Seeing his expression, Chantal gasped. “We have to leave, don’t we?” she cried. “And it’s my fault.” She leaned into her father with tears running down her cheeks. “I am so sorry.”
“There, there, little one,” he consoled her. “You did nothing wrong. Unfortunately, evil lives among us. We’ll have to fight it every way we can.” He stroked the side of her face. “And in the end, we will win.”
“Oh, Papa,” Chantal said, burying her head in his chest. “You and Amélie are brave.” She wiped her eyes. “I’m not.”
“Ma cherie,” Amélie said, embracing them both. “You’ll be the bravest among us. You’ll see.”
Ferrand gazed at his daughters as if from far away. After a moment, he said, “Let’s go. Get dressed. Take only the clothes on your back and something to stay warm. We leave in five minutes.”
The girls stared at him, and Chantal looked anguished as tears welled in her eyes. “Now?” She glanced around the warm room, at its furnishings and family photos, the fireplace with smoldering coals. “This is our home.”
“It’s a house that is no longer safe, no longer a home,” Ferrand muttered. He leaned over to comfort Chantal. “It’s dangerous for us now. We must go.”
Amélie regarded her father as if seeing someone she had never known. His eyes pierced, and he set his jaw. His back even seemed straighter, his shoulders squared. When he spoke, his voice was laced with command, mixed with his usual kindness.
“We have to go,” he said firmly. “Get ready.”
Amélie stood and tugged her sister to her feet. “Let’s go,” she said, leading her by the hand into the back of the house. “Papa knows what he is doing.”
11
An hour later, Bergmann turned on his heel and retraced his steps in front of the row of houses that included the Boulier home. Despite the time of year, the air was cool, almost frigid, owing to the overcast skies, heavy rain, and winds blowing in from the sea. With his orderly and the other two soldiers, he had reached the last house along the row, awakened its residents, and completed his initial inquiry.
Among the residents past the Boulier house, none admitted to seeing Kallsen. I must speak with Ferrand and his daughters again. He glanced at his watch in irritation and then smirked as he thought of Amélie. I like that one. She’s the perfect age.
The houses on the street were dark, so he was surprised when he neared the Bouliers’ dwelling and a dim light still shone. Remembering his amusement at Ferrand’s wet body wrapped only in a towel, he thought maybe the old man might still be trying to relax himself. He needs to keep his hostility to our army in check. Then Bergmann sighed. He’ll learn. They’ll all learn.
For half a second, he thought of delaying his second round with Ferrand for the following day, but then thought better of it. Since he’s up, I might as well do it now.
He recalled with relish the French mademoiselle he had courted into his rooms in the sumptuous house he had commandeered on entry into Dunkirk. This way, I’ll have more time with her.
He opened the garden gate, strode to the front door, and knocked loudly. When he heard no answer, he tried the knob and found it locked. He stepped in front of the window and peered inside. The peaceful scene gave no hint of anything amiss, yet a sense of foreboding formed in the pit of Bergmann’s stomach.
He moved aside and ordered the soldiers to break in the entry. One of them stepped forward and slammed his boot against the door. It shook but did not give. The soldier repeated his action until the door creaked and light filtered through a crack. Then, both soldiers put their shoulders to it and crashed it open.
Needing no instruction, they proceeded into the recesses of the house while Bergmann stood in the middle of the living room and looked around. Coals in the fireplace still gave off a bit of warmth. Light emanated from a fixture in the hallway. His new orderly headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll check out the garden shed,” he said.
Minutes later, all three soldiers had returned to the living room. “Their clothes are here, but the beds have not been slept in,” one reported.
“Nothing in the shed,” the orderly interjected. “We should look again in daylight.”
Bergmann walked over to the piano and studied it. “There was a family photo here,” he mused to no one. “I noticed it the other day when we stopped by.” He cocked his head in thought. “It was there earlier this evening.”
He stood abruptly and issued swift, terse orders. “Get a platoon out here and secure this neighborhood. No one leaves. Detain anyone coming in. Get all these fine French citizens up.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “I want them on the street in their bedclothes in fifteen minutes.”
Stone-faced, Bergmann paced along the line of frightened French residents standing in their pajamas, braced against the wind and damp night air. He stopped in front of a middle-aged man whose wife cowered against her husband while trying to constrain her weeping. This neighbor lived in the home preceding the Boulier house.
“You must know something about Ferrand Boulier,” he barked in French. “You lived next to him for decades.”
The neighbor shook his head rapidly, his eyes revealing his terror. “After his wife died, he kept to himself. He wasn’t the same. We all thought he would soon follow her.”
“But he didn’t, and now he’s disappeared with both daughters, and I’m left with a missing soldier.” He pushed his face close to the man’s. “Tell me again what you saw.”
“I only saw the soldier who was with you the day that you stopped by our house.”
“Unteroffiziere Kallsen?”
“If you say so. I didn’t hear his name. I saw him
