Frozen by the Hands of Time

France, 1935

The blankets from Germany weren’t enough to shield me from the cold.

It was a Sunday morning, and I was jolted awake by the sound of metal-soled boots — Nazi soldiers, marching toward the church grounds. Reaching instinctively for my left wooden leg, I prepared myself. It would be fun to watch them, disciplined like tin soldiers.

The character of Frenchmen — we could make satires of the German Nazis while being ruled, laughing even through our slavery.

I am Erick John Christopher, proud owner of Christopher’s Café — the only place serving true homemade French food.

It was my grandfather Christopher who started it all. Now the café has six tables and four times as many chairs.

My father had taken it over, but his life ended far too soon — at the hands of a Nazi revolver.

After the occupation, they forced us to change the café’s name to a German one — a name even I can’t read. To the people around, it’s a comedy. But inside, it remains a grief.

Why have the Frenchmen become so henpecked?

I live in a small house, built in traditional Australian style, a few yards from the church. As a child, I was always tempted by the button roses along the path.

“Can I pluck one?” I used to ask my father.

He would smile, kiss my cheek, and say, “When you’re taken away from your parents, how would you feel? It’s the same for the rose.”

That morning, I went down the stairs on my crutches toward the church. The button roses were crushed under the heavy boots of the soldiers.

I bent down, touched a petal — broken, bruised — and felt a deep pain inside. As I turned to leave, I could almost hear the rose whisper, “You might have plucked me.”

In my country, everything has life — the only thing it loses is its voice.

The chill wind howled around me. I lit an American cigar — a gift from a friend who now served the Nazi army.

But even in his heart, I knew he still whispered, “Vive la France.”

I shivered inside my tan long-sleeved pullover, adjusting the red-banded hat that only a few Frenchmen still wore.

When the cigar burned to ash, I stepped into the church.

As I closed my eyes in the prayer room, a strange thought crossed my mind — even Jesus might have turned German by now.

Later, I visited my sister. She was just sleeping, peaceful.

It was her birthday.

That evening, I returned to the café, sipping a French special — butterscotch-flavored coffee, savoring a taste of what little remained.

---

India

It was early morning in Calcutta.

I had won a scholarship to study in France.

Excited as I was, a sadness tugged at me — the colors of Durga Puja, the sweet and spicy flavors of Calcutta, my Papaji, Mamaji, my little brother Bablu, and more than anything, the scent of sindoor in the air and the flowing winds along the Hugli river.

A taxi arrived at my doorstep. Papaji helped me with the language for my journey, and I left — leaving behind my heart prints on the land of Gitanjali.

At the airport in France, I saw a board held up for me — “Malati Malhotra.”

A kind lady met me, driving a battered old Mini Cooper.

Everything felt magical for a village girl seeing a new world for the first time.

She took me to a small café — its name unfamiliar to me.

Inside, a lame man with thick sideburns greeted us warmly.

The lady introduced me. I folded my hands in a “Namaste,” and he awkwardly imitated me, smiling.

I found a small house near the café and settled in.

One day, I met the café owner properly — Erick John Christopher.

He was kind and interesting, though I disliked the thick smoke of his ever-present cigar.

---

Days passed......

I became a new version of myself — a young woman with bow-like eyebrows, blue skinny aprons, and, astonishingly, fluent in French.

There was a new glint in Erick’s eyes whenever we spoke. He called me “Rosillin,” a name filled with affection.

We grew closer.

Erick was strong, grounded, and, though in his late thirties, carried a boyish spirit.

With time, I forgot the world I had left behind.

But the war grew worse.

Students were ordered to return home.

The day I was to leave, Erick arrived in his Mini Cooper, two bouquets of button roses on the seat beside him.

When I asked about the kind lady who had welcomed me, he told me she had been killed by Nazi soldiers.

A long, heavy silence filled our drive to the airport.

At the gate, he kissed my forehead, placing a small bouquet into my hands.

On the bouquet was a small note:

“With lots of love to my Rosillin.”

As I walked to the terminal, I turned back and saw the Mini Cooper disappear into the thick, gray traffic of France.

---

Years later

It was raining.

I opened my umbrella and walked to the grave marked:

“Rosillin John Christopher, Died 1930.”

I whispered to myself, “Yes, Rose, I felt you near all these years. I saw you again — you, who were frozen by the hands of time.”

The lame man walked back to his café — a tear shining in his eye, a burning cigar between his fingers, and old, bitter satires about the German soldiers swirling in his mind.