The young, French woman is never named in the text.
IN THE WAREHOUSE, I often worked next to a young French-woman. We did not speak: she did not know German and I did not understand French.
It was the French girl. She was smiling her mournful smile as she slipped me a crust
of bread. She looked straight into my eyes.
MANY YEARS LATER, in Paris, I sat in the Metro, reading my newspaper. Across the aisle, a beautiful woman with dark hair and dreamy eyes. I had seen those eyes before.
"Madame, don't you recognize me?"