I Have Discovered A Friend Among The Germans

Who: Genevieve, Henrik
What: New information!

Arras
Coordinates : 17 2

A fine example of a French town. There is little sign of war here, the buildings are all in good condition - very good condition in fact, as most of them have been newly built. The last war was not kind on this area, after all. It all looks peaceful, at least on the surface.

It is currently daytime.

Sub-Rooms :

«Game» It is now dusk.

The sky remains bright and clear on a warm august day, though the sun is dipping near the western horizon, staining the sky in shades of gold and red. The river winding to the south is clear of boats and barges the rippling waters reflecting the sinking sunlight. Empty shipping crates are stacked on the riverfront as they have been since the occupation began and against the boxes, Henrik is leaning with arms crossed.

Genevieve watched Henrik as he left town, and though she didn't want to directly follow him, she did need to speak with him in private. So her eyes traced his direction and 10 minutes later she left. Hopefully she would find him again. Her eyes are wide and stark, searching about as she goes. It's only by the grace of god that she spots him near the crates and picks up her speed to make it to his side…"Henrik… you are well?"

Henrik looks aside, with a flat regard as Genevieve hurries her pace toward him. "Well enough," he mutters in return. "Something happening? Your eyes are bugging out."

Genevieve shakes her head quietly, looking across her shoulder again before gazing back to him. "I have information… but it's time sensitive, I suspect. I wanted to get it to you, never the less…" That's all she says, giving him time to tell her to stop speaking here or to go on.

Henrik half turns an eye around the riverfront, as he answers lowly, "Keep your teeth together until we're inside. And dont say 'information' outside, when you can help it." A short toss of his head indicates Genevieve should accompany him, as he uncrosses his arms and walks toward a row of waterfront buildings.

Genevieve nods flatly. She'd acknowlegde it with words, but he ordered her to keep her teeth together, so she does. She follows him along the water front and towards the buildings, her steps quick and softly smooth. At least she's good at being mostly quiet when she walks.

The walking pace isn't hurried. Not that there appears to be anyone watching, but just in case.. One door is opened- it stood unlocked and pushed open. The door leads into a small room which appears to have been added onto the outside of a warehouse, a feature common to such buildings. Within are the comforts of home, such as they are: a crossbar for the door, sloped roof of corrugated tin sheet, wooden floor still scored by the room's former service as a storage shed for tools and machinery, a bedroll, bolster, canvas bag, and a pewter basin. The door is closed once Genevieve steps inside.

Genevieve lofts a brow, looking about the place, "Do not tell me you are living here, Henrik? Dammit, there is room at the estate, you know?" Gene is genuinely shocked, the thought of information briefly forgotten as she watches him in sudden concern.

Henrik shrugs simply. "This is better than Gurs, and better than Spain. There are many good men who would be glad for four walls and a solid roof," the big foreigner states as he regards the woman. "Anything more is luxury."

A few more moments pass as she looks around and finally nods, "Well, Henrik, the offer is open if you wish a proper bed, even on the occasional night." Gene gives him a half smile, folding her arms across her chest as she tries to find somewhere to comfortably lean.

"Hrm," Henrik returns, finding a dry humor in something Genevieve had said. Re-crossing his own arms, he faces her to rumble quietly, "Will probably take you up on that.. if only because it will make a good cover for talking alone. If the fascists ask, can always just tell them I'm bedding you." Another short chuckle, before he prompts, "Whats this information of yours?"

Genevieve ahhs quietly and grins. "I have the patrol patterns and assignments for the next week, though the man whom I spoke to doesn't seem to think they change enough.. and the names of those writing up, or at least giving out, the patrol schedules." There is just a touch of pride in her voice and on her features as she gives up her findings.

Henrik eyes Genevieve deadpan for a long moment. He draws a breath, eyes slowly closing and opening again, still intent on the woman's. "Overnight- how many men, how many dogs.. how far out from Arras do they move? How many times do they pass through each district of town?" He steps closer to where Genevieve leans, attention riveted on genevieve by her smiling words.

Genevieve reaches into her pocket where she pulls out a paper which looks like… well… a child's game of numbers, actually. She knew she couldn't trust herself to remember it all, but didn't want her writings to be discovered, so she's made a little code only she'll know. She repeats off to him all the patrols. The numbers of men, dogs, the points they are supposed to pass, how far out of town they go….-everything-. There is a certainty in her voice that says she isn't just guessing either.

"Goddamn," Henrik mumbles, as every exhaustive question is answered. "It's like the Goddamn fascist captain decided to knock on the door and left his diary on the doorstep." Standing a step removed in front of the singer, he draws a deep breath, considering, before asking, "Genevieve. WITHOUT sticking your neck too far out.. Can you get this information again, in another week? I'll say again- without risking too much- if you dare too much, you get killed, and what you've already learned is lost."

Genevieve laughs softly, pride and relief in her oice as he seems to think the information is of importance, "I worried it would not be enough. I tis not the sort our friend Claude cares for, but it is something." She grins a bit wider, "I can make no promises.. but I have discovered a friend among the germans who is fond of wine and has lose lips with a lady who cares to listen to his troubles over a bottle of burgundy. I can certainly bring you something, I suspect."

