Marie-Élise had thought he would smell of death. Instead, she thought he smelled faintly of expensive soap. His clothing was top drawer. If she had worked on a suit of this quality, she would had to absolutely focus, because every stitch was perfect. Her eyes were focused on the little details, his clothing, his scent, because it helped her to remain upright, to not pass out.<br/><br/>Her dilated pupils were somewhat reduced as he looked her over and she did her best to remain quiet and respectful. If she had a needle or tape measure in her hand, she would be fine. Work always calmed her. But the terror of not knowing made it hard for her to move past the fear and focus on what had to be done. In the future, if she had a future, she might laugh about her fears.<br/><br/>What an odd world she lived in where a girl with her timid, shy nature could become a spy. She thought back to the first time she had visited this Nazi stronghold. They had detained her for several hours and questioned her when they noticed how nervous the little seamstress became when confronted with any authority.<br/><br/>Eventually, it became something of a joke with the guards. Oh, it’s our little terrorized seamstress. They would growl and gently mock her, not the SS, but the few regular guards who had dealt with her on routine days. In truth, Marie-Élise grew nervous anytime she was confronted with an authority figure. Maybe it stemmed from her stern father. She didn’t fully understand the root of her fear herself. But there it was.<br/><br/>The words soaked into her dark head. With difficulty, she found her ration card and held the slightly stained and wrinkled card out for the General to see. She couldn’t believe he would actually touch it himself. Not with his fastidious white gloves, his perfect uniform, but she would never dare deny him the right to demand it.<br/><br/>It was a minimal ration card. Nothing in her career provided any excuse for ‘extras’ like chocolate, stockings, and perfume, but did provide enough of the basics to get her through each month. It was difficult, but she forced her lips into a pleasant grimace, a tiny hint of a smile. “My ration card sir,” she said in her small voice. “I still have one meat selection. But I was saving it for next week.”<br/><br/>Why had she spoken? The thought shot through her. How on earth did she think he would care about her meat ration? And had he hinted that she stank? Trying to appear nonchalant, she turned her head briefly toward her shoulder and took a quick sniff.<br/>