Meet me at midnight

Another day dawned over the village of Breton de Ville in Normandy. Francoise set off to work behind the counter at the bakery. She was tired. The previous night she had stayed up, an integral player in the local chapter of the French Resistance. 1944 was a year of crisis in the war. The Germans controlled France in a brutal grip, but a counterattack by the Allies was expected. Tensions ran high.

Gunter was a captain in the German army and an attaché to the Gestapo. His role was to gather information about the French Resistance. He entered the bakery and saw Francoise; their eyes met. There was an immediate mutual spark. Gunter had to see her again. Francoise hoped he would return. He did. He visited the shop every day. One day, he whispered to her that he wanted to meet her. She said she walked by the river after work. The area was deserted. They began to meet there regularly, unseen.

Gunter suspected this intelligent, attractive girl was more than just a bakery shop girl. He hoped to get information about the resistance from her: who the ring leaders were, where they got ammunition, and the location of their radio transmitters. But it would take time.

Francoise knew Gunter would be privy to military information. She hoped she could wrest from him tank movements, ammunition dumps and railway timetables.

The more time they spent together, the more they fell in love. He worshipped her gorgeous looks and bright character. She admired his easy-going charm. They used to kiss but nothing more.

One day, an explosion derailed a train outside Breton de Ville, decimating a German infantry brigade.

That evening by the river, Gunter said, ‘Meet me here at midnight.’

Francoise's heart beat faster. ‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ she whispered. He was gentle and kind, she wasn't afraid, and she might extract information about further troop movements.

They met at midnight. Gunter couldn’t believe how beautiful she looked in the moonlight, her eyes reflecting the shimmering sparkle of the river. She wore a floral dress and casually carried her leather bag over her shoulder. 

Francoise was enraptured. He was tall and handsome, his jacket unbuttoned, his collar open at the neck. 

They made small talk and kissed.

‘That was awful about the train wreck,’ said Gunter.

‘Yes, the 49th brigade suffered heavy casualties.

‘How did you know it was the 49th brigade?’

‘You told me yesterday.’

‘No, I didn’t. I only learnt the details today about how a patrol of partisans from Bayeux placed mines on the track.

‘How did you know that?

‘You told me.’

‘No. I didn’t.’

Suddenly, the truth dawned on both of them. They were using one another to get information. They stood back, staring disbelievingly at each other. Gunter could not let her go, she was in the Resistance.

Francoise knew if she was arrested and tortured, it could jeopardise the whole Resistance.

Francoise reacted. She hauled a revolver from her shoulder bag. Gunter plucked his luger pistol from his holster. They faced each other, staring into each other’s eyes. Francoise fired. Gunter fired. The shock hit them. Their eyes locked together as they staggered forward, gripping each other’s arms. Finally, sinking onto the ground in a tight embrace, they fell dead.