“Are you sure this won’t hurt us? We haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning.”
“Don’t worry about such a small thing.”
•
Wheat fields fanned out on both sides of the road. The stalks were full and ripe, bent to the point of bursting. A breeze sent golden waves rippling through the land. The evening was misty as the crimson sun began to set, throwing mauvish tones across the countryside. An occasional poppy raised its head among the wheat stalks, tired of being still for so long. The road was flooded with people who didn’t know where they were going. Wagons passed, piled high with furniture, cages filled with thirsty, famished poultry, mattresses, kitchen utensils, tools.
“Will you give us a lift?”
Invariably, the owner would be walking alongside the wagon, striking the animals’ haunches from time to time, encouraging them to continue. He would always respond:
“The horses are exhausted. They’re already carrying too much weight and haven’t stopped moving day or night for a week.
“We haven’t eaten in two days.”
“This is the war.”
The stern man knit his brow and continued on his way, his entire fortune piled onto the wagon.
A military truck had broken down and pulled off to the side of the road.
“Can I help out?”
A barefoot soldier in shirtsleeves glanced at the couple.
“Hey, you, pass me the wrench,” came a voice from beneath the truck as a hand stretched out.
“The wrench?”
“It’s behind the seat, wrapped in a bag.”
“Where?”
“Wrapped up, behind the seat.”
“Ah, I thought you said. . Come here and take a look at the motor.”
The soldier came out from under the truck. First his head, his torso, his legs, then he jumped to his feet. He was blonde with steely blue eyes and enormous hands and feet.
“If I give you a hand, will you take us to Orléans?”
The man who had been under the truck glanced at them. His companion replied:
“I wouldn’t mind. But we don’t know if we will make it. Right now, this hippo has broken down on us. We only have gas for about two kilometers, and the Germans have probably reached Artenay by now. You’d better keep moving. Don’t hang around here.”
People began to shout. The horses pulling the wagon stopped, their ears straight up. A dull sound traveled along the road, a mixture of voices and shouts of fear.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. A bunch of silly people must have seen a plane. It never fails. They scream; the plane appears. There it is, I can see it now, but it’s a reconnaissance flight. They’ve been pestering us all morning. Watch out: they use those machine guns.”
As they approached Orléans, the road grew more and more crowded as people streamed into it from the neighboring towns. Every road, every path was overflowing with people who were fleeing. The road dipped gently, and in the distance you could see houses on both sides.
“You can’t get through, you can’t,” shouted a boy on a bicycle headed in the direction of Artenay.
“Why not?”
“The bridges’ve been bombed. All Orléans is on fire.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s a spy. A spy.”
“Everything’s burning.”
“It’s true, everything’s ablaze. They kept bombing, all through the night.”
But people and wagons continued toward the city. The houses on either side of the road were empty, their doors and windows open. Some roofs had been ripped apart by the bombs, displaying the inner beams and canes. An old woman dressed in black, a scarf around her head, was seated on a low chair in the doorway of a house.
“We have to help her.”
“She’s enjoying the fresh air, like in the old days.”
“She’s dead. Shut up, she’s dead.”
As they passed, everyone stared at her, leaning down to see her face. They kept repeating, “She’s dead.”
Orléans appeared on the horizon. Tiny and gray, enveloped in smoke.
“If we don’t sit down for a moment, I won’t be able to walk any more.”
They sat on the ground, in the ditch alongside the road, watching the mass of people streaming past. Tied to the top of a wagon were a sewing machine and four sad children with plump cheeks sitting on a mattress. The muzzles of the horses pulling this tiny world were covered with a thick, greenish foam.
“It’s going to be night soon, and we won’t know where to go.”
A quiet, sickly light began to fall across the scene. The asphalt was still warm from the sun. They stood up and began walking. Some soldiers were standing in the middle of the road, their bayonets pointed downward. They were directing the avalanche of wagons and people toward a path to the right.
“At the end of the path you’ll find the road to Tours. This morning they bombed the bridges of Orléans. It’s impossible to get through. To the right, all of you, to the right. The bridges are down.”
The path winded past well-tended gardens filled with vegetables; the earth was rich and dark. Everybody walked slowly, mechanically. Everyone walked without knowing why. Suddenly the crowd flattened against one side of the path, and a group from a colonial cavalry unit rode by. A horse reared up with a desperate neigh.
“Stand right up against the fence and hang on tight. You don’t want to fall under the horses’ hoofs.”
From the gardens came the scent of green, of fruit. Some wilted sunflowers gave the appearance of being asleep. A man was stretched out on the ground, his hands swollen, his face covered with a blue and white checkered handkerchief. His chest and the handkerchief were stained with blood.
“Close your eyes. Don’t look.”
“I’m going to fall. I can’t go any farther.”
“We’ll enter the first house we come across and spend the night.”
“The Germans have been in Paris for days now. I saw the flag with the cross at the Arc de Triomphe.”
“The Germans in Paris?”
“Yes, yes, Paris.”
“You must mean Artenay.”
“Those are just tall tales from people who aren’t getting any sleep. The Germans will never get to Paris.”
“Watch out they don’t catch up with you in Tours.”
“Our army would never allow it.”
“Take a look at our army,” a man said, pointing at three soldiers who stumbled along, holding each other up. They were barefoot, weaponless, their epaulets ripped off.
•
A house appeared between the dense foliage of the trees. It lay isolated, outside the town, surrounded by a large tract of land, flat as the palm of your hand. In front of it stood some linden trees and a garden full of tulips and rosebushes, the last roses of June. At the gate by the road was a wall of oleander with pink and red flowers. As if trapped by the enclosed garden, a thick scent of honeysuckle and privet reached them. To the right of the house stretched a huge field, so large you couldn’t see the end of it. Long rows of very short pear trees had been planted, trees no taller than a man’s arm, cultivated like a vineyard, their branches tied to a wire espalier. It was a two-story house, the front facing Orléans. Behind it stood a garage, a shed for washing clothes, tools, wood already cut and stacked. Beneath the roof was a sundial. The windows on the second floor were beginning to turn pink with the burning of Orléans.