The Summer Home

Chapter 4

AFTER THE SURRENDER, on the morning the Nazis arrived in Bordeaux, I rode my bicycle through the sweltering June heat into the city centre. The gentle susurration of cicadas and rushing summer breeze were interrupted only by the occasional crow of a rooster from one of the many farms situated down the river, or the barking of a hungry hound. 

The thick summer air slapped my bare legs as I cycled down cobblestone streets, noticing the lack of people that had crowded the city only a few days before. If not for the tangled smells of wine and fresh bread, I would not have believed anyone still lived there.

Mireille, Jean, my brother, and Monsieur Le Sueur remained behind. Monsieur Le Sueur's fear had propelled him into action and stockpiled all the weapons he could find in the garden shed and the attic. Even common household items—jagged pieces of china and sewing scissors—became potential instruments of resistance.

I did not know why I left the safety of the home that had always provided me comfort when I needed it most. 

I should have remained tucked away in my bed chamber in a cocoon of feather pillows and quilts, or in the salon with everyone else huddled around an illegal radio. At least, I assumed any information from the allies would be illegal now that we had been conquered by our foes.

Nearing my favourite boulangerie outside of Paris, I slid off my bicycle and leaned it against a confectioner's storefront—windows shuttered and a glaring sign erected to deter hungry refugees. In recent days, they had all but destroyed our gardens searching for scraps of anything remotely edible.

For a moment, I stood alone on the street, memories of my childhood echoing through my mind. As a child, I loved venturing into town with Maman and Nicolas. When she was not in one of her dark moods, she would volunteer to collect the groceries for Madame Le Sueur, astounding the shopkeepers with her charming smile and quick wit, but most importantly, her lavish spending.

I remembered her wearing a rose crepe de chine with a cinched waist, full sleeves, and a flowing skirt, flirting with one of the shopkeepers to secure a better deal on a fur boa. When she failed, she had purchased the extravagance anyway, draping it around her slender neck with glee.

I could have surrendered to the intoxicating pull of nostalgia if the sound of marching had not erupted at that moment.

A sea of German soldiers poured into the city streets. 

Windows and doors were slammed shut, with the exception of a few brave souls creeping out into the street to watch the military parade. 

They strode forward with unbridled pride, their weapons slung over their broad shoulders and their grey uniforms pristine. Helmets obscured their faces, but I could still see the eyes of young men and boys—scarcely old enough to bear the brutalities of war. Some men were older, with lines etched into their faces and grey whiskers. They could have fought alongside my father in the Great War. How did they feel about facing another so soon?

A familiar face grinned at me from my periphery.

"Juliette!" I exclaimed, rushing forward to pull the young girl into the safety of a nearby alleyway. We stood amongst the shadows, the soldiers marching past us, pushing deeper into the heart of the city. "What in heaven's name are you doing here? You should be at home with your family!" 

Juliette smiled. "I wanted to watch the parade. Maman does not know where I went, and I do not need to tell her. I am almost seventeen! I can do what I wish." 

I released her thin shoulders from my grasp, surprised by her defiance. Indeed, she was no longer a small child and old enough to make her own decisions. Still, I could not help but feel a crushing worry that something terrible would befall her because of her increasing recklessness.