Henrik nods curtly. "Careful, goddamned careful. This is good- goddamn good, but do NOT get goddamn sloppy.." Muttering a curse under his breath, he growls, "Give me another curse in french. Saying 'goddamn' too much."

Genevieve laughs. "Merde. It means shit." Gene knows it's dangerous territory on which she walks, but she cannot help but be content and smiling at the fact she has brought useful information.

"Claude can shit himself if he doesnt like this information," Henrik states flatly. "This will GET what the frenchman wants.." While one word is spoken with greater intensity, he carefully keeps the volume of his voice low. "A week, at least, before this changes?" he clarifies, already the mind behind his intent blue eyes is turning furiously.

Genevieve nods in affirmation, "A week from last night, which is when I talked it out of him. Apparently, he wasn't happy with the new schedules and took it out on a bottle of wine." She states, her voice more serious this tie.

"This tongue wagging fascist have a name?" Henrik asks, curt and plain.

Genevieve chuckles a moment, "Wolff. If you could not kill him, that would be best, since he's unknowingly quite a help to the cause."

"Why do you think I asked?" Henrik voices deadpan to Genevieve's request. He doesn't smile. A short nod affirms the singer's chuckled request.

Genevieve nods simply, looking down at her numbered notes, "Is there anything I missed? He was… most talkative. Had me up until well after midnight… I just don't want to leave anything out."

Henrik draws a slow breath, again searching for the right words in french. "That's everything important. But burn the paper, soon. Let the fascist approach you, next time. Let him start talking." A muted scoff. "Shit. Listen to ME telling YOU how to handle men. Hrm!"

Genevieve lofts a single brow as Henrik does attempt to school her on the flirt. She grins quietly, "Henrik, he approached me -this- time. I might not be much of a shot, or even a fighter… but men is something I do know. Do not worry your heart, I will be careful." She reaches over, giving his arm a brief, quiet squeeze.

Henrik's lip curls in a snicker. "Ignore me. I'm just good for killing people. The talking is for you." A drawn breath. "Done very good, Genevieve. Very, very good." The expression on his face twists into a tight smile.

Genevieve nods quietly to him, her own smile slightly falling away for that briefly more business like countenance that she can carry. "It is alright. I'm just glad I did find someway to help, even if half the towns people will hate me for it." She sighs, sinking against the wall a bit. "Publically, Henrik? I am going to become one of them. Cater to them… sympathize. If I am going to do this, I will need to do it in full."

Henrik nods once. "Most don't have stomach for it. Goddamn, *I* nearly didn't have stomach for it. Not so long ago, would have sworn to die before bending my back for fascists." He regards the singer for a moment before noting, "It takes guts and a spine to endure hatred, Genevieve. No surprise so few french can weather it."

Genevieve levels her pale eyes in his direction, that touch of war that's going on inside her heart clear for just a few seconds before she looks away and grabs her crumped pack of smokes out of her pocket, "It is sickening. Just to sit there and laugh with him… I couldn't sleep the whole damned night. I felt dirty. But… if I do it to serve france… So no one else will have to do it in a year or ten..is it not worth it?"

Henrik doesn't answer immediately. He lets out a short breath, without looking away. "There are two fates before France. One is living with stiff necked pride, without bending, until that stiff neck is strangled by greater force and your homeland dies. That is the fate of walls and armies and flags." Countenance both cold and tired, he goes on, "If your France is to survive, it must bend. The one truth in the core of loyalty is that anything- anything and everything that can keep alive what you love.. is good."

Genevieve nods quietly, a silent, serious agreement across her pale features. It had been what she told herself that entire tight, and it will be a mantra for the coming months. "For France, then… I… I cannot say I will remain kind to you in public. We will see how the winds shift. When I get more, though.. how should I get it to you, Henrik?"

Henrik shrugs once. "There is nothing you can do in public that will be worse than what's gone before. As for the last.." he rumbles, frowning briefly in thought. "However you can. Maybe.. Pick something unusual. When you say it, or wear something, I'll go to the rich house after dark to hear news."

Genevieve nods quietly, considering this… "Come to the cafe on the days I perform…if I sing Une Chanson Trois Temps… then you know to come to the house. I will keep that song for you, since you detest it so much." She grins a bit wider, giving him a teasing wink.

"Hrm," Henrik grunts dryly. "Looking forward to hearing that? You ARE being harsh," he answers in deadpan jest.

Genevieve cannot help but grin a bit wider, "Let's just say it is my effort to help you learn to enjoy -true- French music." She winks at him one last time as she now, finally, lights up her cigarette.

"A doomed effort, madame," Henrik rumbles, tilting his head back and regarding Genevieve down the length of his nose to add with a faint curl to his stoicism, "I've never enjoy the Horst Wessel song."

Genevieve laughs. She actually, honest to god laughs for a moment. "Well then, we all have to make sacrifices in these hard times. This will be a part of yours." She then leans up and kisses his cheek, a warm and simply friendly gesture, "I should go… we skulk around in here too long and people will wonder."

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