here to work for you.”

“Ah.” Another once-over. “Three francs for thirty minutes, five—”

“Yes, I know,” I said, cutting her off. “What about if I just want to talk with one of the girls? No sex involved.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You pay for the time and the room. I don’t care what you do in there.”

I hesitated before placing my 10-franc note in front of her. “Thirty minutes, please.”

A stack of bills was handed back to me. “Room 4, you have Adrienne.” She went back to whatever she was doing before.

At her clear dismissal, I wandered down the hall, noting the numbers on the doors. The sounds emanating from some of them made my ears burn, and I increased my pace. Room 4 was tucked away at the end of the hall, the separation from the other rooms making me feel slightly better. Now that I was here and had already spent my money, the only thing left to do was knock.

The door opened to reveal a woman in red lingerie with a hand on her hip. “I’m Juliette,” I squeaked out before she pulled me into the room.

“Adrienne,” she said, stepping back to look at me. “You’re new. And young.”

Adrienne was stunning, with tousled waves of chestnut hair, sparkling brown eyes, and a wide smile. Whoever came up with blond hair and blue eyes as the standard for beauty was absolutely wrong. Her clothing hid little of her hourglass figure, and I took in all the smooth skin on display.

She pushed me towards the bed, distracting me from my observations. “What do you like?” she asked.

“I, er, I just want to talk,” I said.

Her posture changed. “You’re paying for a conversation? Not enough friends?”

“No, that’s not it.” I took a deep breath. “I want you to explain sex to me.”

Adrienne burst out laughing. “You would rather spend your time talking about sex than having it?”

“I got a job writing erotica,” I explained, “but I don’t have the right words. I was hoping you could give me details, tell me what it feels like.”

“What it feels like?” She looked thoughtful. “Have you ever felt passion before?”

“I’m passionate about writing,” I told her.

“What about attraction?”

I blushed. “I think so. I think you’re very pretty.”

She smiled. “Have you ever been so attracted to someone that you just wanted to tear their clothes off? To have them? To consume them? I imagine that’s the type of passion your readers want to read about.”

I had never wanted to consume anyone before, but my face heated at the way Adrienne spoke of such things. I shook my head.

She regarded me carefully, then asked, “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

The answer was yes, there was that one time with a boy from church. An unnoteworthy kiss shared chastely behind a tree after he had invited me for a walk in the park. “Not really,” I said.

“Can I…?” She gestured to her lips.

I nodded mutely, and then her hands were on my face, her mouth covering mine. It reminded me of that chaste kiss all over again, but then her lips started to move. Warmth blossomed everywhere, and I tried to catalogue the various sensations I was feeling. When her tongue slipped into my mouth, my mind stuttered to a halt.

A knock came at the door and we broke apart. “We’re decent,” Adrienne called.

Madame Lefleur poked her head in. “Your time is up.”

I nodded, gave Adrienne a bashful smile which she returned brightly, and headed out the door. On my walk home, I relived the kiss over and over in my head. I told myself it was so I wouldn’t forget how it felt when it came time to put it down on paper. I must have been quite flushed when I reached my house; luckily, there was no need to conceal the signs of my earlier indecent behavior. The only other person who still lived there was my father, and since mother’s death, he had remained locked up in his room, absorbed in his writing.

As I lay in bed, staring into the darkness and unable to sleep, I knew I would return to Madame Lefleur’s House of Pleasures.

. . .

I went back the very next night. “Is Adrienne available?” I asked.

Madame Lefleur nodded and took my three francs. “Room 4.”

Adrienne lounged on the bed and I sat cross-legged by her feet. “Am I the first woman you’ve kissed?” I asked her.

She shook her head no. “We get all sorts of clients in here.”

“Oh,” I said, oddly disappointed. “So you’ve also had sex with women then.”

She nodded.

“What’s it like?”

“Different, but not in a bad way. Warmer, softer.” She looked thoughtful. “Although I guess you have no point of comparison.”

I shrugged.

Her hand was on my thigh, and I wondered how it could feel so much better than when the man at the bar did the same thing. “I could show you, if you’d like.”

I hesitated before nodding. Her hand withdrew from my leg, and I felt the loss.

“Lay down,” she said. “Let me take care of you.”

I did what she asked, and then her body pressed into mine. She began by placing a kiss on my neck.

. . .

The next day, I visited Monsieur Boulanger with another story. He skimmed over it and then cleared his throat. “Yes, this is better. It’s an interesting angle, the romance between two women. The job is yours.”

I grinned broadly, accepting the bills he slid across the desk. “Thank you! I won’t disappoint.”

