During the Occupation the enemy had been clearly visible and, therefore, in our sights; during the Liberation shots were fired from all quarters − neither controlled nor controllable − and chaos reigned. Having brought the children back home to the Villa Jaune, Father Pons barred us from leaving the grounds. But Rudy and I couldn’t resist hauling ourselves up into our oak tree whose branches reached over the wall. Gaps in the foliage gave us a view over the plain, a bare expanse stretching to farms in the distance. From there, although we couldn’t watch actual fighting, we could see its effects. That was how I came to see the German officer who had chosen not to denounce us in the showers; he was taken past in an open-topped car, in his shirt-sleeves, splattered with blood, his face bruised and head shaved, held by armed liberators taking him to face some retribution I couldn’t bear to imagine. Provisions were still a constant problem. To quell our hunger, Rudy and I took to looking through the lawn for a dark green grass with thicker leaves than the rest; we would pick a handful before popping the whole bunch into our mouths.
