bourgeois, who perhaps do not do business but live off their capital. But it is certain that the vast majority is quite rich and well fed. Many eat 2−3 pieces of cake. Here and there you can see an apple, a ham sandwich, or an alcoholic beverage. It is difficult to say who speculates, accepts bribes, steals, bribes, trades with the Germans, or denounces his compatriots. But it is certain that most clients have an income. There are no saddened, hopeless faces. Laughter often lights up the faces of the young ladies and men. They sing along and hum the popular pre-war songs played by the orchestra. They sometimes even beat time with their feet and move their shoulders rhythmically, as if they were about to start dancing.
[65] Waitresses from “society”. Very elegant and good-looking, they wear necklaces, rings, and silk. They add charm and elegance, which dazzles a person coming in from the street grown unaccustomed to such sights. This is a real oasis of luxury, comfort, sybaritism, and carelessness surrounded by the quagmire of hunger, disease, captivity, and utter hopelessness. But the mask slips down even here. I listen in on the conversations. I cannot hear the quiet ones about business. I hear only the neutral ones between friends. The same uniform topic. “What’s new? When is the offensive? What about bread today? What about the contribution?180 When will it finally be over?” Neither the content nor the form differs from any of our everyday, persistently repeated, monotonously sad, and hopelessly desperate questions and answers.
There is no point in the illusion of the pre-war atmosphere. The gilt is gone. Even “they” are scarred. Despite appearances, they cannot forget either.
I find out that some clients come here every day. They drink coffee and sit for a while—silent, sad, and resigned. The waitresses do not know who they are. But they found out that some of them are rich, very rich, speculators.
[66] As I was told, nobody knows where some of them get their money. But they live comfortably and in affluence—on a pre-war level.
Some used to be hackies, or porters, before they war. Some feel ashamed and sit down embarrassed. Others from the same milieux—the young—have already become daring, cheeky, or even generous. These younger ones behave like kings and look out on their surroundings with a commanding gaze. But L’Ours is not their headquarters.
