At first, Shosanna was uncertain of her actions, as she was usually so sharp-witted. Her fingers moved deftly over his dress shirt as she slid it from his body, tossing the fabric aside with his uniform tunic. He stood before her, his upper body totally exposed, revealing cream colored skin and hard, lean muscle. Eyes half-slit with desire, he looked upon her with total adoration. Gently, he took her face into his hands, and from beneath his dark lashes, he met her gaze.

Shosanna then knew that there was no turning back.

She was running on empty, having worked herself to exhaustion from reviewing every detail of her plan numerous times.

That night, after carrying out the routine duties, Shosanna settled into a seat in the front row for a private showing of Stolz der Nation.

It was the third time that week.

Upon her first viewing, she had excitedly determined on where to edit her film into Goebbels' violent spectacle. It was to be after Zoller's bold request directed at the audience; it would be then that Shosanna would answer him, and in the process, send them all to their deaths.

From the projection booth, Marcel watched her. Watched her as she focused on the beautiful young man onscreen as he fought back against the Allied forces. He knew that if need be, Shosanna would rain hell down upon them herself.

In a moment of vulnerability, the young soldier closed his eyes. His expression pained; he sighed. Though Shosanna sat ramrod straight, there was a slight sag to her posture, her head nearly imperceptibly tilted to the side.

Marcel turned away, squeezing his eyes shut.

She loved how he touched her; tasted her.

She loved how he marveled at the sight of her.

Fredrick was entirely immersed in Shosanna, in their moment together.

Within his eyes and in each deliberate action, he held an intensity; an intensity which belied his youthful naivete and boyish good looks.

As Fredrick drove into her with ferocity, his eyes remained locked onto hers. As they gave and took of the other all that they had, Shosanna clung to him. There was nothing else, nothing more than what they had with one another.

Even long after they fell to pieces in each other's arms, neither wanted to let go, to part. To do so would bring the harsh realization of their situation back into their lives; to deny their coupling.

He could not help but notice the distance mounting between them. That night, frustratingly, Marcel slept alone; such a habit was becoming commonplace.

Shosanna's behavior, he noted, had become more erratic ever since she had met Fredrick Zoller. Marcel knew that the young soldier was smitten with her, and he knew how much it unsettled Shosanna that the war hero was so drawn to her. As a result, her thoughts had become preoccupied with him.

Most of all, Shosanna was now obsessed with enacting her revenge, even though it could very well mean the end of them both. Such emotions, he realized, were always there, always dormant. She was, it seemed, irreparably damaged, which Marcel could not begrudge her for. A very selfish part of him wished that Shosanna had not met Zoller, that he and she could continue their careful, day-to-day lives. It had grown monotonous, that he was aware, but it was the two of them; without interruption, without uncertainty, it was always just the two of them.

Now, a sweet-faced boy with honest intentions threatened all of it.

Shosanna could no longer barricade herself within the walls of Le Gamaar, nor did she no longer want to.

His attempts to reason with her were all in vain, and as a result, she became more vigilant.

Marcel was terrified.

Shosanna awoke early that morning to find Fredrick sitting on the side of the bed, fully dressed in his uniform and putting on his boots. Looking over his shoulder at her, his eyes met hers.

Fredrick smiled.

"Good morning, Emmanuelle."

She did not return his greeting, nor she did she share his good humor. Sitting up straight, Shosanna was blunt.

"You are leaving?"

Hearing the trace of hurt in her voice, Fredrick blanched. He rose from the bed and stood tall before her.

Like a soldier would.

A moment passed between them in complete silence, their full attention on one another.

There was something in her eyes that wounded him.

Despite her ever calm demeanor and stoic expression, there was something beneath that cool exterior; a part of her which only he had access to. The two had fully given of themselves to each other. What the two had shared that previous night went beyond the physical.

Both were aware of that, and now, it hung heavy over them; stifling.

Chastened, Fredrick sighed. Pulling his wedge cap from his head, he offered Shosanna an explanation, his voice timid.

"I did not want to wake you."

He stood rigidly, but his hands, which grasped at the cap, betrayed him, as always.

There was a flicker of something across her face, but as quickly as it came, it went.

Face blank and her voice flat,

"How considerate of you."

Fredrick withered.

Now self-conscious of her nudity, Shosanna yanked the sheet up over herself. Feeling ill, she looked away from him, her tone icily dismissive,

"You may leave now, Fredrick."

Startled, he protested, his voice small, anxious.

"Emmanuelle, you are not being fair."

Bringing her knees up to her chest, Shosanna coolly determined,

"You leave me no choice."

Wilting further, Fredrick was left stammering, frantically seeking to rectify the situation.

