Read Online Black Radishes by Susan Lynn Meyer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Lynn Meyer
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pony. When she saw him, she waved, and he waved back. Jacques, wearing blinders, was tethered next to another pony, helping to pull a wagon loaded down with four children, a grandfather clock, and a heavy wooden bed frame. Gustave felt weary just watching the small ponies straining to pull the weight. It looked like really hard, hot work, even though the grown-ups of the family were walking beside the cart and the oldest girl often got out and walked next to Jacques with her hand on his neck.
Once, when they came into view on the road, she called to Gustave, who was now hanging out the window, “Come on out and walk with us!”
Gustave could see that there was a breeze outside. “Can I get out and walk for a while?” he asked. “We aren’t going any faster than that, anyway.”
“No!” said Maman sharply. “We don’t want to lose you.”
“I’m not going to get lost,” Gustave protested. “I’m eleven .”
Maman didn’t answer, and Gustave slammed himself back against the seat. How could anyone get lost? Everyone except for the soldiers was heading in the same direction, down the same endless road. The worst thing about the day wasn’t being hungry or hot or thirsty. It was having nothing to do. If only Jean-Paul or Marcel were there for him to poke or talk to or play rock-paper-scissors with. Gustave felt a heavy weight on his chest. He didn’t want to think about where Jean-Paul and Marcel might be right now. Instead, he tried playing rock-paper-scissors with himself, one hand against the other, but it didn’t work very well. Somehow, he always let the left hand win.
Gustave gave up and looked at the green fields stretching out on either side of the road, and then up into the sky. A buzzard hung in the hot air above the endless column of people on the road, circling, its wings in a V. Gustave put his hands up into the binocular shape again to watch the buzzard wheeling through the sky. Suddenly, a dark object appeared on the horizon behind the buzzard, then another, and another. Gustave moved his hand binoculars over to look at them more closely. Planes. Painted with dark crosses and swastikas. For a moment, Gustave’s mouth wouldn’t work. Then he shouted, “Planes! Nazi planes!”
“Pull over!” Maman screamed. The planes roared down through the sky, straight toward the column of people on the road, as if they were going to land on top of them. It sounded as if the sky were tearing in two. Through the roar came the wails of babies and the high, shrieking whinny of horses. People ran in every direction.
Gustave pushed the door open while the truck was still moving.
“Run!” Papa shouted. Gustave stumbled across the rutted field, his breath tearing through his lungs, making for a line of trees. Maman was to the side of him, but Papa, limping on his bad leg, was falling behind. Gustave turned around and reached out a hand to help him, but Papa waved him away, screaming, “Run!”
The machine guns began just as Gustave reached the trees. Glancing up, he saw a plane no higher than the tree-tops, its machine gun pointing down. Bullets exploded. Hands shoved Gustave to the ground as Papa threw himself over him, heavy and solid, shielding Gustave from the cruel sky. Gustave’s heart was hammering, and his breath came in gasps. His lip bled where his teeth had cut it, and his blood tasted like metal. His cheek pressed against a bumpy tree root. His nose was full of the smell of the damp earth and the familiar scent of his father’s shirt.
After a long while, the noise of the shooting stopped. Gustave could feel Papa’s heart pounding against his back. He heard the thrumming rising from the earth and the insects humming over the field. But he didn’t want Papa to get up. He wanted to stay there forever, wedged safely between the warmth of Papa’s body and the cool, damp ground.
When Papa finally did push himself to his hands and knees, Gustave lifted his head and saw that Maman was next to
Once, when they came into view on the road, she called to Gustave, who was now hanging out the window, “Come on out and walk with us!”
Gustave could see that there was a breeze outside. “Can I get out and walk for a while?” he asked. “We aren’t going any faster than that, anyway.”
“No!” said Maman sharply. “We don’t want to lose you.”
“I’m not going to get lost,” Gustave protested. “I’m eleven .”
Maman didn’t answer, and Gustave slammed himself back against the seat. How could anyone get lost? Everyone except for the soldiers was heading in the same direction, down the same endless road. The worst thing about the day wasn’t being hungry or hot or thirsty. It was having nothing to do. If only Jean-Paul or Marcel were there for him to poke or talk to or play rock-paper-scissors with. Gustave felt a heavy weight on his chest. He didn’t want to think about where Jean-Paul and Marcel might be right now. Instead, he tried playing rock-paper-scissors with himself, one hand against the other, but it didn’t work very well. Somehow, he always let the left hand win.
Gustave gave up and looked at the green fields stretching out on either side of the road, and then up into the sky. A buzzard hung in the hot air above the endless column of people on the road, circling, its wings in a V. Gustave put his hands up into the binocular shape again to watch the buzzard wheeling through the sky. Suddenly, a dark object appeared on the horizon behind the buzzard, then another, and another. Gustave moved his hand binoculars over to look at them more closely. Planes. Painted with dark crosses and swastikas. For a moment, Gustave’s mouth wouldn’t work. Then he shouted, “Planes! Nazi planes!”
“Pull over!” Maman screamed. The planes roared down through the sky, straight toward the column of people on the road, as if they were going to land on top of them. It sounded as if the sky were tearing in two. Through the roar came the wails of babies and the high, shrieking whinny of horses. People ran in every direction.
Gustave pushed the door open while the truck was still moving.
“Run!” Papa shouted. Gustave stumbled across the rutted field, his breath tearing through his lungs, making for a line of trees. Maman was to the side of him, but Papa, limping on his bad leg, was falling behind. Gustave turned around and reached out a hand to help him, but Papa waved him away, screaming, “Run!”
The machine guns began just as Gustave reached the trees. Glancing up, he saw a plane no higher than the tree-tops, its machine gun pointing down. Bullets exploded. Hands shoved Gustave to the ground as Papa threw himself over him, heavy and solid, shielding Gustave from the cruel sky. Gustave’s heart was hammering, and his breath came in gasps. His lip bled where his teeth had cut it, and his blood tasted like metal. His cheek pressed against a bumpy tree root. His nose was full of the smell of the damp earth and the familiar scent of his father’s shirt.
After a long while, the noise of the shooting stopped. Gustave could feel Papa’s heart pounding against his back. He heard the thrumming rising from the earth and the insects humming over the field. But he didn’t want Papa to get up. He wanted to stay there forever, wedged safely between the warmth of Papa’s body and the cool, damp ground.
When Papa finally did push himself to his hands and knees, Gustave lifted his head and saw that Maman was next to
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