Read Julius for Free Online Page B

another shot, and the blood ran all over his face splashing down on to his blouse. It was not Grandpère any more, it was a strange inhuman thing of torn flesh and streaming blood, it was someone who rose high in the cart and shook his fist in the air, who raised his old gun and fired again, who threw back his head and called in a voice of thunder: ‘Go on - go on - try and split my guts, you louse-ridden Prussian bastards’ - it was someone who flung his gun away, who fell upon his face into a ditch and died. And a little Jew boy white with horror clung to the reins of the maddened horse, thrown from side to side in the tottering, jolting cart, seeing nothing but the dust of the high road, the stones flying, the sudden rain falling from the sky and beating his eyes, washing the blood on his sleeve, hearing nothing but his own child’s voice crying in the cold air: ‘The Prussians are coming . . . the Prussians . . . the Prussians.’
    Now Père was looking into his eyes, was whispering softly, and Mère was shaking his shoulder, her hair falling over her face, and she was calling to him: ‘But where is Grandpère, tell us, where is Grandpère?’ And he pushed them away from him, bewildered and frightened, pointing towards the high road but murmuring nonsense, inarticulate, running to a corner and snatching his little cat in his arms, stroking her, burying his face in the fur.
    Why must they ask him questions? why could not they leave him alone? He was tired, tired . . . Mère gave him a crust of bread and he chewed it hungrily, crying softly to himself. Did not they understand that Grandpère was dead and the Prussians were coming? He could not tell them any more than this.
    Mère was rolling a heap of things into a blanket, she gazed about her wildly, a strange, distracted figure, grasping at odds and ends of no value or use, a pair of slippers belonging to Grandpère, a frying pan, a mat from the floor, the pillow from the bed.
    ‘The Prussians are coming - the Prussians are coming—’
    Père made a bundle of clothes, he found sticks too for firewood, and a small sack of potatoes. He piled all these things on top of one another, the cart was bulging, there would only be room now for themselves. Julius watched them from his corner, he knew now that they were going away from Puteaux because of the Prussians, that if they had gone before Grandpère would not be dead.
    ‘Where are we going, Père?’
    ‘We’re crossing over the bridge to Paris.’
    ‘But the gates are all shut.’
    ‘They will let us in.’
    ‘Where shall we live?’
    ‘We will find somewhere.’
    And Julius looked around the room he would not see again, the dirty, untidy floor, the table stained with wine, spilt long ago by Grandpère, an old pair of clogs on the hearth, the dull smouldering fire.
    ‘When shall we come back?’
    Nobody answered him, they were out in the street now surrounded by a little cluster of people, who also carried bundles, who also loaded their carts.
    ‘The Prussians are coming - the Prussians are coming ...’
    The bedroom was not swept, the mattress lay turned on its side. Père came in and carried it away, lifting it into the cart. There was some dirty water in the basin. Would it never be emptied away? Would it stay there until the war was over? And the grey ashes in the grate, and the bowl of thin soup - cold and congealed - on the table?
    ‘Why are you looking back, Julius? What do you see? There is no time ...’
    He didn’t want to leave the house, he did not want to leave Puteaux. It was his home and his room, those dingy walls, that dirty floor, the creaking tumbled bed, the ticking clock, the queer familiar stuffy soup smell. He did not know anywhere else but this.
    ‘But you cannot take the cat with you, you must leave her behind, she will find food,’ said Mère, plucking at his arm, her large, frightened face close to his.
    ‘No - no, my little Mimitte, my sweet. I will not leave her to the