"Emmanuelle, I did not mean to… that is, I did not intend…"

As Shosanna raised her face to meet his, he halted.

Though her manner was cold, her eyes held something familiar within them; something Fredrick recognized from that day in the restaurant.

It left him breathless.

As much as Fredrick wondered if she was at all aware of just how much she affected him, it was apparent, however, that there was much left unsaid between them; much that she could not, would not say.

He very much wanted to understand.

"I want to apologize, Emmanuelle," he finally, weakly, managed, "but I know how uncomfortable this -" he paused, feebly gesturing to himself, to his uniform – "makes you."

Wringing his cap in his hands, Fredrick swallowed and continued, choosing his words with consideration,

"I know not the extent, but I do know that none of this has been easy for you, Emmanuelle."

He then shrugged and quietly added,

"I know how that can be."

Shosanna said not a word; she merely observed him intently, her eyes wide and questioning.

Clearing his throat, Fredrick ran a hand through his hair, and his eyes met with hers. He spoke evenly, with an eager sincerity.

"What can I do for you, Emmanuelle? What can I give?"

Her jaw clenched. Her mind screamed.

I am Shosanna Dreyfus.

I am Jewish.

I want you.

I want everything you can give.

But she knew she could not have such things.

Not in their reality.

She would, however, have as much of him as she could, and he the same of her.

Together, there was nothing else.

Shosanna's voice was choked, but unwavering.

"Stay."

Fredrick could never deny her. Taking her face in his hands, he gave his hushed compliance,

"Oui, Emmanuelle."

She almost could have wept, her heart could have burst.

But she could not, she would not.

Despite everything - he, the German War Hero, she, the Jewish Girl - Shosanna smiled; wide and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

She is so beautiful.

Taking his wrists into her hands, she drew him back into bed, her nude body against his uniform; silken skin and heavy wool. There they lay, side by side.

Fredrick was already hard. Feeling his arousal, Shosanna pressed her hips against him. Grabbing handfuls of his tunic, she brushed her lips against his neck.

"I want to feel you," she breathed.

The sound he made reverberated throughout her body; deep and rough.

Shosanna was unrelenting as she placed soft kisses on his neck, tasting his pulse. Smiling against him, she took Fredrick's hand in her own; he watched with anticipation as she skimmed his fingertips over her smooth, taut stomach, feeling as the muscle there tightened beneath his touch. Bringing his hand to between her legs, Fredrick's breathing all but stopped. Her body shuddering with desire, Shosanna slid his fingers into her slick folds, parting herself for him.

Her breath hitching and desperate,

"I want you to feel me."

No more words passed between them.

With exacting precision, Shosanna undressed him; nimble fingers making quick work of the buckles and buttons, tracing over every bit of skin she revealed.

Sleep did not come easily to Marcel. For the past few hours, he lay awake on his side, his eyes fixed on the empty space beside him.

It was there that he had become accustomed to her presence. He would awake to find her studying him; her hair tousled and golden in the early morning light, her pale, nude form nestled against him, her mouth formed in a faint smile. He would then take her into his arms, where she found her comfort. Together, the two would forget the world around them, if at least for just a couple of hours.

Her side of the bed now remained, as it was since meeting the German, cold and barren.

Reaching out, he ran his hand over it, clenching his fist into the sheets.

His hands were exceedingly tender; the pressure of them against her skin left her fevered and wanting.

His eyes, wide with awe, held within their depths an emotion which took her breath away and made her heart ache.

His mouth, hot and demanding, trailed her skin, over and over, tasting, nipping, and sucking every inch of her.

His body, sculpted out of discipline, was powerful, strong, and perfectly molded to hers.

Every touch and every movement was considerate, purposeful, and meaningful. There was no haste, only the need to be with one another; to feel.

In this moment, they were vulnerable, they were exposed; all was laid bare.

He was the German War Hero.

She was the Jewish Girl.

Together, in this room, in this bed, with her body stretched beneath his, they yielded only to the touch of the other; coming apart and piecing together over and over again.

Like clock-work, Marcel was up and ready by mid-morning, just as he always was, just as he always would. Despite his growing rift with Shosanna, despite the war, Le Gamaar had to be tended to.

With the premiere of Stolz der Nation coming ever closer, Marcel had chosen that afternoon's entertainment:

Les visiteurs du soir, starring Arletty and Alain Cuny.

The film, made under the imposition of German censorship, was a favorite of Madame Mimieux's, for both its sweeping, grandiose beauty and its allusions to the Occupation and the Resistance.

Now, more than ever, Marcel reasoned, the film was necessary.

