"With the children. Jessica," I said. "Get out."
"Can't," my sister returned, thrusting Gina forward. "Too slow. Save her."
Letting the Fiat steer itself, I passed my niece toward the officer, then flung the door wide. "Come on! Come on!" I shouted to Judith and Susan." Then: "Papa, wake up! Papa!"
Anguished cries rose from the road as machine-gun bullets tore into flesh and shattered bone. With Judith clinging to my neck and Susan toted by another Belgian soldier, I jumped into the bottom of a roadside ditch.
An overturning cart spilled a heap of suitcases down on top of us.
Ludicrously, I crouched behind a fabric rampart as the Dornier roared closer.
Burying Judith beneath me, I shut my eyes as bullets pocked the roadway and sliced through the Fiat. The warplane flashed overhead, seemingly close enough to touch. It continued down the highway, lancing the massed humanity and draining out its life.
Then its guns fell silent.
I raised up cautiously.
The Belgian captain stood, still holding Gina in his good arm. "Out of ammo," he said of the plane, and then about Gina, "she's fine."
Judith and Susan were likewise unharmed.
The Fiat continued idling forward down the center of the highway.
Papa! Jessica!
Setting Judith atop a suitcase, I ran toward the car, breathing a sigh of relief when I heard Jessica crying in the backseat. She, at least, was alive.
Flinging wide the door, I stomped on the brake pedal and stopped the auto.
"Are you—?"
I’m fine," Jessica returned. "Terrified, but fine. The girls?"
"Safe." I shook my father's shoulder. "Papa?"
He roused himself and yawned. "My turn to drive?"
I stared at him in disbelief. "You didn't know? Bullets just missed the car."
"No," Jessica corrected, pointing upward.
In the fabric of the Fiat's cloth top two thumb-sized holes had appeared. The rips matched another set of gouges in the upholstery—one in the driver's seat where I had been and the other in the rear seat, where Judith and her sister had been.
The Fiat's engine continued ticking normally, in faithful unconcern.
When I returned to the ditch to retrieve the children, Judith remained atop the stack of luggage. As I reported that no one had been hurt and even the car was almost unscathed, a shy smile spread across the nine-year-old's face. The angels had been on duty, exactly as required.
By the next morning the stream of refugees swelled like tributaries dumping into one great river. Individuals melded into one mighty teeming mass—bundles tied on weary backs; in rickety carts; employ ing bicycles and rusty jalopies that were in much worse shape than the old Fiat. Black smoke bubbled from the tailpipe of the vehicle, and the engine emitted an ominous knocking.
Ahead, a military motorcycle corps cut through the crowd. Shouting for civilians to get out of the way, they led a thundering herd of army trucks, like elephants in camouflage. These were followed by rows of small-caliber artillery, mounted on tractors.
Papa pulled to the side of the road. Refugees scattered in the fields to either side.
Papa said, "Scots Guards and the Queen's Own Westminsters." He grimaced. "You can tell where the Germans are by the direction the Allies are traveling."
Jessica, ashen-faced, asked, "But isn't that the same road we were—"
I grasped the situation at once. "The Germans are between us and Paris, then?"
Papa nodded. "So we'll go north. If they're between us and Paris, we'll go around the battle. Ghent. Flanders and then..." He frowned as he glanced at Jessica.
"Where?" I breathed the question on the minds of thousands. Where?
Papa reached past me and grasped a small red volume of the guidebook Baedeker's Belgium.
Opening a map, he studied it as yet another fleet of military lor ries rumbled past in a cloud of choking dust. "The BEF and the French are also between us and Paris. Here." His finger stabbed the page. "As long as we stay behind British lines, we're safe."
"Ghent? Flanders?" I
"Can't," my sister returned, thrusting Gina forward. "Too slow. Save her."
Letting the Fiat steer itself, I passed my niece toward the officer, then flung the door wide. "Come on! Come on!" I shouted to Judith and Susan." Then: "Papa, wake up! Papa!"
Anguished cries rose from the road as machine-gun bullets tore into flesh and shattered bone. With Judith clinging to my neck and Susan toted by another Belgian soldier, I jumped into the bottom of a roadside ditch.
An overturning cart spilled a heap of suitcases down on top of us.
Ludicrously, I crouched behind a fabric rampart as the Dornier roared closer.
Burying Judith beneath me, I shut my eyes as bullets pocked the roadway and sliced through the Fiat. The warplane flashed overhead, seemingly close enough to touch. It continued down the highway, lancing the massed humanity and draining out its life.
Then its guns fell silent.
I raised up cautiously.
The Belgian captain stood, still holding Gina in his good arm. "Out of ammo," he said of the plane, and then about Gina, "she's fine."
Judith and Susan were likewise unharmed.
The Fiat continued idling forward down the center of the highway.
Papa! Jessica!
Setting Judith atop a suitcase, I ran toward the car, breathing a sigh of relief when I heard Jessica crying in the backseat. She, at least, was alive.
Flinging wide the door, I stomped on the brake pedal and stopped the auto.
"Are you—?"
I’m fine," Jessica returned. "Terrified, but fine. The girls?"
"Safe." I shook my father's shoulder. "Papa?"
He roused himself and yawned. "My turn to drive?"
I stared at him in disbelief. "You didn't know? Bullets just missed the car."
"No," Jessica corrected, pointing upward.
In the fabric of the Fiat's cloth top two thumb-sized holes had appeared. The rips matched another set of gouges in the upholstery—one in the driver's seat where I had been and the other in the rear seat, where Judith and her sister had been.
The Fiat's engine continued ticking normally, in faithful unconcern.
When I returned to the ditch to retrieve the children, Judith remained atop the stack of luggage. As I reported that no one had been hurt and even the car was almost unscathed, a shy smile spread across the nine-year-old's face. The angels had been on duty, exactly as required.
By the next morning the stream of refugees swelled like tributaries dumping into one great river. Individuals melded into one mighty teeming mass—bundles tied on weary backs; in rickety carts; employ ing bicycles and rusty jalopies that were in much worse shape than the old Fiat. Black smoke bubbled from the tailpipe of the vehicle, and the engine emitted an ominous knocking.
Ahead, a military motorcycle corps cut through the crowd. Shouting for civilians to get out of the way, they led a thundering herd of army trucks, like elephants in camouflage. These were followed by rows of small-caliber artillery, mounted on tractors.
Papa pulled to the side of the road. Refugees scattered in the fields to either side.
Papa said, "Scots Guards and the Queen's Own Westminsters." He grimaced. "You can tell where the Germans are by the direction the Allies are traveling."
Jessica, ashen-faced, asked, "But isn't that the same road we were—"
I grasped the situation at once. "The Germans are between us and Paris, then?"
Papa nodded. "So we'll go north. If they're between us and Paris, we'll go around the battle. Ghent. Flanders and then..." He frowned as he glanced at Jessica.
"Where?" I breathed the question on the minds of thousands. Where?
Papa reached past me and grasped a small red volume of the guidebook Baedeker's Belgium.
Opening a map, he studied it as yet another fleet of military lor ries rumbled past in a cloud of choking dust. "The BEF and the French are also between us and Paris. Here." His finger stabbed the page. "As long as we stay behind British lines, we're safe."
"Ghent? Flanders?" I
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