“And you didn’t see anyone else?”
“No. I had just come into our kitchen. Your soldier’s motion caught my eye, but he was then in the alley at the corner of our garden shed and continued behind it. I barely had time to recognize him.”
“You weren’t curious about why he was in such a hurry?”
“I know better than to take interest in the movements of your soldiers.”
“If Monsieur Ferrand wanted to hide with his daughters, where would he go?”
The man shrugged nervously. “The city is barely recognizable. I don’t know what still stands. I have no idea at this moment how to find any particular place in Dunkirk.”
Bergmann stared at him. “Does he have family in the area?”
The man closed his eyes as if reluctant to speak.
“I asked if he has family here.” Bergmann enunciated each word.
The woman looked into her husband’s face, her own a mask of fear. “Tell him,” she cried. “Tell him.”
Bergmann grabbed her by the shoulder and jerked her forward. “Tell me what?”
“Leave her alone,” the husband cried hoarsely, and tried to step between his wife and the captain.
A soldier standing next to Bergmann rammed the man in the stomach with the barrel of his rifle. The hapless man doubled over, and the soldier brought the butt of the weapon down hard on his back. He lay in the dirt, moaning and gasping for air.
“Ferrand has a brother,” the wife sobbed. “He lives across town on a dairy farm.”
“What is his name?”
“Claude Boulier.” Her voice broke, and she tried to stoop to comfort her husband. Bergmann shoved her away with his boot. She too fell into the dirt.
He turned to a sergeant standing close by. “Radio headquarters. Tell them to find that farm and send out a platoon-sized security detail immediately.” He gestured at the terrified couple lying in the road. “Bring them along, as well as every man here. The women may return to their houses, but keep security around this neighborhood. No one leaves. Detain anyone coming in.”
“And you, sir?” the sergeant asked.
“Bring the neighbors from the other side of Ferrand’s house. I want to interrogate them again. Here.” He glared at the couple still lying on the ground. “Then these two will guide me to the dairy farm. I’ll meet the security detail there.”
12
Chantal stumbled along in the dark, following her father and sister, barely aware of her surroundings. She clutched a single picture frame to her chest, one that she had grabbed from the living room before staggering through the kitchen and out the back door. The frame contained the black-and-white photo that Bergmann had viewed. It had been the last family one taken of the Bouliers that included her mother. Now, she held onto the memory.
That had been four years ago when Chantal was ten, only weeks before Madame Boulier had contracted pneumonia and wasted away. Amélie had become Chantal’s surrogate mother, watching out for her schooling, monitoring which friends she chose, making sure she was fed and clothed.
His wife’s death had crushed Ferrand. For months, he had gone through the motions of doing his work, but without enthusiasm. He had spent hours on a chair in the living room staring out to sea, and often, he had to be coaxed to eat.
Amélie had shouldered the care for both her father and sister while still attending school. Now, with one hand, she led Chantal through the rubble of Dunkirk’s streets and alleys while keeping a firm grip on her father’s arm with the other. After what seemed like hours, they approached the back of a brick building that was mainly intact despite the destruction to its immediate neighbors.
“What is this place?” she whispered as they entered through a rear door.
“It was a restaurant,” Ferrand replied. He smacked his lips in dismay. “No more. The front and the kitchen were destroyed. But it has an underground wine cellar.”
He felt along the back wall until he reached a corner. Then, stooping, he knocked with a distinct rhythm against a wooden section in the floor.
Moments later, the panel lifted, a dim light shined out, and a dark figure appeared. Without a word, he motioned for the trio to follow, and then held the trapdoor up while they descended ahead of him. Then, he lowered it in place and followed.
At the bottom of the stairs, the two girls huddled together, Chantal still in shock, Amélie observing her surroundings. She could not see the full extent of the cellar, its walls leading into darkness, but she sensed that it was large and people moved quietly about. The wine shelves had been pushed against the walls for more room, the bottles still resting in them. Overhead lights remained dim, whether for security reasons or because that was the way they had always been, she could not tell.
One element immediately surprised her: the people gathered in this place deferred to her father. He called to a woman and asked her to take the girls to another room where they could rest. Before they left him, a man approached and spoke to Ferrand in hushed tones. Other men and women came to inform or ask for guidance. As Amélie tugged Chantal to their resting place, she could only stare back at her father with wonder.
Two hours later, Amélie awoke with a start as a hand pulled at her shoulder and called her name. She recognized her father’s voice.
“Time to go,” he said gently. “Wake up Chantal. You cannot stay here. I’ve arranged travel to the south of France, but we must hurry.”
Looking into his face through bleary eyes, Amélie perceived his usual kindness, but also an ethereal strength. “Where are we going?”
“I’ll explain all of that, but hurry. Get your sister up. I’ll wait at the front.”
He disappeared into the shadows.
When Amélie and Chantal reached the entrance, they saw Ferrand conversing with their Uncle Claude. Both men fell silent as the
