Pierrot, Dog of Belgium

by Walter A. Dyer

As the flames started up, brisk and crackling, the soldiers seemed to become suddenly sobered and alarmed. Perhaps they were not allowed to do such things. At any rate, they set off up the road, leaving the little homestead blazing behind them.

Mère Marie and Gran’père saved what they could of their humble belongings, the former working in a frenzy of grief, with the tears rolling down her cheeks, while Gran’père’s mild features were distorted by a look of defiant hatred. Out in the garden Henri and Lisa stood hand in hand, gazing in silent awe upon the terrible spectacle.

That night they slept under Madame Verbeeck’s roof, but she could not keep them; she was afraid to. So the next morning they started back, sad and despairing, to the smoking ruins of their home.

Out of such boards and tiles as he could find, Gran’père, with Henri’s help, built a little one-room shack near where the barn had been, while Mère Marie sought among the ruins for whatever of value might have been spared. Some bedding they had rescued, and Mère Marie found some pots and pans and a few other things that could be used. Her iron cook stove, too, though cracked, still hung together. But the hoarded grain and vegetables, alas! were burned and ruined; there was scarcely a bushel left that was fit for food.

Gran’père set up the stove in the shack and built a rude table and benches and bunks. He had a stout heart in his old breast, Gran’père had, and though he didn’t talk much he kept Mère Marie from breaking down. Then they all set to work gathering dried grass and weeds for their beds, and by nightfall their poor little home was furnished.

A few days later they heard again the tramp of marching feet on the road, and from their doorway watched a company of German soldiers file past. Mère Marie was not afraid of them now; it seemed to her that they had done their worst. Gran’père stood very erect and grim and silent, but wee Lisa suddenly ran out with a glad little cry, waving her arms. In the company she had recognized her Bavarian friend. He turned his head for a moment, but his face was expressionless, and he did not leave the ranks. So Lisa wept with disappointment.

But next day he came, quietly, after sundown. He was alone and he knocked softly before entering the shack. Without speaking he laid a half loaf of rye bread on the table and a small piece of bacon. Gran’père looked very proud and angry and was all for throwing them in his face, but Lisa ran up to him joyfully, and he smiled a little as he patted her head, so Gran’père allowed the food to remain. Then the soldier looked at Mère Marie with a very sad and tender expression in his eyes and strode away in the darkness.

“He has little ones of his own,” said Mère Marie.

Before long the weather grew very cold. Gran’père mended a spade and banked up the shack on all sides and put sods on the roof. There was plenty of fuel among the charred ruins of the house and outbuildings, so that they were able to keep fairly comfortable inside the shack, but all their warm winter clothing had been burned and they suffered from cold whenever they went out. Their shoes, too, were getting thin and worn, and all but one pair of Gran’père’s sabots had been burned.

Worst of all, there was little or nothing to do, and they had all been so industrious. This was bad for Mère Marie especially, and she took to brooding beside the stove and thinking of Père Jean and all the happy days gone by.