Jeremy read the unspoken question. The ground below his feet seemed to buckle as if from a turbulent wave. Strength had momentarily deserted his legs. Blood drained from his face. For an instant, the cycle of memory took unbidden possession once again. Home. Family. War. Explosions. Small arms fire. Flight. Suffocation. Gritty sand. Burned-out war machines. Death.
Then, rejuvenating rain. A bent figure. A warm place. Soft hands. Blurry faces. The smile of an angel. Amélie.
Without a word, Jeremy shrugged off Nicolas’ grasp and trudged toward the setting sun.
9
One day earlier, June 14
Dunkirk, France
Amélie glared out the window at four German soldiers patrolling past the Bouliers’ garden gate. Since the first day of their appearance throngs of them had gathered on the beach with the task of searching and removing war materiel abandoned by the British and French armies. She glanced around for Chantal, and then remembered that her sister had gone to see if the bakery was open and selling bread.
“Everything will resume as normal,” Hauptman Bergmann had announced at a public gathering the day before. “The schools, markets, churches, and all other public functions will reopen, and life will continue as it was before our arrival.”
The irony of giving such a statement amid the city’s bombed-out relics seemed not to bother him. With a sweeping hand, he had indicated his soldiers. “My men are here to protect you. Respect us and we will respect you.” As he made his last statement, his ingratiating smile disappeared, and he cast a glassy eye at his audience. His implied meaning was clear and sent a shiver through the crowd listening with grim-faced stoicism.
Amélie had attended the gathering with her father and Chantal. They did not stop to speak to anyone on their way home.
As they hurried along, Ferrand growled to his daughters, “Nothing will open soon. There are no schools, shops, or churches to open.” He kept them moving at a fast pace. “Pay attention to this advice I give you. Avoid eye contact with German soldiers. Try to stay away from them, but if you cannot and you meet them in the street, greet them civilly. Never stop to talk. If they call to you, move on as if you didn’t hear them. Never trust them. They think of themselves as belonging to a superior race, but they are nothing more than conquering soldiers far from home, wives, and girlfriends, and some have more evil intent than others. Do you understand?”
Amélie had glanced at Chantal to see if her young sister grasped the import of what her father had said. Chantal’s wide eyes and wrinkled brow gave the sense that she fully understood.
Now, seeing the time on her wristwatch, Amélie moved to the kitchen to prepare lunch. Chantal should be home soon. Then, standing in front of the window overlooking the garden, she noticed that the door on the shed was slightly ajar, unusual because her father was fastidious about keeping his tools put away and the door closed against the coastal weather. “The salt in the air will eat them up,” he reminded them frequently.
Ferrand would be at his shop now or visiting friends. He was not home.
As Amélie took note of the door, she thought she saw the shed shake slightly. Thinking she might have imagined it, she stared at the small wooden building.
It shook again.
Amélie stepped out onto the back porch, shielding her eyes against the noontime sun. The shed shook again, and then she heard grunting and a fearful wail. Chantal!
Amélie flew off the small stoop, ran to the shed, and threw the door open. She was greeted by the sight of the prone, bare buttocks of a German soldier with his uniform trousers pulled down below his knees. Under him, he had one hand clasped over Chantal’s mouth while he maneuvered his body on top of hers.
Chantal’s terrified eyes beseeched her sister.
With sunlight suddenly illuminating the interior, the man turned his head, and Amélie recognized Kallsen, Bergmann’s orderly. He squinted over a churlish grin.
On reflex, Amélie grabbed the shovel still hanging on the false wall and swung the flat of it down on Kallsen’s face. He groaned in pain.
Stepping back to allow a greater swing, Amélie brought the shovel down again, this time hitting the edge across Kallsen’s throat at his Adam’s apple. He coughed, let go of Chantal, and tried to twist and sit up.
The flat of the shovel struck again, this time high on his forehead. He fell back, writhing on top of Chantal, his yelps of pain loud as he fell onto his back.
“Shut up,” Amélie shouted in French, and she stomped on his mouth several times before stepping back and bringing the flat of the shovel down hard against Kallsen’s nose.
He lay still, but Amélie kept hitting until his body convulsed. She stepped back, watching Kallsen shake out his last moments of life. Then, the full import of what she had done intruded on her conscious mind.
Chantal, still pinned under Kallsen’s legs, managed to push off his upper body. Her wails had turned into sobs as she continued to push against the corpse.
Amélie dropped the shovel and helped her struggle from under the body to a sitting position. Sobbing, Chantal pulled her underwear up from around her knees and covered her legs with her skirt. Then she flung her arms around her sister.
Amélie let her cry.
After a few minutes, Amélie said with desperate urgency, “Listen. They’ll be looking for him.”
Chantal stared at Amélie without comprehension.
Amélie shook her. “Listen to me. We are going into the house. We must act normal at all times.”
Chantal shook her head in protest, fresh tears running
