“Sauvez-vous, sauvez-vous!” This warning yelled in strident, horrified
tones is not the most cheerful awakener on a hot summer’s morning.
I hastily throw on some clothes. With my hair scruntled up in a little
bun I rush to the window.
A German officer is standing before the house opposite, pointing a
revolver at M. Job’s head. He issues orders in a harsh voice.
As he turns away to address his men, M. Job leaps across the road like
a hare, his little sun-dried face pale as death.
“Save yourselves, my children. They are going to shoot us all down and
set fire to the village. We have only a moment to escape. Sauvez-vous,
sauvez-vous.”
He dashes headlong into the house. A second later the entire Job
family are scuttling in and out of the inn back door, in a concerted
arrangement to convey some of their things to a safe hiding-place in
the fields before it is too late.
I rush back to my room, secrete my jewellery and a treasured letter or
two under my dress, make a small packet of soap, toothbrush and other
necessaries. Then I go to the front window and peer through.
The officer is still in the same position, revolver in hand, addressing
his men in rather angry tones. He has begun no violence as yet.
They are outside the door of a poor old woman who is quite alone. She
understands no German and must be dying of fear.
I lean from the dining-room window and say with what firmness I can
muster:
“What are you doing?”
“Go indoors,” says a soldier, motioning me imperiously back.
“The peasants have fired on us, so we shall shoot most of you and burn
the village,” says the officer, covering me with his revolver.
“Our orders,” adds a soldier nonchalantly.
“But we have no——” (I cannot for the life of me remember “weapon”
in German, so I act the word in dumb show, one clenched hand to my
shoulder, the other in a straight line but further away. I shut one eye
and look along my fists to be more convincing.) “There is not one in
the village,” I assure him.