They Went on Together

By Robert Nathan

They Went On Together, first published in 1941, is a moving novel of a mother and her two young children, Paul and Marie Rose, ages 11 and 4, as they flee the advancing German army during the early days of World War II in France. The family meets and befriends a young girl, Sylvie, who has no family. During a bombing raid, Paul and Sylvie are separated from the family and struggle to survive on their own while Paul’s mother searches desperately for them. They Went On Together is a heart-warming story of family, courage, innocence, and friendship in the face of terrible odds. Robert Nathan (1894-1985) was the author of many books for adults and children, screenplays, and poetry.

“Robert Nathan has written his most realistic book, and struck chords of universal resonance with his most moving simplicity...It is touched with the idyllic beauty, lightened with the smiling normality, made challenging by the reflective thought which belong to all Robert Nathan’s best work; and its resonance is of innate human hope and the recognition of human brotherhood.”—Katherine Woods, New York Times

• Language: English
• Publisher: Burtyrki Books
• Release date: Feb 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781839742651

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© Burtyrki Books 2020, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THEY WENT ON TOGETHER

By

ROBERT NATHAN

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

CHAPTER 1 6

CHAPTER 2 10

CHAPTER 3 15

CHAPTER 4 20

CHAPTER 5 24

CHAPTER 6 28

CHAPTER 7 33

CHAPTER 8 38

CHAPTER 9 42

CHAPTER 10 46

CHAPTER 11 50

CHAPTER 12 54

CHAPTER 13 59

CHAPTER 14 63

CHAPTER 15 68

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 69

DEDICATION

* * *

The characters and situations in this work are wholly fictional and imaginary, and do not portray and are not intended to portray any actual persons or parties.

* * *

TO MY MOTHER

CHAPTER 1

The boy had gathered his treasures together. On one side he put what he meant to take with him; and on the other, the things he must leave behind. But it was hard to choose: there was so little room, and there were so many things he wanted to keep. His birds, for instance—the stuffed sparrow, the finch, the small owl with one wing, and the woodpecker, from which the sawdust was already escaping. And then there was his stamp album; he thought perhaps he’d carry that in his hands, along with the sweater and the extra socks his mother had told him to take.

He filled his pockets with what he could, his knife, his fishing line with its hook and sinker, the watch with the broken minute hand, an old medal which had belonged to his father. He had five or six keys he didn’t want to leave; there was nothing for them to fit into, but they might come in handy some day. Suppose he came to a house, and the door was locked? Probably one of them would open it.

At the same time he decided to put the stuffed finch in his pocket, along with a radio tube, and the box with the two cocoons in it. Then he was ready; but for a few minutes more he stood dreaming, being handy in his mind, taking care of things. He imagined saying to his mother, "I’ll attend to this, Mom.

It’s nothing at all.

Outside, on the street, people were pouring past; he could see them from his window. The road was full of trucks and wagons of every kind; and everyone was hurrying, very silent, not talking at all. He saw a pony go trotting by, hitched to a wicker pony cart; the cart was filled with bedding, as well as children. That would be from one of the big estates, over near the Park. A man came along, pushing a barrow with a mattress on it; and he saw the Delaplaine twins, from his class in school; they had their red express wagon piled full of kitchen things. He even saw two kids from the gang over at the other end of town. They looked scared. He didn’t see any policemen anywhere.

A military ambulance came down the street; and some men on motorcycles went by. He guessed they were soldiers, and he thought that perhaps they’d be dead soon. With a sudden feeling of grief, he hit the bed post a lick with his fist. Darned old fools, he said.

He didn’t know whom he meant, exactly. It seemed to him that everybody was to blame for what was happening—everybody, that is, but him. To be running away...he hated his own side, for losing. It was anger and sorrow, all mixed up;...a sort of shame.

His mother was packing too, in the room downstairs. She had a little pile of things in front of her; she kept adding to it, and then taking things away again. Every now and then she stood still, staring in front of her with a puzzled expression, as though she were listening to someone. Then she would shake her head, as though she were hearing something she couldn’t believe. And then she would try to hurry again.

It wasn’t like her to be so slow. Usually she knew just what she wanted. Now she seemed uncertain; she kept changing her mind. It made him feel worse than ever.

He stood in the doorway, his pants sagging, an uncertain scowl on his face. What can I do, Mom? he asked. I’m all packed.

She looked at him helplessly, as though she hardly saw him. Yes, she said; well...Where’s Marie Rose?

Marie Rose was his sister; she was only four. He had forgotten all about her. I don’t know, he said. I guess she’s in the yard.

Well, find her, Paul, said his mother. We haven’t got all day.

And as he still stood there, awkward and inert, she added,

Bring the baby carriage around to the front, so’s we can put these things in it.

He turned bleakly away. Was that what they were going to take along with them—a baby carriage? Do I have to? he asked.

Hurry, son, said his mother.

After he had brought the baby carriage around, he went to look for Marie Rose. The sky to the northeast was hazy with smoke, and he could hear a few dull thumps from far away. The sound had been going on a long while...with a sudden shock, he realized that he was listening to the guns. The sound was still far away, but it gave him a queer feeling. We got to get out of here, he said.

Marie Rose was in no hurry. She had her doll Louisa propped up beside the currant bush, and she was telling her a story about a mouse named George Victoria. She didn’t blame the mouse for anything; because his mother hadn’t told him. Just the same, he had done wrong. So you see, she said to Louisa. He was a bad mouse.

And he had whiskers, she added dreamily.

Paul took her by the arm, and pulled her to her feet. There she was, he thought, just sitting there, holding everybody back, getting them killed...

Come on, he said. Mom wants you.

She drew herself away from him. I can sit here if I want to, she declared.

He wanted to shake her, or to slap the smug little face she turned up to him. My goodness, he cried; you want to get us all killed?

She stared at him wide-eyed; her mouth turned down, and before he could stop her, she burst into a wail of terror. It frightened him more than the smoke, or the sound of guns in the air. He had to pick her up and carry her, still clutching Louisa, back to the house. He was out of breath when he got there. All right, Mom, he said; let’s go.

His mother was standing in the doorway with her arms full. Cousin Agnes just went by, she said. They’ve got a cart.

Of course, he thought. Everybody has things better than us.

I wisht we had a cart, he said.

And he gazed gloomily at the baby carriage, which was already half full of things.

Be glad it’s got wheels, said his mother. Here—hold the coffee pot while I put these blankets in.

She looked at him anxiously. You got everything? she asked. What’s that in your pocket?

That’s my dead bird, said Paul. I need that. It’s valuable.

Well, she said...

Can I bring my stamp album, Mom? he asked.

No, she said. No—for God’s sake...

It didn’t seem fair to have to leave his stamps behind, when they had to take Marie Rose and Louisa and heaven knew what all besides. He kicked moodily at the dirt. Aw, Molasses, he said.

The dull thumps from