A German World War two pilot sprints across a field headed towards a low stone French farm house. It’s evening and the sun has set under the horizon but still casts a blue and purple light, which disperses through the thick blanket of grey overcast sky and illuminates the world with an even cool glow. The pilot is muddied and his uniform is ripped and hanging in multiple places. Small twigs and leaves from the tree that his parachute caught in are wedged in his belt and boots. The tails of his jacket are blackened from the smoke of his burning plane that crashed below him. He’s unhurt but exhausted and bruised from cutting himself out of the tree, immediately in need of rest and soon to be in need of food and shelter—somewhere safe that he can regroup. He slows to a jog as he passes the low stone wall that makes the tiny courtyard in front of the one story home he spotted from the forest.
Four waiters stand in the servers station connected to the kitchen of a world-class French restaurant in 1940. None of them speak. They’re in a tense semi-circle, all of them stare dead eyed at the air in front of them. One is perched on the counter, distractedly stirring an espresso with a demi tasse spoon while another habitually folds and unfolds a wine opener in his hand.