Hello! I have decided to take another tryst into the world of Inglourious Basterds by rewriting my story from a few years ago; You and I Are Earth. The main story will remain relatively true to my original but will diverge in very specific ways. I want to delve a little deeper into the concept by exploring first person narrative through the eyes of my OC, Alma. Hopefully this intrigues some, if not-well then, I was successful at entertaining myself in the very least. All languages that aren't English are bolded and italicized and specified whether it's French or German-just to clear up that beautiful ballet of the the German occupation in France. As always, let me know what you think in the reviews!

"[He] had learned that, as there is no situation in the world in which a man can be happy and perfectly free, so there is no situation in which he can be perfectly unhappy and unfree. He had learned that there is a limit to suffering and a limit to freedom, and that those limits are very close; that the man who suffers because one leaf is askew in his bed of roses, suffers as much as he now suffered falling asleep on the bare, damp ground, one side getting cold as the other warmed up; that when he used to put on his tight ballroom shoes, he suffered just as much as now, when he walked quite barefoot (his shoes had long since worn out) and his feet were covered with sores."

— from Leo Tolstoy's "War and Peace"

I moved to Paris in 1935, with only a single suitcase and a bundle of books under my arm. I was twenty-two years old and at that time had only ever wanted to live and be surrounded by the dreamy, romantic, and historical Parisian streets and the beautiful, elegant French culture. I moved into the small village of Montmartre in the heart of the city. It was here where I was presented with the opportunity to open a bookshop between a patisserie and a small market which was famous for stocking the best oranges and asparagus in the city. I called the bookshop La Maison de la Littérature, or The House of Literature. This became my home.

I hired two shop keepers, Stephanie and Marquis, and stocked all of my favorite books in the long shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Amongst my shelves were names like Tolstoy, Proust, Faulkner, Huxley, Shakespeare, Camus, Austen, and Dickens. I installed an upright piano, several couches and chairs, and a fireplace so the bookshop itself would remind everyone who entered of the comforts of home as well.

These were the things that were important to me at the time; comfort, home, literature, life—and I poured everything into the success and growth of La Maison de la Littérature. It was hard not to let the shop take up all my time and energy, for I loved it as I would a child and yearned to watch it grow.

After several successful years, when I would close the shop in the evenings, my thoughts would grow quite peculiar. Life seemed to diverge from the fulfillment I had once felt beneath the canopy of the inky navy-blue darkness of Paris' skies.

I would stop at the market next door just before close and pick up a bottle of wine, some cheese, and a baguette which I would arrange in the basket of my bicycle strategically next to a stack of Marcel Proust novels. I would take my time riding back to my flat that was just a few short minutes into Montmartre.

I would take off my shoes and my jacket slowly, ritualistically, considerate of my stiff muscles moving stacks of hardcover books around for twelve hours nearly everyday. Then I would turn the radio on, light the logs in the fireplace—despite the mild temperature of the warm Spring evenings—and I would eat and drink wine mindfully while I read by the light of the flames.

It grew into a routine I enjoyed but felt my mind soften and slow with it as the years passed. I would look up from my book, every now and then, into the empty corners of my home and a sadness would fall over me like a blanket. It wasn't until the eve of my twenty-sixth birthday that I realized just how lonely I truly had become.

I had accepted an invitation to dinner with a nice man from Lyon on that night before my twenty-sixth birthday, and by the end of the evening was bloated full of wine and butter and pasta and hazy with conversations of each other's lives.

I would look at the man, whose name I could not remember now, and felt more alone than I had ever in my life.

This man would never really know me, would never truly be anyone I'd find comfort nor safety in. I did want these things, truly, and had my standards not been so high I might've found happiness years ago. But I would rather sit in silence than have to explain to someone I hardly knew who I was in my own words. It was...exhausting.

There were more important things in life like war and literature, food and wine, philosophy and culture.

The same thing applied to platonic friendships as well. Though I knew French fluently I found it difficult to connect with other Parisians aside from regulars at the bookshop and my grocer, Marcelline.

I had come to learn that it was true the saying; it can be even lonelier surrounded by people than it is when you are with yourself.

The next morning after the young man had left my flat with nary a farewell I cried for the first time since my father died. Even in my favorite robe, which was dark green and made from the softest silk I'd ever felt from India, could not curb my sobs as I hunched over my coffee that morning. Twenty-six and nothing but a hollow emptiness to show for it.

The radio was on in the corner, the windows were open and a breeze filtered in with a foreboding whistle. As I sipped my now cold coffee a sound contrary to the wind piqued my ears. Voices, yelling voices.

Suddenly the radio which had been playing Schubert went silent and an announcer interrupted with a live broadcast. It was 11:15am.

The announcer started in French, "Please stand by for an important broadcast to the nations of England and France from Britain's Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain."

My entire body froze, my mug hovered inches below my mouth, in wait. The voice started slowly, and softly broken.

"I am speaking to you from the cabinet room at 10 Downing Street. This morning the British ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by 11 o'clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us." I set the cup down and stood. I stepped toward the radio, my body had never felt so chilled. Never had I ever felt helplessness quite like then with the next statement from the British Prime Minister, "I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany."

I rushed to the window at the shouts below.

"Not again!" They cried. Cars were stopped and bicycles were abandoned. My heart dropped from my throat to my stomach and I fell to the floor in panic. I clutched my robe as chills ran through my body. Helpless, alone, and afraid.

On September 3rd, 1939 France and Britain declared war on Germany and I was twenty-six years old.