After Dunkirk

war, thrashing among images of dark-uniformed soldiers tromping him into the sand and of a skinny little man leading him into a dark, tight tunnel. He squirmed against the panic of being unable to move. In the recesses of his mind he heard the voice of a woman, maybe two, and remembered the sensation of being half-dragged and half-carried through rain and wind into a warmer place.
He awakened by degrees, first sensing dim light, then the warmth of blankets and a soft bed, and then the enchanting music.
When he finally opened his eyes, his first view was a blurred image of a figure standing next to his bed. As his eyes cleared, he perceived a young girl smiling at him. She spoke, but he was too groggy to make out her words.
He shook his head to clear it and looked again. The girl was still there, and she held his hand. She let it drop. Then he felt her hand again, wiping his brow with a moist cloth.
She had moved closer, and he saw that she was perhaps in her early teens. Her hair was dark with a reddish hue, her skin white and soft, her stature smallish, but he could not make out the color of her eyes.
He tried to sit up.
“Shh,” Chantal said. “You rest.” She spoke in broken English.
He sank back into the sheets. “England,” he croaked. “I must get back.” He dropped his head onto the pillow and reached behind his head, noticing that his hair was soft and clean.
“Wait. I get my sister.” Chantal rushed out of the room.
Moments later, the music stopped, and almost immediately, Chantal reappeared leading Amélie, a version of herself only a few years older.
“He’s awake,” Chantal said, “and he says he wants to leave.”
“Not now,” Amélie said firmly, her French accent strong. She carried an air of authority. “You rest. I get food.”
As she left, their father entered the room. Jeremy studied Ferrand’s face, his memory flashing to the small man who had helped him escape the gully and the Germans on a dark, wet night. He raised up on his right elbow and reached forward.
“You saved me,” he rasped. “Thank you.”
Ferrand nodded and clasped Jeremy’s hand. Chantal stepped forward.
“My father not speak English,” she stammered. “My sister—”
Jeremy fluttered his right palm to interrupt her. “I speak your language,” he said in French.
“Ah, bon,” Chantal replied, delighted, and reverting to French. “My sister speaks a little English.” She laughed and held her thumb and forefinger close together to demonstrate her meaning. “I do too. We studied it in school. My father speaks only a few English words, but he understands a lot, and yes, he saved you. My sister, too.” She twisted from side to side and laughed again. “Not me. I’m too afraid.”
Jeremy smiled and shifted his eyes to Ferrand. “Thank you again.” He squeezed the old man’s hand.
“I did nothing,” Ferrand said.
“My sister saw you on the beach,” Chantal broke in. “She ran out in the rain to distract the soldiers.” She detailed what Amélie had done. “My father was very angry with her.”
Jeremy closed his eyes. “Thank you so much.” He put his hand behind his head and again felt his clean hair. “Who—”
Anticipating his question, Chantal’s eyes flashed with amusement. “We cleaned you, Amélie and I. You were cold and shivering. My father watched us. He wouldn’t let us see or touch…” She indicated Jeremy’s middle parts. “You have to do that yourself.”
In spite of his fatigue, Jeremy chuckled. Then his face became grave. “I must leave. I’m a danger to you.”
“You’ll go when you’re strong enough,” Ferrand said. “You need rest. We’ll watch the Nazis. If they come, we’ll move you. You stay here.” His tone was one of finality.
Amélie reentered with a tray bearing warm soup, bread, and coffee. “You eat,” she said in English, setting it on a nightstand. She sat on the chair next to him again. “I watch.”
“He speaks French,” Chantal chimed in.
Overcome with emotion, Jeremy studied Amélie. Maintaining his composure, he said, “Your father and sister say you saved my life. How can I ever thank you?”
Amélie waved away the comment. “I did nothing. My father saved you. I just talked to the Germans. I made them think we are weak.” Her face took on an impish expression. “We are not weak.”

3
“Was that you playing the piano when I woke up?” Jeremy asked the next day.
Amélie smiled shyly and nodded.
“My sister plays that piece,” Jeremy said. “It’s the ‘Revolutionary Étude’ by Frederick Chopin, if I recall correctly, and takes a great deal of skill and practice to do it as well as you do. How long have you been playing?”
“Since I was a little girl. My mother taught me. She was a great pianist before she died.”
Jeremy sensed an onrush of melancholy. “I’m sorry—”
“That was four years ago.” Amélie dismissed the subject with a toss of her head. “You have a strange accent when you talk in French. Sometimes you sound British, sometimes American.”
Jeremy chuckled. “That’s because I’m both. My father was born an American, but he became a British citizen, and my mother is British.”
“Then do you have family in the United States?”
“Many uncles, aunts, and cousins.”
Two nights and almost two days had passed since he had entered the Boulier home. He had remained in Ferrand’s back bedroom while he recovered. With food and drink, he already felt strong and had become comfortable with the family, but uncomfortable in the threat he posed to them.
“I can’t stay here,” he told Amélie. “It’s too dangerous.”
She remained obstinate. “You’re not leaving yet. That’s more threatening.” She cast him a curious look. “Where do you live?”
“You’re changing the subject. I must go.”
“You don’t know where to go,” Amélie insisted. “The Nazis are putting checkpoints in place. When the time is right, we’ll help you.” She grinned in her impish fashion and asked again, “Where do you live?”
Jeremy sighed. “If you must know, my home is on Sark Island. I was born