He opened his mouth, looking unsure. “Maybe next time you could add in a man. Our readers enjoy a little ménage à trois.”

I nodded. “I can do that.” I left the building twenty francs richer and knowing exactly where I wanted to spend three of them.

. . .

Adrienne became my muse, and the visits with her became a ritual. I saw the money spent there as a good investment for my future work.

“You gave me extra change,” I told Madame Lefleur one evening.

“Adrienne said to give you a discount. Half off.”

“Oh,” I said. “Thank you.”

She waved her hand. “It comes out of Adrienne’s paycheck, not mine.”

I nodded, unsure of what to do with this information. But then Madame Lefleur went back to whatever she was always doing, and I had a beautiful woman waiting for me…

. . .

“Can I see your writing?” she asked me one night as we lay together on the bed in a tangle of weary limbs and sweaty skin. We held hands, and my thumb traced the fine bones of her fingers.

“If you’d like,” I said, knowing I couldn’t deny her anything. “Do you like erotica?”

“I’m not sure. I like romance. Do your stories have happy endings?”

“The characters usually end up satisfied,” I hedged.

She smirked at that.

“I’ll bring you some stories next week.”

She smiled and kissed me. “Thank you, love.”

. . .

“You’re a very talented writer,” she told me as she answered the door.

My chest swelled with pride. “Oh? Do you think so?”

She nodded. “Yes, me and the other girls all think so.”

I frowned. “The other girls?”

She nodded again. “We read your stories together.”

“Some of those stories are about you and me!” I objected.

She only laughed. “It’s nothing they haven’t done themselves. Besides,” she continued, “Marianne is the only one of us who can read. And she’s fussy about it, charges us each half a franc per reading.”

“I can read to you,” I offered.

Her eyes sparkled. “I would like that. You have a very nice voice.”

I blushed. “Do you want me to now, or—”

She silenced me with a kiss. “Next time. For now, I am interested in reenacting one of your stories. The one called La Femme Irrésistible.”

. . .

I visited her four times a week. Sometimes we just talked, sometimes we had sex, and a few times, I think we made love. My writing was the best it had ever been. I was happy with the arrangement and willing to ignore the fact that there were others who shared Adrienne’s bed. Then two weeks ago, things changed.

I went up to the counter and dropped my money there, like I always did. Instead of picking up the bill, Madame Lefleur said, “Adrienne isn’t here.”

I was confused. Adrienne hadn’t mentioned taking a break. I hadn’t even been aware that the girls left the house, although they must have had nights when they went out on the town. “When will she be back?”

Madame Lefleur looked at me with pity that I didn’t understand. “She left. She won’t be working here anymore. A rich businessman fell in love with her at first sight and proposed. She went back to Calais with him.”

“Oh.” I was a writer with no words, as my entire world came crashing down around me. Emotions warred within me—shock, betrayal, anger, and so much pain. How could Adrienne leave me? Then I remembered what I had forced myself to forget for the past few months, that she was not mine, and her body was not her own. I suddenly felt sick. Had I just been one more person paying for access to her body, purchasing the right to unwanted touches? I don’t know how long I stood there, but eventually, I picked up my money and turned to leave.

“Juliette,” Madame Lefleur said as I reached the door. I paused, wondering how she knew my name. “She wanted me to tell you that being with you wasn’t a job for her.”

. . .

I don’t know if this letter will shock you, disappoint you. I suppose some of it must have been quite strange to read. If anything, I hope that you will be happy for me. I found love like yours and maman’s. I also hope that you will understand what I must do next.

You should know it was your advice that got me to this point. I was only nine years old when you first told me to write what I knew. Now, I’m going to listen to another piece of your advice: to follow my heart. I’ve saved up enough money for a one-way train ticket to Calais. I don’t know what I will find there, but I need to at least look.

I know you’ve been struggling with writer’s block since maman died, but you will need to write to feed yourself. I’ve kept some money for you in the safe, which should be enough to get you by for a few weeks. If you go to the intersection of Soufflot and Toullier, there’ll be a publishing office where you can find work. Ask for Monsieur Boulanger and tell him you’re my father.

I believe I will come back some day, one way or another. Until then, stay well and wish me luck.

