The French for Always Read Online Free PDF

allies, their ancient stones reassuringly solid, and drawn strength from the sense of benevolent history they seemed to exude. But here was proof of a much darker side: what else did these walls conceal?
    During the course of the building work in the château, she’d come across piles of mildewed newspapers in the attic, dating from the 1920s; and more ancient history was written into the ancient beams, the rough stone walls, the time-smoothed grain of the polished wooden floors. But they’d found no other evidence of the war years, despite the fact that Château Bellevue had stood here through both World Wars, not to mention the struggles of earlier centuries. Sara knew that this particular area of France had seen as much of its share of the horrors as anywhere else in the country. She’d seen the discreet monuments, dotted here and there on the streets of Sainte Foy La Grande, marking the places where members of the Resistance had fallen. But people didn’t seem to want to talk much about those dark times, keeping the memories firmly locked away from the light of day and, on the rare occasions when she’d had the chance to ask, no one had been forthcoming about the part the château had played in it all.
    Looking more closely at the jacket lying on the floor in front of her, she realised it must have been the mouse’s nesting material of choice as it was completely eaten away in places. In spite of this, as well as the eagle-and-swastika badge, one lapel sported another emblem picked out in the same silver thread, a double lightning flash forming two angular letters: SS.
    Sara shivered, despite the warmth of the early evening air. Panic rose in her throat once again as the tangle of thoughts and images in her head threatened to overwhelm her. Get a grip , she warned herself. Losing it is not an option . Gathering her inner strength, she briskly picked up the jacket and shoved it into the bin bag along with the tattered blankets that she’d pulled out of the wall space. She swept up the last few fragments of plaster, gave the floor a final wipe with the mop and then, determined now, feeling surer of herself, she caught up the bag of rags and a box of matches and marched out into the walled garden. In one corner, the furthest from the old pear tree, she raked together a pile of dried weeds and sticks and then, as the setting sun cast the dark shadow of the walls across the ground towards her, she knelt and set a match to the tinder. A bright flame licked its way along a slender filament of grass, flickered doubtfully for a moment as it met a dry twig, and then caught, drawing in air, gathering strength. Sara felt her own strength growing with the flame, her recent anger, fear and revulsion feeding it, helping her shake off her former sense of suffocation.
    Perhaps Gavin’s departure was the best thing that had happened to her in a long while.
    She pulled the jacket from the bin bag and bundled it into a ball, setting it on top of the blazing sticks so that it would catch. The fire licked at the wingtips of the silver eagle, before starting to devour the swastika. She watched, making sure the emblem was completely consumed, before feeding the rest of the tattered blankets into the flames. And as the smoke rose into the night sky, she stretched her arms above her head, breathing deep, finding her voice had returned with Gavin’s departure. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ she said out loud, her words flying upwards with the sparks and disappearing into the darkness.
    She watched until the fire had died own completely and then poured a watering-can-full of water over the smouldering embers to make sure they were safely extinguished. Clapping the ashes from her hands, she closed the gate of the potager behind her and then stood for a moment, defiant in the darkness, surveying the cluster of buildings slumbering before her.
    She’d invested so much in this place... In terms of physical hard work, she’d grafted on the