Before Our Dawn| ongoing

fifty-four

Chapitre cinquante-quatre
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Paris, June 1947. The sun had barely risen above the rooftops of Paris, casting a warm glow on the limestone walls of the city. In an apartment nestled in the heart of Paris, Isra was already bustling about, her movements as fluid as the melodies that once filled the cafes around her.

Klaus, ever the early riser, sat at the wooden kitchen table, his legs swinging back and forth as he awaited the day's adventures. "Mama, when can we go to the park?" he asked, his voice brimming with the boundless energy of youth.

"Soon, my darling," Isra replied, her hands deftly spreading fig jam on a slice of baguette. "But first, we have a letter to send, remember?"

Heidi, clutching her favourite rag doll, nodded solemnly. "To Grand-mère in Algeria," she said, her French tinged with the soft lilt of her mother's native tongue.

"That's right," Isra said, a smile touching her lips as she thought of her mother, the woman who had taught her the strength of love and the resilience of hope. Months prior, she was overjoyed to discover that she was alive and well and had remained untouched by the war in Europe. "And today, we will write back to her."

Breakfast was a quiet affair, the only sounds were the clinking of spoons against bowls and the distant hum of the city awakening. Once they were finished, Isra gathered the children, bathed and dressed them, and together they made their way down the winding streets to the post office.

The air was fresh, filled with the scents of blooming flowers and freshly baked bread from the bakeries they passed. People greeted them as they walked, the community knit tightly together by the threads of post-war recovery.

At the post office, Isra carefully penned her response to her mother, her handwriting a flowing script. We are well, Mama, she wrote. The children grow more each day, and Paris blooms anew. We will come to see you, as soon as the sea allows.

Klaus watched his mother seal the envelope and hand it to the postmaster. "Will Grand-mère write back soon?" he asked, his hazel eyes wide with curiosity.

Isra ruffled his hair affectionately. "Yes, she will. And one day, we will cross the sea to see her."

With their task complete, they headed to the park.

The park was a canvas of green, dotted with the vibrant colours of children's clothing as they darted about, their laughter a melody that danced on the breeze. Isra sat on a bench, her eyes following Klaus and Heidi as they played. Klaus chased after a ball, his movements a mirror image of his late father's athletic grace. His hazel eyes sparkled with delight under the Parisian sun, his fair skin and brown hair making him stand out among his peers.

Heidi, less competitive but equally spirited, found delight in simpler pleasures. She chased butterflies and marvelled at the ants marching in line. Her blue eyes, so like her father's, sparkled with wonder at every new discovery. She picked flowers carefully, her small hands treating each petal with the tenderness she had unknowingly inherited.

Isra's heart swelled with a mixture of pride and nostalgia as she watched them. "They have his spirit," she whispered to herself, a smile touching her lips.

"Look, Maman!" Klaus called out, kicking the ball across the grass. "Look how far I kicked it!"

"My flowers," Heidi added, running over to present her bouquet to Isra.

The afternoon unfurled wonderfully. Klaus and Heidi, energized by the freedom of the open space, engaged in a game of tag with other children.

Isra occasionally called out gentle reminders. "Be careful by the pond!" and "Don't stray too far!" Her words were met with obedient nods, the children always mindful of their mother's watchful presence.