As he set up the reels, he recalled the two young lovers in the film, Gilles and Anne, of how their love had the power to even overcome the Devil.

Marcel could not help but give a small smile.

As Shosanna buttoned up her coveralls, Fredrick stood behind her with his hands on her hips and his chin resting on her shoulder. Feeling his breath against her neck, his voice was low,

"When can I see you again?"

Pursing her lips, she kept her eyes trained on the floorboards.

Receiving no response, Fredrick kissed her neck, his hands on her hips now giving a gentle squeeze.

Against her better judgment, Shosanna closed her eyes and relaxed into him; his hands and mouth assaulting her senses as heat pooled in her lower abdomen. At her back, she could feel his own burgeoning arousal, and at her neck, she felt his mouth form into a smile as he sighed against her,

"Emmanuelle."

Her eyes shot open, and she tensed as she straightened against him. Taking immediate notice of the shift in mood, Fredrick did not resist as Shosanna broke from his grasp and turned to face him.

This was to be her opportunity to end what the two had started; what should have never begun at all.

But she could not.

Fredrick looked upon her with a sorrowful yearning, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He no longer resembled the young soldier, but the young man she had come to know underneath the uniform.

Placing her hands on either side of his face, Shosanna brought his mouth down to hers; fervent and lingering.

With the film ready and the theater to open in another hour, there were a few minor details left to take care of. But upon emerging from the projection booth, Marcel was completely taken aback.

There, in the lobby, stood Shosanna and Fredrick Zoller. With her back to Marcel and the young German totally beguiled with her, neither noticed his presence.

And, Marcel noted bitterly, who is to stay they would be concerned if they did?

Marcel had come to resent the young German. Never before he had ever doubted his relationship with Shosanna, until Fredrick Zoller.

Fredrick Zoller, who loved Emmanuelle Mimieux, not Shosanna Dreyfus.

Marcel watched the two of them conversing quietly, intimately. From his distance, their voices were completely indistinguishable, an indecipherable blend of low and lilting tones; the way they spoke to each other was nearly melodic.

Like lovers.

The projectionist had been the only man Shosanna had shared such intimacy with, and now, he looked on as Fredrick bent his head forward, touching his lips to hers. She reciprocated, easing herself into it; into him.

Marcel now leaned over the railing, gripping it tightly for support, lest his knees should buckle.

The two parted, and Shosanna kept her eyes on Fredrick, even moments after he exited the theater. It was obvious to Marcel that neither wanted to separate.

As she turned back around, Shosanna looked up to see Marcel watching her.

Their eyes locked.

Not a word passed between them, as there was nothing left to confirm or deny.

Standing tall, Marcel was the first to break away, returning to the projection booth and leaving Shosanna alone with her thoughts in the lobby.

"…or we kill them."

It was all that simple for her.

His protests, however virulent, fell on deaf ears.

He looked upon the small film canister with a certain resentment.

He knew he had lost her to her all-consuming desires; for the German, for her revenge.

With or without him, it would be to the detriment of them both.

She relished the feel of him; the full, hard length of him.

He was pinned to the mattress beneath the weight of her lithe form.

Her hands were on his shoulders and he gripped her hips hard enough to bruise.

"Fredrick," she whispered his name like a secret.

She could feel the strain in his body, in his voice; all that escaped his lips was a breathless groan.

Still, she was merciless, moving slower and slower; it was as if all human time were running down.

Perspiration beaded his brow, and his body trembled; throbbing and thrumming.

Both could feel the near violent demand for release from their bodies, but she did not yet want to let go.

"Fredrick."

She said his name in such a way that only he could recognize; not quite softly, yet if the two were in a roomful of people, only he would hear it. It was one of the many things between them that could never be explained; things which constructed the catastrophic hunger the two felt for one another. It ruled them with limitless command. It was uniquely theirs, something which, Shosanna feared, if she had lost, would leave her with nothing at all.

But now, she could feel just how much of her resolve was already gone.

She lay down on top of him, her skin prickling as their bodies, now smooth with sweat, pressed against each other.

He closed his eyes, embracing her to him as the last tenuous threads of their control unraveled.

It was an unusually cool evening.

June was coming to an end, and the premiere for Stolz der Nation was rapidly approaching.

Shosanna and Fredrick stood outside of Le Gamaar.

He shouldn't have been there, and she even told him as much.

Though she approached him warily with her face set in annoyance, he retained his good nature, offering her a crooked smile and a rectangular, burgundy box.

Shyly, he held it out to her.

It was against her better judgement - as so many of her actions in the previous month were - but she accepted it; her fingertips brushing his as the box passed from his hands to hers.

