The Dawn Over Seine

The winter of 1941 was particularly harsh in Paris. German boots echoed on cobbled streets, and fear hung heavier than fog over the Seine. Among those trying to survive was Marine, a young woman who once taught poetry at the Sorbonne. Her husband, Henri, had vanished into the resistance six months earlier, leaving her with whispers of hope and a child in her womb.

By day, she worked as a typist for a local bakery to mask her hunger and poverty. By night, she copied forbidden pages of banned French literature to be passed along to resistance fighters. She did it not with courage, but with trembling hands and a heart full of shadows.

Her son, Lucien, was born during an air raid. The doctor never arrived. It was the elderly midwife from next door who helped her deliver the boy by candlelight. "He came when the sirens screamed," Marine would say later, “but cried like the world still had music.”

Years passed. One morning, as the Nazi banners were being torn down and bells rang out from Notre-Dame, Marine stood on her balcony, Lucien clutched to her side. The city was still wounded, but light poured in through the smoke.

That evening, Henri returned — gaunt, bruised, but alive.

And as the family reunited by the riverbank, the old baker winked and said, “Told you, madame. Read what the wise once said...”

"Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise." - Victor Hugo