Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/268

warm full lips which had kissed her so often were now writhing in the throes of death.

Or perhaps he lay forgotten in some No-Man's land, his mouth yearning for a sip of water, his body trembling with cold. And here she was, lying in a warm bed, gazing at the spectrally waving black-out sheet that covered the window. What the hell do I need it for? Gertrude jumped out of bed and tore it off.

When the sounds of bombardment died down, her own spirits became calmer too. With strengthened faith she felt that surely he was alive and would come back to her safe and sound. She could see his strong body, his piercing eyes.

But as soon as the sounds of shooting began again, the nightmares would return. Maybe something had happened to the children. Flying fragments of shrapnel, or a mine, or a bomb... Her thoughts flew about like a flock of frightened birds seeing nothing beneath them but a bottomless abyss.

She had no fear for her safety; she would not even bother to get out of bed and take refuge in some safe shelter. If the sirens wail and bombs explode-she would still follow the on which her loved ones might be at the very moment.

The bed had grown enormous, the apartment vast and empty. The sound of the tea-kettle frightened her; the harsh glow of the polished linoleum irritated her. She lost her desire for food, for all the comforts of life. But she decided to remain-for the sake of her family. She was Life itself refusing to retreat before the onrush of Death, holding her ground, come what may.

Perhaps she ought to find a refugee family and bring them in to share her roof? There were hundreds of people from the northern provinces, bombed out of their homes, wandering about the Paris streets.

One day on the Boulevard she eyed a little girl weeping