Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/261

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he was quite close, Anna recognized Pierre. Pierre, the nailer, in his trim uniform.

"Pierre! Oh, Pierre!" she exclaimed.

"Anna! Anna, the same dear old Anna!"

They fell into each other's arms.

"Hey, you!" The soldiers in the trucks started to jibe a them. "Take it easy! Leave a little for me!"

"The devil with all of you," Pierre called back. "If a miracle like this can happen, then Hitler can swallow Mussolini and choke on him!"

Pierre looked curiously at the children. "So you've really accomplished something," he said. "Fine lads," he added. "And your spitting image!"

"Why, you're crazy," Anna laughed. "How can they be mine? The older one is eleven."

"You know me, Anna. No brains at all." Pierre chuckled, and hugged her again. "God, what a miracle to meet you here! What a miracle!"

They were standing in the shallow trench that edged the road. Around them lay scattered groups of sick and wounded who had been forced to drop out of the endless march. Some were taking a little food. Some groaned in pain. And all were waiting for what was almost too much to expect-that some of the soldiers might lift them up to their wagons and carry them on-on, no matter where. Some were praying with hopeless desperation for God seemed to be dead. The refugees kept rushing on seeking to reach some distant acre that had not been claimed by the Devil of War.

Pierre fidgeted with his hat, perspiration dripping over his forehead. "If you'll take my advice," he said after a while. "You'll stay right where you are. Don't move another step, if you want to escape with your bones whole."

"Are things really as bad as that?" Anna asked.