The vinyl crackled as you placed the tonearm down, springing to life under your fingertips.

An old french crooner song drifted from the speakers, soft and romantic in ways that reminded you of earlier days — before war had desolated your country and extinguished all hope of a brighter future.

You let yourself linger by the record player, eyes closed, humming along to Tino Rossi’s Dans mon île d’amour, picturing a different life for yourself. One where you had not succumbed to the advances of a Gestapo officers and where you did not spend your days, isolated both by your fellow citizens and by the Major you now called your husband.

Dieter Hellstrom had entered your life like he already owned it. One night, as you had been walking back from the cinema, your coat wrapped tightly around yourself, a black bmw had stopped just short of you by the sidewalk. A man in a long leather coat had stepped out, his face placed in shadow under his military hat. Upon spotting the insignias littering the man’s jacket you had startled, and when he had spoken to you in german to enter the vehicle, you believed that your luck had run out. You had evaded the attention of German soldiers throughout the entirety of the occupation, until now.

It was evident to any french woman with eyes that the germans held no true affection for their occupied paramours. However, your resistance had only served you so far, and by two months past, Dieter Hellstrom had roped you into dinner. From then on, impossible to escape him.

As your father had died during the blitzkrieg, he had had no qualms simply taking your hand for himself, insisting upon keeping you tied to his side.

He was out more often than not, conducting business. But the real dread began once he returned, in the early hours of the night, expecting food and drink on his table and a pleasant wife.