Selected Detective
HANNAH AND ISAAC

Layla stopped her rental car, a bruised Renault Clio, onto the sidewalk and left the engine on, pushing her body forward. through the windshield of the car he looked up at the castle of Montsegur high there. It remained that way for a while, observing the empty gray walls, the back, the stone dome shaped like a head so as to make the castle look like a ship riding the logo in the tidal wave; then, sit back and cast a glance at the map he placed in the passenger seat next to him, then continue on his way.

After twenty minutes, he arrived at Castelombres. He has bought several manuals in Toulouse, Toulouse, which is very helpful because without the books he would have trouble finding the village of Castelombres which is nothing more than scattered housing and agricultural buildings which are not even visible on the map and there would be no hope to find the location of the ruins, which are three kilometers outside small hamlets and wells. Even with the book the ruins are still not easy to find, involving a turbulent journey along the path that pinches its way to the hill, and then a walk across two muddy fields and up through a cluster of bushy little plants and giant plants, the, following a sharp uphill path that must have been well preserved but now overgrown with wild plants that make it almost no different from the surrounding plants. So far away was the location of the castle, completely hidden, that Layla was actually already at the point of stepping back, thinking that she must have made a wrong turn somewhere, and then she had to go, when the bush opened on both sides and he was already standing on a vast grassy terrace, deep within the hillside with spectacular views of the surrounding hills and down into the river valley below. The broken wooden sign on his left side announces ATEAU DE CASTELOMBRES.

Whoever had brought down this castle, he had done the whole job, for almost nothing else was left behind, just a few scattered blocks of stone, he said, some of the highest collapsed walls were no more than knee-length and a single pillar and stern lay on its sides in rotten wood-like grass. there was only one thing that was a sign that this had been a magnificent building, and it was a large arch at the end of the terrace, very tall, very narrow, carved stones plastered with black vines, black vines, its peak loomed until a sharp point that seemed to be clawing at the sky, like the writing of a chicken claw from the tip of a pen on a piece of gray paper.

Layla walked up to him, guessing that it must be some kind of gate or gate, and only realized as she got closer that it was the remains of a beautifully constructed window, with beautiful circles and spirals into her face and here and there, visible under the vines, small flowers were carved on the rock. There was something very melancholy about it, being there alone, eyes staring deep into the hill, and after that it passed, he said, put on his jacket to cope with the cold wind that suddenly just blew from the south, and take another glimpse at the remains of the ruins.

Whatever the Germans have done here, they don't seem to leave a trace. After twenty minutes he began to get bored of the place and went home through the tree path that he passed earlier. As he was walking there was the sound of hissing and rustling of tree branches from the bottom, along with slow footsteps, and the voice grew bigger until finally a red-faced old woman appeared from behind the leaves to the terrace. He wore a Wellington boot and a brown coat, and he toasted a large basket that was three-quarters filled with mushrooms.

“Bonjour,” said as soon as he saw Layla, her thick Languedoc accent lengthened and warped the word so that it sounded like “bangjooor”. Layla returned her greetings while adding, for the sake of manners, some compliments about the size of her harvest mushrooms.

“Oh, not a bad result,” he said with a smile.

“Not yet in season, but you can definitely find it if you know where to look. You from Spain?”

“Palestine.” The woman raised her eyebrows, somewhat surprised.

“You're on vacation?”

“I'm a journalist.”

“Ah.” He walked to the nearest stone block, put his basket on the rock and started working, sorting and examining the mushrooms.

“I suspect you are here to write an article about Germans,” he said after being silent for a while.

Layla shrugged, putting her hand in her jacket pocket.

“You remember them?” tanyakanya.

The woman shook her head. Not so remember. “I was only five years old at the time. I remember they were all staying at a house at the end of the village, and my father asked us not to talk to them, not to approach the castle, but other than that.“ He shrugged, lifting a large mushroom and sniffing its wrinkled lid, giving a nod of satisfaction and shoving it at Layla.

“Girolle,” details.

Layla pushed her body forward to smell the mushroom, and her nostrils were filled with a rich, earth-like smell.

The woman snorted, dropping the mushroom back into the basket.

“I think they're not getting anything here. This is indeed a good story, but the truth is that people have dug many holes here over the centuries looking for buried treasures. If there is something, it must have been found long before the Germans came. Or at least, that's what I think. There must be others who disagree.”

From a distance came the roar of thunder so far away.

“You did not hear about the wooden crates they brought?” ask Layla.

The woman shook her hand, not caring. “Oh, I heard about that. But I never saw him. And even if they did bring the wooden crate, that doesn't mean there's anything in it. As we know, the box is full of stones. Or empty. No, I guess everything is a mere housewife fairy tale.it's all nonsense.” He held another mushroom, examined it. Then, with a tut sound, toss it aside to the plant below.

“If you want to make a story about Castelombres, you have to write about children.”

Layla. “Kids?”

“Jewish Children. The Twins. Sometimes I think this is the reason everyone in this village spends a lot of time taking care of treasures and wooden crates or whatever. To try to forget what ever happened to them. distract.” Layla was getting more and more stunned, not understanding. “What sheet?”

The woman was silent for a moment, then sat down next to her basket. There was another roar of thunder in the distance, the trees whispering and hissing as the branches rubbed against the wind.

“Their parents sent them here from Paris,”

he said, looking away at the forested hill. “After the German attack.pay local farmers to bring both. Thinking that they would be safer here, in the south, outside the occupied territories, Jewish descendants as well, and others. Like I said, I was only five at the time, but I remember them once, especially the girls.

We played together, even though he was older. Ten or eleven years. Hannah, that's her name. And his brother, Isaac.” He nodded and shook his head. “Something terrible happened.great.” He looked at Layla.

“The Germans found them. Here in this castle.they are playing.they are not doing anything dangerous, they are just children. But it makes no difference. No one came close to the ruins. The man in charge of the fearsome, immoral man he took the two down to the village and left them on the road: I will never forget it, all my life, the two standing there side by side, he said, frightened, still a child, and the man shouted that if anyone disobeyed his orders again he would do to them what he would do to these despicable Jews. That is their calling to the Jews. And then he hit them in front of us, with his own hands. The kids beat him unconscious.

And not a single villager dared to do anything to help them. Not a single sound was heard, even as they threw the two children into the truck and carried him.” He shook his head sadly.

“Isaac and Hannah, that's how they were called. Sometimes I wonder what happened to them. dying in the gas chamber. I'm kira. It is about them that you should write, the real secret of Castelombres, not the nonsense of the treasures buried there. But then, since you are Palestinian, maybe this model story does not interest you.” He threw his gaze up the hill again, then, with a small*****, he stood up, lifted his basket and, with a glance at the dimming sky, said that he should hurry immediately.

“Nice to meet you,” said. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your days here.” He smiled, waved his farewell sign and turned around, tracing the path, disappearing within the grove of fir trees on the upper plains. His mushroom basket swung in his hand. There was a thunderbolt, closer this time, and the rain began to fall. The rain fell as if the sky was crying.