With love,

Juliette

in another universe we’re in 1940s paris the city of love a few minutes to midnight holding a bouquet of dark red roses wrapped in black parchment paper and between the flowers a card with a sonnet the punchline was your name

on the bridge paved with smooth stones where we first met dangled a lock carved with our initials its keys sunken deep like the bronze coins that held wishes tightly and secretly in the river below us the waters so calm they feel like a distant dream

the sound of midnight trespassed into this realm and your shadow appeared beyond the streetlights even barely visible i could fall for your silhouette in more lifetimes than string lights in all of france

under the night sky you were glowing like the enchanted taste of romance in the air even more beautiful than your lover could’ve ever imagined and right there right then the time had stopped as in the distance the eiffel tower became a background to your smile

the sky was a clear blue fading into darker purples hovering over the city filled with mystical wonders and sparks flying but right now the only person that mattered was the one who made everything else colorless

soft black hair with the scent of roses gentle against the creamy light pink of your wool jacket brushing against my skin as our steps intertwined walking down the streets with light reflecting off of damp asphalt pavements

the fairytale-like architectures were engraved with elaborate patterns of mysterious joy in moonlit daydreams and the gracefulness of the milk-white latte arts from the coffee shops inside the buildings

breathlessly we stood next to each other and it felt like even if we had all the time in the world it wouldn’t be enough to exist in the city of love but for once we felt like we were enough in a paris midnight after a rain we were so in love

- deathetix

p.s. unpopular opinion: a relationship with the love of your life is far more erotic than sex

The translation of the Lucien Yentl letters.

16th of February, 1940.

My dearest Marguerite,

It’s cold, so terribly cold, my fingers wince like an old man’s. The paper is damp. The draft from my little window – do you remember? – worsened after the landlady tried to fix it. I hear the wind whistle at night, but I gather the cat to my chest and think warm thoughts of you.

My friends spoke so highly of you after your visit. They called me mad not to run home to Rouen and make ardent love to you. Parisians love differently. Men are in love with many women, none of them their wives, and no man but me has begged for a hand in marriage. Only aristocrats rely on fathers’ blessings, though I’m told even they think it old-fashioned. These artists think me a fool. They don’t know me as a Jew, nor an orphan. I am afraid they would withhold invitations and introductions.

Some ladies, one rather great actress in particular, are said to enjoy my stories. Have I told you about the letters gentlemen give their mistresses? I’ve written three so far. I am told they were very useful. So, you see, my love, I will make my fortune and steal you away from the dairy farm. Then, you and I shall live in a castle, and you shall eat oranges every day. Who I am shan’t matter. It’ll be just you and I.

Please don’t worry about the news of Germany and Poland. I was merely repeating the gossip of market streets, which means nothing. No Frenchman wants another war. The Germans are too frightened of us, in any case. And if there is a war, I shall be sure to come back to you a hero.

Write back soon, tell me how you are. It’s all that matters.

Lucien.

*

Also found in Lucien’s belongings: Apology Letter for Monsieur de Guisson.

Dear Genevieve,

So many times since our last encounter I have thought of you, of the wet curls which clung to your cheek. You think I am forgetting you, but how could any man forget one such as yourself? Accuse me of a selfish, indolent and cruel nature and you shall be thrice right, but never for a moment doubt my devotion towards you.

For months, I have watched you sing at the opera. A hundred times, I have walked past the Deux Magots Café in the hopes of seeing you perched over a café crème. A thousand evenings, I have drafted an invitation, a million more dreamed of your entering the grounds of my castle, where I should hide in disguise, and surprise you from behind, and you would know me by my lips.

I’d press myself against your hips, and find a tree to lean you against. As I think of kissing your dear, sweet face, I remember your hair and neck smell of rosewater. I will carry you to bed, should you wish it, and undress you to caress every inch of your body, I’d make you moan and whimper until you trembled in my arms. I’d make love to you until you begged me to stop, and then I’d pleasure you till morning.

My dear, you ask why I’ve been quiet. Some family matters, unfortunately, but these have not for a moment stopped me from thinking of you. I’m sure you’ve heard through little birds that I am a cad, that I could have you and leave you. Do not let anyone trick you into thinking you are the sort of woman one could so easily forget. To possess you only once would never be enough.

Your admirer,

Jean-Bernard.

These were found in Lucien Yentl’s briefcase. Though his landlady was forced to let all the rooms to German officers, she kept Lucien’s belongings throughout the war.

A woman, by the name of Marguerite Girot, daughter of dairy farmer Joseph Girot, retrieved them in 1951.

Marguerite Girot had not heard from Lucien since the spring of 1940, when Lucien Yentl disappeared. He is thought to have worked as a writer for the French resistance before being captured and sent to Auschwitz in 1942.

Marguerite Girot married André Martin. These letters were published by her one and only daughter, Lucienne Martin.