“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: