Bitter Herbs [antikvár]

One Day It began one day when my father said: 'We'll just go and see whether everyone's back/ We had been away for a few days. The whole of Breda had been evacuated. In great haste we had packed a suitcase and taken our place in the endless lines of people leaving the town in the direction of the Belgian frontier. Betty and Dave, my brother and sister, were in Amsterdam at the time. 'They won't know a thing about it,' my mother said. It was a long, hazardous journey. We carried the case on a bicycle. Bulging bags hung from the handlebars. Bomb splinters and machine-gun bullets flew over our heads. Sometimes somebody got hit; when that happened a little group remained behind. Close to the frontier we found accommodation with farm people. Only a couple of days later we saw the German occupation troops driving along the country road, and a few hours afterwards the evacuees started to return to the town. 'The danger's past,' a fellow-townsman came to tell us; and we went back with the rest. At home, everything was just as we had left it. The table was still laid. Only the clock had stopped. My mother immediately threw open all the windows. On the