Neither spoke; both were fully transfixed with each other, preferring to leave all that was unsaid to the charged silence between them. Holding the box against herself, she smiled at him, aware of the warmth welling up within her.

His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them and leaned into her, his mouth mere inches above hers.

She could feel his racing heart, hear it thundering within his chest as their eyes met.

Tentatively, timidly, he pressed his mouth to hers.

She caught her breath.

It was chaste, yet intoxicating and exciting.

Closing her eyes, she eased into it, losing herself to him.

There was a longing; palpable and resolute. It shook her to her core and stymied all thought. There was nothing more either could want or need; not in this moment, not in all of their time together. There was never anything more than the two of them.

She could not tear her eyes away from the garment in her hands. Like a scarlet letter, it mocked her.

It should have never gotten this far.

She should have turned him away.

She should have broken his heart.

But she could not.

She would not.

Shosanna had taken Marcel by surprise in the storage room as he worked to prepare the prints for the grand finale.

They now tore at each other, grappling with one another like a pair of adolescents newly acquainted with their sexuality. Her mouth was bruising against his as she fisted her hands into his shirt, tugging at the material. He eagerly took advantage of the situation and accepted what she was offering. He placed one hand on her hip, bringing the other to cup the back of her head as his mouth met hers. But as he returned her vicious affections, he could feel her stiffening in his hands.

Pulling back, he had found that she had gone nearly catatonic and unresponsive to his attentions.

Silently, shamed, she stepped away, her body slumping against one of the racks, her eyes diverted to the floor.

Desperately, he made an effort to salvage the moment, to reach out to her.

"Shosanna?"

He wanted tears.

He wanted reassurance.

But she could give him neither.

Her body lay beneath his; trembling.

She squirmed from the heat of him, from the warmth he pressed down onto her; into her.

Her hand was on the top of his head. Pushing him down. Gently.

Fredrick smiled against her inner thigh. He never could refuse her.

The axe felt heavy in her small hands.

As she drove its blunt edge into the table, splintering its surface, she marveled at the power she was capable of wielding.

Bodies entwined, the sheets were rumpled and soaked.

Panting and sweating, they held onto each other; clutching as he thrust into her. Both were sore all over, yet neither wanted to hold back, to stop. Even after all of their wet, wet fucking, both were still so aroused; their senses heightened, they were so alive to one another. They felt everything; they were everything.

The friction, their need of it, went beyond the pleasure that left them both gasping and shaking. It was an attempt to erase their bodies; an act of transcendence.

Carefully, she laid herself out for him, joining with him.

It would be for the last time.

With the final reel now prepared, she turned away, closing the door behind her.

He lay curled into her side, his leg resting on her thighs, with his arms around her.

He took such care when he touched her, as if she were indeed something rare and precious.

When they had met that night in June, she never would have thought that she would share moments such as this one with him; let alone having to guide his hands and body to fit with hers.

She had thought of him in that bell tower in Italy that first night they had spent together; trapped and alone, armed and at the ready. But those thoughts were fleeting as she claimed his innocence and he looked up at her with enthrallment, his body already quaking from the immensity of the contact; of their consummation.

He had spoken to her before - just as he was now - of his home in Munich, of his family. Only now, he spoke as if he were not a German War Hero, almost as if he were aware that she was Shosanna, not Emmanuelle; as if there was a future together ahead of them.

A small, scraggly feather from the bedding stuck to the sweat between her small breasts. She plucked it by its stem and twirled it between her fingers before discarding it.

She said nothing, preferring instead to leave him to his talk of an impossible life together; a life where their differences made no difference and their pasts held no consequences upon their fate.

He admitted his uncertainty as to whether the dress would fit her or not.

As she stood before the mirror, taking in her reflection, she noted that only a man with such intimate familiarity with a woman's body could ever give such a gift.

She would wear his dress.

Her face would be the last he sees, and finally, he would know her truth.

Somehow, it seemed fair.

Holding her tighter, Fredrick nuzzled her neck, his voice honeyed and rich,

"Je t'aime."

It was then that Shosanna felt something within her break in two.

She loved him; she needed him, Marcel reasoned.

The German and all the others would soon burn to death. That was his remaining consolation.

And so, he took his place behind the screen.

Even as her voice, her laughter, echoed throughout the theater, it did not carry over to them.

Chaos and fire reigned, but it did not reach them.

The two lay where they fell, in blood spilled from the hand of the other; together, safe.

It was inevitable that it should end in such a way.

She could have wept for the the two of them, for the loss of it, if not for the searing metal which tore through her abdomen.

His hand shook violently when he pulled the trigger, one last time; just for good measure, just to be certain.

He did not understand why this had to be.

He will, soon enough.