One other thing happened that dreamlike season.
It was noontime, the sky entirely white. I’d just stumbled across Pont de la Concorde, my hands shoved deep in my pockets, when I felt a shadow cross my path. I looked up, and there he was again. Louis goddamn Armstrong. Standing in front of me, holding a bag of groceries, his breath clouding the air.
It was the whole other side of Hitler’s Deutschland. They surely were not ‘Aryans’, they were not even Germans. And the looming great war was never crossed their young minds. All they cared about was their music; jazz music. And surviving. And a girl, obviously. A girl who went missing after a steamy one-night romance. Then, when they fled to Paris, war followed.