The Colour of War

Chapter 7

A shriek pierced the air, and Mr Baptiste dropped his pen with a start. He rushed towards the garden. There, beneath the barren blossom tree, stood his wife, Gesela, sunlight dancing in her auburn curls.

"Missed me?" She said playfully.

"Every second," he breathed, as she leapt into his embrace.

Laughter erupted from the children, who descended like a flock of starlings, wrapping their mother in eager arms. Gesela's parents, dignified and smiling, joined the reunion. Together, they moved inside, a procession of happiness and relief.

"Raymond." She hugged him. "Constance." A tighter squeeze.

Then her eyes landed on Evelyn. "My goodness, how you've grown into a beautiful young woman."

Evelyn blushed, caught under her scrutiny.

"Twenty already. I'm sure the suitors are lining up," Gesela teased, but her words hung awkwardly, touching an unspoken truth.

Raymond shifted, discomfort clouding his face. He cleared his throat, eyes meeting Constance's. "Let's talk about dinner," he interjected hastily.

Inside, the house hummed with new life. Constance approached Gesela, Ersatz Kaffee in hand.

"Thank you, but no." Gesela's voice held firm resolve. "I'll see to everyone."

With a nod, Constance set the cup aside, and Gesela began to cook dinner. Raymond and she retreated downstairs, leaving their room to Gesela's elderly parents. In the quiet of the parlour, Raymond exhaled deeply, his worries momentarily eased by the familiar walls.

Upstairs, Evelyn found solace in conversation with Gesela's mother, the matriarch's theatrical stories wrapped in wisdom and comfort. Yet Evelyn's mind wandered to her own grandmother, oceans away in the Caribbean—a faceless source of wonder and longing.

"Perhaps one day," she murmured, more to herself than to her surrogate grandmother.

"Life is uncertain, especially now," the older woman replied, her eyes held the same hope and doubt that filled Evelyn's heart.

As dusk painted the sky, the household settled into a fragile semblance of peace.

∗ ∗ ∗

The garden covered in frost, and the scent of pine needles teased the air. Inside, Evelyn wrapped a simple board game with scavenged paper, her fingers nimble despite the cold that crept through the walls. Beside her, Raymond turned the figurines over in his hands, his face pinched with disapproval.

"SA brown shirts," he mumbled, a sour note in his voice. "It's all I could find."

Constance leaned in, her eyes soft. "The children will see soldiers, nothing more."

He shook his head, the lines in his brow deepening. "They're not just toys, Connie. Not anymore."

Their voices were hushed. They knew the Nazis outside were shaping their children, moulding them with invisible hands.

* * *

In the shop, the chill bit deeper as people jostled for their share of rations. Tension simmered like a thin broth, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. And it did.

"Greedy sow!" The accusation sliced through the crowded aisles, turning heads.

"There's enough for everyone," Gesela tried, stepping between two women locked in a struggle over meat—a precious commodity grown rarer each day.

"Let go!" The accuser, red-faced, clawed at the other woman's coat.

"Please, calm down," Gesela urged, but her words fell on deaf ears.