"
One day in early June I was driving through Brittany along the coast of
the Atlantic. On the road we passed many old-fashioned men, and women
in their little white bonnets and their black dresses.
We stopped at a beautiful little farmhouse for lunch. It attracted us
because of its serene appearance and its cleanliness. A gray-haired
little old woman was in the yard when we stopped our machine.
The yard was literally sprinkled with blood-red poppies. As we walked
in and were making known our desire for lunch a beautiful girl of about
twenty-five, dressed in mourning, stepped to the doorway, her black
eyes flashing a welcome, and cried out: "Welcome, comrade Americaine."
Behind her was a little girl, her very image.
I guessed at once that in this quiet Brittany home the war had reached
out its devastating hand. I had remarked earlier in the day as we
drove along: "It is all so quiet and beautiful here, with the old-gold
broom flowering everywhere on hedge and hill, and with the crimson
poppies blowing in the wind, that it doesn't seem as if war had touched
Brittany."
A friend who knew better said: "But have you not noticed that women are
pulling the carts, women are tilling the fields? Look at that woman
over there pulling a plough. Have you not noticed that there are no
men but old men everywhere?"
He was right.
Pages:
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88