Before Our Dawn| ongoing

fifty-eight

Chapitre cinquante-huit
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It was a resplendent summer day, the kind that seemed to have been painted by the hand of a benevolent artist. The sky above Nice was an endless expanse of azure, so clear and bright that it felt like a dream. The sun, a golden orb, showered the world with its warm, radiant embrace, casting a shimmering glow over everything it touched.

The family had chosen a picturesque spot on the beach, where the sand was as fine and white as powdered sugar, soft beneath their feet. The Mediterranean Sea stretched out before them, a mesmerizing tapestry of turquoise and sapphire, its gentle waves whispering sweet secrets as they kissed the shore.

Klaus and Heidi, their faces alight with joy, were engrossed in the creation of an elaborate sandcastle. Their laughter, pure and unrestrained, mingled with the melodic calls of seagulls soaring overhead. Isra, her loose curly black hair catching the sunlight and glistening like strands of midnight silk, watched over them with a serene smile. Her light brown skin glowed with the sun's tender caress, and her brown eyes sparkled with a mixture of contentment and love. It had been years since she had visited the beach, and for a sliver of time, she was transported back to her childhood in Algeria, visiting the beach with Haadi.

Marcel was busy arranging a picnic, his eyes frequently drifting to his family with a look of profound happiness. A gentle breeze danced through the air, rustling the leaves of the trees that lined the promenade, swaying gracefully.

Annette, though frail, had joined them, her spirit buoyed by the vibrant energy of the beach. She sat under a large, colourful umbrella, a book resting in her lap, her eyes often lifting to watch Klaus and Heidi. 

As the sun climbed higher, Marcel called everyone over to the picnic blanket. Klaus and Heidi rushed over, their hands coated with sand, eager to share their sandy masterpiece with Marcel. Isra followed, her smile unwavering, as she placed a hand on Annette's arm, helping her to her feet.

"Look, Annette," Isra said warmly, "they've made a wonderful sandcastle. It reminds me of the ones I used to make as a child."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her smile fading. She glanced at the children, then back at Isra, her expression hardening. "A fine thing, indeed," she said curtly. "Though I'm sure the castles you built back in Algeria were quite different."

Isra's smile faltered. "Not so different, really. Sand and sea are universal."

Annette's lips curled into a thin, disdainful smile. "Universal? Maybe. But not everything is as simple as sand and sea, is it?"

Isra met her gaze, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she said, her voice growing cold, "that some things, some people, don't belong together. Like oil and water."

Marcel, sensing the tension, looked up from the picnic preparations. "Annette, let's not spoil this beautiful day."

But Annette was undeterred. "Oh, I'm not spoiling anything, Marcel. I'm just speaking the truth. It's a shame, really, seeing you with those German children, Isra. After all they've done to us, to our people."

Isra's eyes widened, shock giving way to a deep sadness. "Annette, they're just children. They had no part in any of that."

Annette scoffed. "Children or not, they carry the blood of our enemies. And you, Isra, you brought them into our home, betrayed your own husband by taking in the offspring of a German. What does that make you?"

The words hung in the air like a bitter poison. Isra felt her heart pound in her chest, the sting of Annette's accusations cutting deep. "They're my children..."