Read Online Black Radishes by Susan Lynn Meyer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Lynn Meyer
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them, holding Papa’s arm.
The heel had broken off one of Maman’s shoes, and her left stocking was torn. Her breathing was ragged and hoarse. “Oh, Gustave!” she gasped, reaching for him. “Oh, Berthold!”
With Maman limping on the broken shoe, they made their way back across the rutted field. It was the same brilliantly sunny day it had been an hour ago, but it was as if the familiar world had been turned upside down and shaken into a new pattern, like bits of colored glass in a kaleidoscope. People were scattered around, some still screaming, others weeping. Some crawled out of the ditches beside the road and from under trucks and cars. Windshields had shattered. The road sparkled with broken glass. An elegant elderly woman sat in a ditch, her face dirty and her hat awry, looking stunned. A small boy, all by himself and too young to talk, stood crying forlornly. Maman paused and snapped the heel off her other shoe so that she could balance. She knelt down beside the little boy, wiping his nose with her handkerchief.
“Shhh,” she told him, taking his hand. “We’ll find your mother.”
“Maybe she’s over there,” said Gustave shakily, pointing toward a stone structure on the other side of the road where some people had run for shelter. Together, his family and the little boy made their way toward it. The ground was covered with dropped objects: a broken-handled suitcase, a sweater, a doll, one leg doubled under its body, gazing up at the sky with green glass eyes.
When they had almost reached the shed, a bedraggled young woman hurried toward them, weeping wildly, carrying a baby and clutching a little girl by the hand. The boy cried out and rushed toward her.
“He pulled and ran off,” the mother said over and over again to Maman, embracing her. “I couldn’t hold on to him.” The mother wept, but the boy, holding her skirt with one hand and sucking his thumb on the other, had stopped crying and was looking around, his eyes enormous. Gustave followed the boy’s gaze and looked out over the field. In the distance, under the bright glare of the sky, some people were still lying on the grass, unmoving.
“Don’t look, Gustave,” said Papa sharply. “Let’s get going.” He stepped between Gustave and the field, blocking his view, and, with his arm around Gustave’s shoulder, turned him in the direction of the road.
Gustave saw the delivery truck. It was like suddenly seeing home. “There it is!” he cried, running forward.
“Be careful of the broken glass!” Maman called.
No bullets had gone through the windshield of the truck. But there was something large and dark lying beside it in the road.
“Wait!” Gustave’s mother caught him from behind, but he shrugged her off and darted forward. It was Jacques, the pony. He had been shot. His beautiful brown head was thrown back, and a pool of dark blood spread out around him. His pale mane was stained where it lay in the blood. The girl Gustave had talked to that morning sat on the ground beside Jacques, her arms around him, crying, her hair falling over her face. Gustave’s stomach clenched. He took a few steps toward the bushes on the side of the road and threw up.
“Barbarians,” Papa muttered when they were back in the truck. “Barbarians.”
The road was jammed again with exhausted, desperate people. Gustave curled up on the seat and put his head down on his knees. He couldn’t stop seeing the dead pony. His chest started to shudder, gasping for breath, and his eyes leaked tears. After a while, he felt Maman’s hand on his back. He could hear her crying too.
“We’re going to be all right, Gustave,” said Papa hoarsely. “We will keep our family safe.” But how could Papa be sure of that? And what about Marcel and Jean-Paul and their families? After a long time, Gustave’s tears stopped. His eyes were swollen and hot, his mind empty. They drove on, slowly, for hours and hours. Around nightfall, the road was in complete
The heel had broken off one of Maman’s shoes, and her left stocking was torn. Her breathing was ragged and hoarse. “Oh, Gustave!” she gasped, reaching for him. “Oh, Berthold!”
With Maman limping on the broken shoe, they made their way back across the rutted field. It was the same brilliantly sunny day it had been an hour ago, but it was as if the familiar world had been turned upside down and shaken into a new pattern, like bits of colored glass in a kaleidoscope. People were scattered around, some still screaming, others weeping. Some crawled out of the ditches beside the road and from under trucks and cars. Windshields had shattered. The road sparkled with broken glass. An elegant elderly woman sat in a ditch, her face dirty and her hat awry, looking stunned. A small boy, all by himself and too young to talk, stood crying forlornly. Maman paused and snapped the heel off her other shoe so that she could balance. She knelt down beside the little boy, wiping his nose with her handkerchief.
“Shhh,” she told him, taking his hand. “We’ll find your mother.”
“Maybe she’s over there,” said Gustave shakily, pointing toward a stone structure on the other side of the road where some people had run for shelter. Together, his family and the little boy made their way toward it. The ground was covered with dropped objects: a broken-handled suitcase, a sweater, a doll, one leg doubled under its body, gazing up at the sky with green glass eyes.
When they had almost reached the shed, a bedraggled young woman hurried toward them, weeping wildly, carrying a baby and clutching a little girl by the hand. The boy cried out and rushed toward her.
“He pulled and ran off,” the mother said over and over again to Maman, embracing her. “I couldn’t hold on to him.” The mother wept, but the boy, holding her skirt with one hand and sucking his thumb on the other, had stopped crying and was looking around, his eyes enormous. Gustave followed the boy’s gaze and looked out over the field. In the distance, under the bright glare of the sky, some people were still lying on the grass, unmoving.
“Don’t look, Gustave,” said Papa sharply. “Let’s get going.” He stepped between Gustave and the field, blocking his view, and, with his arm around Gustave’s shoulder, turned him in the direction of the road.
Gustave saw the delivery truck. It was like suddenly seeing home. “There it is!” he cried, running forward.
“Be careful of the broken glass!” Maman called.
No bullets had gone through the windshield of the truck. But there was something large and dark lying beside it in the road.
“Wait!” Gustave’s mother caught him from behind, but he shrugged her off and darted forward. It was Jacques, the pony. He had been shot. His beautiful brown head was thrown back, and a pool of dark blood spread out around him. His pale mane was stained where it lay in the blood. The girl Gustave had talked to that morning sat on the ground beside Jacques, her arms around him, crying, her hair falling over her face. Gustave’s stomach clenched. He took a few steps toward the bushes on the side of the road and threw up.
“Barbarians,” Papa muttered when they were back in the truck. “Barbarians.”
The road was jammed again with exhausted, desperate people. Gustave curled up on the seat and put his head down on his knees. He couldn’t stop seeing the dead pony. His chest started to shudder, gasping for breath, and his eyes leaked tears. After a while, he felt Maman’s hand on his back. He could hear her crying too.
“We’re going to be all right, Gustave,” said Papa hoarsely. “We will keep our family safe.” But how could Papa be sure of that? And what about Marcel and Jean-Paul and their families? After a long time, Gustave’s tears stopped. His eyes were swollen and hot, his mind empty. They drove on, slowly, for hours and hours. Around nightfall, the road was in complete
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