“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.
I wish my voice wouldn’t tremble so. It sounds cowardly.
He turns away and calls to the inhabitants of the little cottage before which he stands to come out. The old lady is alone there and I would bet my life she is hiding under the bed at this moment. So I run into the street and the sunshine and, quite beside myself, almost implore the officer not to do this thing.
Disregarding my entreaties he stands with uplifted revolver before the cottage door.
“Come out,” he says again.
No answer.