Amélie looked furious. “How can you say that? He risked his life for us. That’s why he’s down there in the mud. We can’t leave him. Our duty—”
“I know our duty,” Ferrand stormed. “I know my duty. I fought in the last war, and my obligation now is to protect my daughters. If your mother were alive, God rest her soul, she would tell you the same thing. I’ll have a hard-enough time keeping you from being raped by these pillagers without you going out and inviting it.” He pointed a finger at them. “You are not to leave this house until I say so. Is that understood?”
“But Papa—” Amélie interjected.
“Is that understood?” Ferrand repeated.
“Yes,” Chantal replied.
Amélie only nodded, her face pinched in anger.
Ferrand exhaled. “Now, I have to go to my brother’s house for bread. We have none, and the baker was closed today. He’s already short of supplies, but luckily, his shop still stands. When I get back, I expect to see you both here, dry, and no strange man in my house. Do I have to say that again?”
Both girls shook their heads. Ferrand nodded brusquely. Moments later, they heard him rummaging about in the kitchen for his raincoat, and then the back door slammed.
The heavy rain collected in the gullies and poured mud and water down their beds to the ocean. It produced a new challenge to Jeremy as he struggled to reach higher ground, his boots either sinking in the ooze or slipping without traction. Progress was slow, but better than when he was low crawling on the beach.
Ahead, the gully narrowed, and above it he saw flat ground that appeared to be a road crossing in front of him. Finally. From his desperate flight to the beach, he recalled stands of trees where he could hide while gaining his bearings. He had dodged between houses then, and now thought he might find a place between or behind them where he could shelter. Maybe a garage or a garden shed.
As he approached the gully’s tapered upper end, he saw another channel running at a right angle to his left. When he reached it, he heard a hiss, and a small, thin man stepped into his path.
“I am Ferrand,” the man said in heavily accented English. He motioned to indicate the direction of Dunkirk. “Nazis!” He turned in the opposite direction and gestured for Jeremy to follow.
Jeremy hesitated.
Ferrand turned to him, his face expressing urgency. “Vien,” he called. “We help.” He beckoned again and started back in the direction he had come.
“Why did you have to tell Papa?” Amélie demanded of Chantal. “We could have saved that soldier.” They huddled on the floor together, staring out the window.
“He would have found out anyway. You were never good at lying.”
“Now we’re stuck inside when we could be doing something.”
Chantal sighed. “You’re always more adventuresome than me. I’m not brave. I just want this war to end so we can get back to normal.”
“This is no adventure. We can’t let the Germans overrun our country and do nothing.”
Chantal buried her face in her hands. “But they kill, and they take everything. If we resist, they will make us pay.”
Amélie embraced her sister, caressing the back of her head. “We’ll get through this, little one, but I think we’ll both have to be braver than we ever thought possible.”
Chantal whimpered and rubbed her eyes as she straightened to look once more out the window. “Look!” She pointed at two German soldiers making their way up the road from Dunkirk. They would pass right above the head of the gully where Amélie had seen the British soldier.
“They might see him,” Amélie gasped. “We must do something.”
She flew into the kitchen, emerging moments later with her raincoat. Before Chantal could protest, she headed out the front door while still wrapping and clasping herself in the garment.
The rain came in torrents as she stepped out. She halted to regain sight of the two German soldiers and pull the hood over her head. They had moved past the house and stood over the gully, staring into its recesses.
Amélie hurried through the garden gate, leaving it open behind her. “Allô,” she called after the soldiers. They did not hear her, so she ran to close the distance and called again, “Allô.” Without waiting for a response, she darted to the soldiers and tugged on the sleeve of the nearest one.
Startled, he whirled on her, and seeing his sudden movement, his companion did the same.
“We need food,” Amélie yelled in French above the roar and splash of the falling rain. With her hand she mimicked eating.
The soldiers eyed her at first with anger and impatience, then amusement. One smirked, a salacious gleam in his eye. He said something to his comrade and then reached to the top of Amélie’s raincoat as if to pull it open.
Amélie drew back, her eyes betraying her horror. “Essen,” she screamed, using the German word for food, one of the few she knew. “Essen,” she repeated, standing her ground.
The second soldier grasped his companion’s shoulder and shook his head while locking his eyes on Amélie’s face. “Abendglocke,” he said slowly, his tone stern. Then, more deliberately, he said in French with a heavy Germanic accent, “Couvre-feu.” Curfew.
The soldier who had tried to open Amélie’s jacket reached out again, shoved her, and waved her off. “Raus,” he commanded. Then the two moved away from the gully and recommenced their patrol.
Breathing with relief, Amélie stood on the drenched pavement in the rain, watching them go. For good measure, she bleated out again, “Essen,” but the soldiers paid her no heed and continued on their path.
In the gully, Jeremy watched Ferrand go, and hesitated. Then, above them, he heard voices. Pressing against the side of the gulch and
