Rarely do we, as individuals, prepare for war; and rarely do we prepare for war on our own doorstep.  The following is an excerpt from the upcoming novel, A Cup of Redemption.   Our heroine, Marcelle, is a young lady of twenty-one, unmarried mother of one and working the only job available to her in Paris: the Citroen factory.  Aware that the manufacture of cars has halted and weapons are being made, she still can’t fathom how the world will quickly change around her.  How can it be?  They live in beautiful Paris!

May, 1940 – Paris, France

Marcelle had read about the bombings in Dunkirk and as she and her roommate, Geneviève, dressed that morning for work at Citroen, they listened to a French-language correspondent on a German radio station, ‘Parisians, you were right to take advantage of your last peaceful Sunday.’  They looked at each other and laughed. “Propaganda,” tossed Marcelle. “That’s all this is.  More propaganda.”

But, just as they turned onto St. Germaine Boulevard, a cacophony of sound erupted; they were jolted by the sights and sounds. It was as if a moving farmyard was sweeping past them.  The refugees of human flotsam and jetsam of dazed and disheveled peasants passed them by.  Seeming not to see anything before them, people moved along not knowing where they were heading, just walking, walking.  Beaten-down women with exhaustion etched into their eyes carried infants swaddled in mud and blood-spattered blankets.  Terrified-looking children with tear-streaked faces held hands or led puppies on a string.  Older children pushed baby carriages loaded down with bedding, pots and pans.  Teens pulled small wagons with wailing toddlers clamoring to get out or get in.  Horses, oxen, and cattle were harnessed to farm wagons, carriages, cars and drays.  The elderly, with eyes glazed and faces hardened, perched on top of these conveyances clutching babies, valises, chickens in a parrot cage, or each other.

Horses whinnied, children cried, horns honked, dogs barked, but the ever-grinding wheels of this odd parade creaked by.

“Where are the men?” Marcelle asked an old woman who appeared to be observing the parade.

“You don’t know?”  Her voice cracked with emotion as tears flowed down her wizened cheeks.  “There are no men.  There are no soldiers.  They were either captured or killed.  And the Maginot, that mighty line of defense for France?”

“The Maginot Line?” asked Marcelle.

“It didn’t hold!”

“What do you mean it didn’t hold?” Gené gasped.

“The enemy came by plane.  Mademoiselles, the only French soldiers you are apt to see are running ahead of the Germans because the Germans are at our back door,” she spit out.  Marcelle gaped at the woman.

“Were you there?  Is that what you’ve seen?  The Germans are entering France?”

The old woman nodded sadly, and said, “What we’ve seen will haunt us for a lifetime, Mademoiselles.  Our homes were destroyed; our husbands and sons killed.  We’ve stepped past the dead bodies of innocent children strafed by German airplanes . . .  Oh, I’ve lived too long.  Too long.  I can’t go on.”  She slumped down on the sidewalk and began to cry piteously.