"The bravest thing I did was continuing my life when all I wanted to do was die."
Lily Blondel's life is like a necklace which is suddenly cut by fate; one bead falls off causing destruction to her young heart. She endures the years of suffering, du...
"I survived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me." •●•●•●•●•
Time passed, and misery turned into memory; well, a painful one actually. Years after my mother's death, the situations in France didn't get any better. Bombs and explosions had been heard ever since the crack of dawn.
It was the beginning of World War II, and a rumor was set that the Nazi soldiers were searching Normandy, house by house, for an escaping French prisoner who was convicted of being a spy against them.
I sat under my window with the drawing of mom in my arms. It had been there ever since her death. Even though I was a grown up sixteen- year-old girl then, I still felt in need of her for I was an only child who lived alone with my dad in the direst situations. However, we were able to help each other in the hours of anguish, forlornness, and even joy. We cried together, we laughed together, and I felt that he was the only reason I lived for. I had friends too, but I lost them eventually after the war started. Most of them migrated, and left their poor country. I was left alone, and once I'd started recovering from the shock of my mother's death, war seeped into my life, only to render me a grief-stricken girl once again.
Many times had I tried to end my life -my suffering- and imagined just how safer it would've been if I were dead. I tried the cutting, the jumping, the risks, but none of them worked. I was only getting more depressed and stressful, until I finally agreed that suicide shouldn't be my escape. Besides, it wasn't a wise idea to leave my father suffering on his own.
With each passing day, dad grew more anxious about my safety. He made sure that I stayed home, away from the brutal situations, but unfortunately near my cruel self. During the time I'd spend with him, I'd tell him about the poor people of Normandy who were becoming homeless and abandoned by time. We never knew whose turn it was to leave or whose fate was somewhere in paradise and away from Normandy.
My father noticed my kindness and caring to the people of my country, which I definitely inherited from my mother. Besides, I felt he was content, for he encouraged me, day by day, until he let me communicate with those people from my window.
And to me, the best kind of communication with the outside world was through music. I finally succeeded to play my mother's clarinet, and found out that day after day, people were looking out from their windows and were obviously trying to steal some melody to satisfy their deafened ears. Though I played a sad tune, I knew it somehow helped others; at least it made them feel better.
I also enjoyed talking to anyone who passed by, and was always ready to offer my help when they needed it. I'd also tell them about my mother, and show them the drawing I had done as a child, until I assumed everyone in Normandy knew about it. However, it was always from my window where I'd communicate with people, and I'd never let anyone in no matter what.
With the usual tears in my eyes, I took a peek from behind my room's window to see that the streets were empty. Not even a soul crossed the unpaved lonely roads.
There, under the window, was my favorite place to sit and watch the lonely world before me. That day in specific was a little weird, and the French soldiers emphasized that people shouldn't leave their houses except if it was urgent. Therefore, no one passed by my window, and I felt lonely and alone.
Suddenly, I heard a trumpet call issuing from the German quarters announcing the commencements of war. The Nazi soldiers were domineering and dictatorial for they hardly gave a chance to listen to anyone.
As I looked across the streets, I noticed that our neighbor's house was being searched by a group of German soldiers clutching their swords and guns from their sides. I knew they were searching the whole country for the so-called "escaping French prisoner and spy".
It seemed to me that the husband refused to have his house searched, which made the soldiers go furious. After the man insisted on keeping the soldiers away, I watched as he dropped dead with one gun-shot and a loud cry of pain. I heard the wailing of grief- stricken women, and felt deep sympathy.
It was the first gun-shot of the day and a tear dropped down my warm cheek. Who knows? We might be next.
Then, in a twinkling of an eye, smoke arose from opposite sides of the village, followed by a hail of bullets. I shut my window hastily, lowered my head, hugged the drawing of mom and curled myself on the floor, placing my head on my knees and closing my tearful eyes.
How much could I endure?
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