Her mother’s memory was waning. At 92 it was not a surprise
Her beautiful strong
elegant mother. The one who had protected her, watched after her. Survived the
war with her.
The stories and her
own memory were vague. She was only 4-5 years old at the time.
She knew some facts.
That her mother worked for the French resistance. That she looked North African-
Algerian and so would not arouse suspicion, particularly with a little 4-year
girl in tow.
Her mother spoke
French and German but only German when out and about, couriering guns from partisan
groups to assassins and fighters. She
would listen in to the conversations in German between soldiers without rousing
suspicion.
That little girl, now
a grey-haired grandmother, looked lovingly at her fading mother. A part of her
was going to fade away completely very soon. No food. No drink. And becoming
skeletal. It was the way her father passed as well.
Hand in hand she
stared out into the night. Thinking of fragments of childhood memories.
A soldier uniform
A doll
Never look at the
black bag
Always smile shyly
The rattled breathing
began
A weak cough
Her mothers’ eyes open
for a moment and the familiar pressure on her hand. The same smile as 71 years
ago
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