Read Online In This Hospitable Land by Jr. Lynmar Brock - Free Book Online
Authors: Jr. Lynmar Brock
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along the North Sea seemed headed for the French border.
Stopping at one corner Alex drummed his fingers on the steering wheel then impulsively rolled down his window and signaled to a newsboy. As the traffic began inching along again he handed the newspaper to André.
“‘The Belgian government encourages all who can to go to the south of France,’” André read aloud. “‘Belgian refugees will be reorganized to join the French in repelling the Germans.’”
“You see,” Alex chuckled, glancing at his brother. “You may yet be called on to fight!”
André stared straight ahead. “Let’s see if I answer that call.”
When the shore road gave out, the Sauverins finally turned onto the main route along the coast. Farther on—near Middelkerke—they spotted a grocery store still open for business.
“We need to stop,” Denise called to Alex. “We brought enough food for a meal or two but we need to have more available. I never dreamed it would be so congested or people so desperate.”
Alex let out a heavy sigh, unhappy to be further delayed. He pulled up past a clutch of cars clustered in front of the market. André and Denise climbed out and fought their way through the crowd, pushing and shoving like everyone else to get inside. The shopkeepers sold everything as quickly as they could but not fast enough to satisfy their mostly new customers.
“Hurry!” an older man cried. “Before the Germans overtake this village and all these foodstuffs are destroyed in the fighting!”
“Or looted,” someone else suggested, “by soldiers on either side.”
André filled his basket indiscriminately. Denise struggled for lettuce and cucumbers. When she touched a tomato another, rougher hand grabbed for it too. Denise snatched it away.
It took fifteen minutes to reach the counter where a display of fruit had been pulled down, spreading bruised samples everywhere including underfoot. There was no bread but the Sauverins grabbed some crackers, a hunk of firm Belgian cheese, thick slices of ham, and a portion of the local pâté. Waiting to pay they protected their goods from darting, grasping hands.
Purchases made, André and Denise struggled and stumbled out of the shop. Meantime the road had become more jammed by refugees in and on cars, trucks, bicycles, a couple of buses, and even several tractors pulling farm wagons.
When they got back to the Buick it was surrounded by a half-dozen Belgian soldiers ordering Alex to step out and be questioned.
“Let’s see your papers,” the officer in charge demanded sternly, impatiently.
Alex reached back into the car and handed the family’s passports to the lieutenant. The other Sauverins knew they had done nothing wrong but worried about the response to their mix of nationalities. André and Rose were Belgian. Geneviève and Denise carried British passports. Alex and Louis retained Dutch citizenship.
“Remember how much freer and easier life used to be,” Louis asked Rose nostalgically, “before the Great War, when we could cross borders as we pleased?”
“What’s happening?” André asked approaching his brother closely.
“They think we stole the king’s car,” Alex replied quietly.
“What?”
“King Leopold sent Crown Prince Baudouin and his two other children with a governess to drive down through France to Spain. Now the army fears their car—a big black Buick like ours—has been stolen with all of them in it.”
Despite the soldiers with their rifles at the ready Geneviève opened her door for more air. A soldier slammed it shut, frightening the children. But Geneviève would not be cowed.
“How dare you!” she said, rolling down her window, incensed. “We’re Belgians!”
“So’s the king,” a sergeant replied brusquely.
The lieutenant showed his aide-de-camp the Sauverins’ varicolored passports and car registration then consulted with him hurriedly. After walking around and scrutinizing the car he handed Alex
Stopping at one corner Alex drummed his fingers on the steering wheel then impulsively rolled down his window and signaled to a newsboy. As the traffic began inching along again he handed the newspaper to André.
“‘The Belgian government encourages all who can to go to the south of France,’” André read aloud. “‘Belgian refugees will be reorganized to join the French in repelling the Germans.’”
“You see,” Alex chuckled, glancing at his brother. “You may yet be called on to fight!”
André stared straight ahead. “Let’s see if I answer that call.”
When the shore road gave out, the Sauverins finally turned onto the main route along the coast. Farther on—near Middelkerke—they spotted a grocery store still open for business.
“We need to stop,” Denise called to Alex. “We brought enough food for a meal or two but we need to have more available. I never dreamed it would be so congested or people so desperate.”
Alex let out a heavy sigh, unhappy to be further delayed. He pulled up past a clutch of cars clustered in front of the market. André and Denise climbed out and fought their way through the crowd, pushing and shoving like everyone else to get inside. The shopkeepers sold everything as quickly as they could but not fast enough to satisfy their mostly new customers.
“Hurry!” an older man cried. “Before the Germans overtake this village and all these foodstuffs are destroyed in the fighting!”
“Or looted,” someone else suggested, “by soldiers on either side.”
André filled his basket indiscriminately. Denise struggled for lettuce and cucumbers. When she touched a tomato another, rougher hand grabbed for it too. Denise snatched it away.
It took fifteen minutes to reach the counter where a display of fruit had been pulled down, spreading bruised samples everywhere including underfoot. There was no bread but the Sauverins grabbed some crackers, a hunk of firm Belgian cheese, thick slices of ham, and a portion of the local pâté. Waiting to pay they protected their goods from darting, grasping hands.
Purchases made, André and Denise struggled and stumbled out of the shop. Meantime the road had become more jammed by refugees in and on cars, trucks, bicycles, a couple of buses, and even several tractors pulling farm wagons.
When they got back to the Buick it was surrounded by a half-dozen Belgian soldiers ordering Alex to step out and be questioned.
“Let’s see your papers,” the officer in charge demanded sternly, impatiently.
Alex reached back into the car and handed the family’s passports to the lieutenant. The other Sauverins knew they had done nothing wrong but worried about the response to their mix of nationalities. André and Rose were Belgian. Geneviève and Denise carried British passports. Alex and Louis retained Dutch citizenship.
“Remember how much freer and easier life used to be,” Louis asked Rose nostalgically, “before the Great War, when we could cross borders as we pleased?”
“What’s happening?” André asked approaching his brother closely.
“They think we stole the king’s car,” Alex replied quietly.
“What?”
“King Leopold sent Crown Prince Baudouin and his two other children with a governess to drive down through France to Spain. Now the army fears their car—a big black Buick like ours—has been stolen with all of them in it.”
Despite the soldiers with their rifles at the ready Geneviève opened her door for more air. A soldier slammed it shut, frightening the children. But Geneviève would not be cowed.
“How dare you!” she said, rolling down her window, incensed. “We’re Belgians!”
“So’s the king,” a sergeant replied brusquely.
The lieutenant showed his aide-de-camp the Sauverins’ varicolored passports and car registration then consulted with him hurriedly. After walking around and scrutinizing the car he handed Alex
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