Cherry Blossom Snow

Resistance

As a prominent figure in the French Resistance, Mirtille's reputation as a daring and resourceful operative had grown across the region. Her exploits had become the stuff of whispered legends among the people. A sixty year-old former history professor, Mirtille was tall and thin, with a lean but muscular build. She had long, dark brown hair, and pale skin that was noticeably darker around her brown eyes. She wore simple, dark clothes to help minimize her profile, and she usually kept her face largely obscured by a scarf and a hat. Her face was often grim and determined. Her voice was soft but firm, commanding great respect among her peers. Nevertheless, she was not one to brag or make a show of herself. She was a woman of action, not words.

Mirtille had arranged a secret meeting with two people who had agreed to supply her with arms to resist the German occupation. Her friends and contacts had vouched for these anonymous suppliers, but she had learned not to trust too easily. She had been betrayed before, and the war had taught her that even the most familiar faces could harbor secrets. With every step she took, Mirtille could feel the weight of her responsibilities pressing down on her shoulders. The moonless night offered her some semblance of cover as she navigated through the dense forest across the Swiss border.

Mirtille's heart raced as she stood in the doorway of the dilapidated barn, her senses on high alert. The air was thick with a musty scent, a mix of decaying wood and hay, giving the place an almost haunting atmosphere. The soft creaking of the uneven floorboards beneath her boots was the only sound, punctuating the silence that surrounded her. Her gloved hand tightened around the grip of her pistol as her flashlight pierced through the darkness like a beacon of both caution and hope. Her sharp eyes scanned the interior, catching fleeting glimmers of dust particles and revealing wooden beams and rusted farm equipment, casting eerie shadows in the flashlight's beam. Her eyes darted around, scanning every shadow, every corner, every possible hiding place.

Two German officers in full uniform, a male Luftwaffe Colonel and a female Gestapo Major, emerged from the shadows. Mirtille's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing to assess the situation. Despite the tension in the air, they raised their hands in a gesture of surrender. Mirtille's grip on her pistol didn't waver. She had seen too much, lost too many, to let her guard down now. Trust was a luxury she couldn't afford, especially in these uncertain times. The risks were high, the stakes even higher.

The Luftwaffe Colonel's uniform was crisply pressed, his cap perched upon neatly combed hair. His weathered face bore the signs of someone who had seen more than his fair share of death. Beside him stood the Gestapo Major, a stern expression etched onto her features. The Major's icy blue eyes held a calculating gleam, her blond hair pulled back into a bun.

Mirtille's voice, soft yet unwavering, finally broke the silence. "State your purpose," she demanded, her eyes flickering between the two officers.

"We're here to help," said the Major, her voice carrying a hint of sincerity.

"Why should I believe you?" Mirtille's response was laced with a healthy dose of experienced skepticism, an attitude that had kept her alive through countless encounters like this. She wasn't one to be easily swayed by words alone, especially in a time when deceit was a weapon wielded as readily as a firearm.

"You're still alive," the Colonel responded calmly, his tone measured. "If we intended harm, you wouldn't still be standing here."

"You could be seeking information."

"A fair point," the Colonel conceded, a glint of respect in his eyes. "However, I can assure you that we want nothing more from you than the fall of the Reich."

"That may be," Mirtille replied evenly, her focus unyielding, "but if you want me to trust you, then I need information from you."

"My name is Helga," the Major offered, her voice steady.