After Dunkirk

hardly daring to breathe, he craned to see through the rain to the street surface. Ferrand also froze in place and lifted his eyes toward the road.
Two German soldiers stood there peering into the channel. Jeremy pressed himself harder against the mud wall.
A woman’s voice joined those of the soldiers. Her utterances were few, and she stooped against the wind and rain. One of the soldiers reached for her twice, but the other restrained him, and they motioned for her to leave. Then they proceeded on their patrol, away from Dunkirk.
Jeremy glanced at Ferrand. Even in this light, he saw that the thin old man’s grim face had taken on an extra layer of anxiety.
“We go,” Ferrand called, motioning for Jeremy to follow. His urgency was palpable.
With a quick glance at the road, Jeremy followed. The water ran ankle-deep with a rapid current, and the walls, slick with mud, offered no place to grasp for balance. Soon, this second gully curved upward, where a culvert emptied below the roadbed.
Ferrand crawled into it with no difficulty, but being much larger, Jeremy struggled through, squirming against the flowing water and fighting down a claustrophobic panic. When he emerged on the other end, Ferrand stood waiting and helped Jeremy out.
“This way,” Ferrand said, moving swiftly to a stand of trees and then to the shadows of an alley behind a row of houses. They came to a garden gate. Immediately inside stood a toolshed. He opened the door and motioned for Jeremy to enter. The shelter was dry and long enough that Jeremy could lie down. “You wait here,” he said.
Ferrand stepped inside behind him and leaned into the shadows. When he straightened, he handed over a blanket and a small pouch he had packed before leaving the house. “Food,” he said. “You eat. I come back, yes?”
Exhausted and grateful, Jeremy only nodded. He collapsed on the floor and pulled the blanket over him while clutching the small bag of food. Even before Ferrand had shut the door, he closed his eyes in sleep.

2
Ferrand’s eyes blazed when he entered his house through the back door. He pulled off his raincoat and threw it across a kitchen chair before striding into the front room, tracking thick mud behind him. His daughters sat on the floor, still staring out the window; however, at the front door, he spotted a puddle of water that trailed into the living room.
“Don’t play innocent with me,” he fumed. “One of you went outside the house, against my orders, and into the rain. Stand up.”
Crestfallen, the girls climbed to their feet. There was no hiding Amélie’s wet shoes. “Just as I thought,” Ferrand said. “You disobeyed me.” He directed his attention to her. “Are you trying to get yourself killed along with our family? Why did you speak with those soldiers?”
Amélie looked up sharply. “What soldiers?”
His anger rising further, Ferrand snapped, “Don’t play with me. I heard you begging those soldiers for food. How did you know that word in German?”
Ignoring his question, Amélie stared at him. “I confess. I went out to talk to them. I couldn’t let them catch the British soldier.”
“You were foolish,” Ferrand retorted. “There is no British soldier, and even if there were, he’s not worth your life, or your assault. That Nazi had his mind on doing bad things to you.”
Amélie’s eyes dropped to take in the muck caked around Ferrand’s boots and the trail of mud leading from the kitchen. She glanced at her father’s face. “You were there. How else could you know what happened?”
At a loss for words and still angry, Ferrand could only stare with wide, yellowed eyes. A smile broke across Amélie’s face. “You went to help him.”
She crossed the room and wrapped the old man’s head in her arms. “You talk so tough, but we all know what a soft heart you have.” She pulled back suddenly. “Did you see him? Where is he?” Leaping away from Ferrand, she ran toward the kitchen. Seeing it empty, she turned back into the living room. “What have you done with him?”
“I didn’t see him,” Ferrand grunted, shifting his eyes.
Amélie’s laugh had the excited, musical tone Ferrand had known and loved since she was a child. “You’re no better at lying than I am,” she said. “Tell me. You know I’ll find out.”
“Is he really here?” Chantal broke in with mixed excitement and fear. “Can we see him?”
“He’s in the shed, isn’t he?” Amélie watched Ferrand’s face closely, then turned and started toward the kitchen.
“No,” Ferrand bellowed. “He cannot come in here. It’s too risky, and he’s filthy and wet. At least if the Germans find him in the shed, we can say we didn’t know he was there. But if he’s in the house…” He shrugged, leaving unstated his fear of impending doom.
“We can’t leave him out there,” Amélie said. She embraced her father again. “You already risked your life for him—”
“You did too,” Ferrand interrupted. “We’ve done our part. We can’t do more.”
“He’s cold and wet.” Amélie laid her head on his shoulder. “He could die from exposure.”
She stood and once more moved toward the back of the house. “Chantal,” she called, “I’ll need your help.”
Her sister clambered hesitantly to her feet, her eyes on Ferrand, torn between Amélie’s command and her father’s wishes.
He breathed deeply and nodded, his reluctance showing on his face. “I’ll help.”
As though through a fog, Jeremy heard piano music. The melody was familiar, one he had often heard his sister, Claire, play while growing up. It was a classical piece, thunderous, moving, and requiring great skill as the concentration on bass notes moved to light trilling at the higher end of the scales.
Jeremy thought he dreamed the tune, bringing as it did images of his sister at the piano in his home in the English Channel Islands, and slowly he realized he was awake. He had no idea how long he had slept. He vaguely recalled horrific sights and sounds of