The Last Day

Among the crumpled remains of the almost-deserted village, they held each other close. Through the bomb-damaged roof, they could see the clear French sky, occasionally blighted by the sight of an enemy plane.

They’d woken up to another cool autumn morning. The village about them had not been bombed for several weeks, but they feared the return of the German army at any moment. Their once beautiful home was now little more than rubble held up by God’s will and their failing optimism.

He asked her, “How are you feeling?”

Her eyes were closed. Her face was smudged with dirt and lined from the hardships of war. He thought about how things used to be, before this all started. They would dance at the local café with gaiety and the joy of being alive. She liked the flamenco and had a bright red dress for dancing. He would drink beer with his friends late into the night, rounding off the evening with an emphatic rendition of La Marseillaise. That dress was now long gone, along with his friends and most of what they had ever possessed. All they had left was each other.

“I’m tired,” she replied. “I’m tired of everything. Tired of this. Tired of everything.” Her voice resonated with unhidden frustration.

“Tired of me?” he joked.

“No, my love. I will never tire of you.”

He smiled. But the smile was fleeting. A distant but unmistakable sound assaulted his ears.

She heard it too. She sighed. “Not again. Will they never stop?”

He wished he did, but he didn’t have a response to her question.

They were now too tired, too hungry, too deflated to fight or even run and hide.

She turned to him. “My love. Tell me you’ll be with me forever.”

“I’ll be with you forever.”

The sound had grown louder. They were very close now. The ground began to rumble. Flakes of plaster and brick tumbled down from the walls of the building as it shook about them.

Hand-in-hand, they walked out into the street. The sky had darkened. A light rain filled the air.

They stood there, in their dirty, worn clothes… waiting.

The tanks came into view on the horizon, heading straight down the road they stood on. He counted: there were three, four, now five. At least this will end this wretchedness, he thought. He felt her hand squeeze his tighter as the tanks crawled closer and closer.

Twenty meters away, the lead tank stopped. These two puny, scruffy people blocked its way.

We could have been so beautiful, she thought. She held back a tear. Her nails pressed harder into the flesh of his hand, but he did not complain. He straightened his back, head held high; he would not fear death.

The hatch of the tank was flung open and a soldier appeared.

“Do you speak English?” he shouted. His voice was not German but American, as was he.