Eye of the Dawn by Ernest Pick

Author:Ernest Pick [Pick, Ernest]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: i2i Publisher
Published: 2018-09-16T18:30:00+00:00

Arette and the Pierre Saint-Martin

After lunch, they start out. It becomes clear within a half hour that Odile will not be able to walk with them at their speed.

“Leave me here,” she huffs, exhausted after two miles. “Have your sister send her car for me.”

They look at one another speechless. Yes, it makes sense for them to push on, if risky, leaving Odile alone at her age. Behind them, there is a small hill with an opening, a mini cave in which she can possibly find shelter as well as rest

“I just don’t know whether Marguerite’s car is even working,” Jean-Luc says to her.

Odile shakes her head. “I can’t climb up this mountain. Somehow, you will find a way to collect me either tonight or tomorrow morning. I have faith,” she adds, taking her husband’s hand. He squeezes hers and then lets it go.

“There isn’t even any water here,” Jean-Luc says concerned, “in case you get parched.”

Odile smiles. “I’ll have lots to drink in Arette.”

Now the three begin the ascent up the mountain. As promised, the road veers, zigzagging uphill with elevations of ten percent or more in places. Jean-Luc is becoming weary, and periodically they need to halt. Simone and Clovis, admittedly worn, are nonetheless committed to the final assault up to Arette, and they now lead the way. When they enter the village of Aramits, they know there are but a few kilometres remaining. Simone turns around. The road in front as well as in back is empty. Not a single car has come by in the hours they have been marching.

Dusk descends. Thirsty, now hungry, they plod on into the oncoming night. Finally, they pass the Arette town marker. And just then, they hear a motorcycle throttling behind them up the mountain, a headlight bearing down on them. They signal the driver to stop.

“I know Marguerite very well,” the driver smiles in the accent of the Bearnais, removing his helmet. “In fact, we are cousins. Everyone in town is a cousin of everyone else,” he continues with a short laugh. He diagrams the location of Marguerite’s house. “Less than a kilometer from here,” he adds. Then as an afterthought: “I can take one person behind me up the hill. Jean-Luc decides he will ride with the motorcyclist.

“In this way,” he remarks, “I can prepare Marguerite for the rest of us.”

It is past ten o’clock when Jean-Luc raps on the door of his sister’s house. There’s commotion inside. A light illuminates. An indistinguishable voice emanates from inside. Then Marguerite appears. She is an elderly woman in a bathrobe, somewhat stout, with a pleasant, ruddy face marked by a series of dimples, and very sharp blue eyes.

“Jean-Luc,” she cries, her eyes alarmed. “I didn’t expect you.”

He takes his sister in his arms. When her head moves back from his chest, he sees tears. “I wondered whether I would ever see you again,” she sobs whimsically. “Married to a Jewess, you are fair game for the Boches. Are you alone?”

Jean-Luc explains the situation to Marguerite.

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