The Nazi's Lover

Ellie stared at her boyfriend’s cold, unmoving face behind the coffin’s glass. She picked a rose (she wondered how these Resistance people had gotten hold of these, fresh flowers were so expensive nowadays, due to closed-down gardens) from a small bouquet near the coffin, and clutched it in her hand.
Staring at the deep red of the rose’s petals, Ellie was dragged back into the horror of last night—the rounding up of suspected Resistance agents. Charlie’s diversion to save her from the German soldiers cost him dearly. The hot-tempered German immediately shot Charlie even before Ellie knew what was happening.
Her grip around the stem tightened, and thorns pricked her hand, but she didn’t release the rose. She tried to keep her tears at bay, and the pain of the thorns was the only thing harboring her to her resolve not to cry.
Trying to compose herself, she gazed around the small, secret room the Resistance provided for Charlie’s one-night wake. She felt the tiniest bit happy for the blessing given to them. She had heard too many stories of the prisoners of the Germans being provided with tombstones marked only with numbers.
There were a few people in the room with her. Ellie had been mildly surprised at this, for Charlie had no family, but was afforded with the explanation that they were expressing gratitude to Charlie for past deeds. She had been puzzled by this, but let it go.
She felt a tap at her shoulder, and turned to face an elderly man with silvery hair and warm brown eyes. “Miss Wintercrest?”
Ellie was surprised at this, but inclined her head. “Yes?” she asked, curious to know who this rich stranger was.
For the man was rich. Wearing a gray suit and bearing a cane, he looked as if he did not even live in the war-torn world Ellie inhabited. She shook the proffered in a businesslike manner. And at this, Ellie knew the man was not plainly a gentleman paying his respects to someone slaughtered by the hated enemy, the Germans. A gentleman would have kissed her hand. This was a man of the Resistance, she was sure.
“Your boyfriend was a brave boy. A very brave boy…” he looked at her intensely.
“Yes, he was.” Ellie kept her voice neutral.
“He saved many agents last night. But if you tell this to any other person… that we are of the Resistance… your boyfriend’s heroism might as well have been for naught.”
Ellie recoiled from the man. “How could you think I would do that? I—I loved Charlie!”
“Well. But we must somehow be sure that you will not spill any information to the Nazis…”
Ellie opened her mouth to respond to the man, her heart beating wildly.
“I want to join the Resistance.”
The man seemed visibly shaken. “I must have heard wrong… these ears must be failing me. Mademoiselle, you cannot join the Resistance!”
Ellie steeled herself. She was going to leave behind her somewhat peaceful life to fight for her country. To conquer the Nazis’ evil.
His spectacled eyes gazed at her firmly. “You must understand, mademoiselle, that this is not a game we are playing.”
Ellie did not take offense at this remark, but felt a slight shiver of fear at his words.
“I understand. I want to fight against that Nazis. To help the country. To help the world.”
A moment of hesitancy on the man’s part—then he offered his hand again and shook more warmly than before. “How old are you, Mademoiselle?”
“Sixteen, monsieur.” Ellie replied, affixing the proper French title, to match his language.
“So young…” he shook his head. “But you are very brave… Come with me, and I will introduce you to Les Resistance.”
And Ellie released the rose onto the glass on Charlie’s coffin…