You pick up a taxi to reach the Latin Quarter and get there in the early afternoon. It's somewhat strange to think that the very taxi you're riding on right now was used just weeks ago to move soldiers to the front and repel the enemy invasion, mere miles away from Paris itself. The driver himself is eager to share the story of his 'mission to the front', as he calls it. He made four trips that night, carrying five soldiers on each one, the sky lighted by explosions and the sound of rifles and grenades in the air. He has probably told this story to every passenger he has had since then, and he'll probably continue to do so until the day he retires. In a way, this makes you proud of the efforts the people, your people, are making in order to win the war and guarantee the safety of the Country.
The Latin Quarter itself is not different from most other arrondissements, excepts for the unusually large number of cafés - and of course, the Sorbonne. The university brought about a large number of students and intellectuals, becoming a gathering point for poets, writers and artists of any kind. Before the war, many of these cafès would stay open all night, fostering the birth of new artistic movements - although most people would struggle to consider contemporary art as 'art'. Sadly, this is lost in the past now. You walk in front of the Sorbonne, remembering how the place would be crowded with students coming and going - no more now. You spot a few people, but those are mostly professors. Most of the students have joined the army, willingly or not, and are spending their time on much more brutal business than literature or science. You silently wonder if France will have to sacrifice an entire generation on the bloody altar of war.
Finally you reach the address on the list. It's a building like any other on the avenue, with five storeys. There is a woman cleaning the front door, passing a humid rag vigorously on the surface.