After Dunkirk

lady. We’re here to make you safe. How old are you?”
“Fourteen.” Chantal trembled, but dared not move her face from the officer’s hand. Meanwhile, Bergmann had glanced around the room, his eyes resting on a set of photos atop a piano. He moved over and picked up a family portrait.
“Such a lovely family.” He pointed at one of the girls in the picture. “Is that you?”
Before Chantal could respond, she heard the back door open and close. Then, Ferrand appeared in the passageway leading from the kitchen. “I brought a fresh loaf of bread,” he called out, and then he saw Bergmann.
“Forgive the intrusion,” the captain said, and crossed the room to introduce himself.
Ferrand shook his hand perfunctorily. “I was not expecting guests,” he said, “or I would have brought more bread.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. My soldiers will be finished momentarily, and then we’ll be on our way. As I explained to your very charming daughters, we’ve had reports of stray British soldiers annoying local residents, so we are alerting everyone to help round them up. We just want you to let us know if you see them.”
Bergmann’s men returned to the front room, having completed their search. They made eye contact with him and shook their heads.
“Is there anything out back?” Bergmann asked.
“Just a shed in the garden. You can have your men check it if you like.”
A flick of Bergmann’s wrist sent the soldiers out the back door. They returned shortly and shook their heads.
“Good, then,” Bergmann said. “We’ll be on our way. If you need anything, do not hesitate to contact me. I am at your service.” With a click of his heels and a sharp nod, he departed with his entourage.
Jeremy breathed a sigh. The German soldiers who searched the shed had just closed the door, and he listened to their boots clomping up the concrete garden path and entering the house through the back door.
He waited several minutes, and then pushed against the false wall that Ferrand had hurriedly built overnight in anticipation of such an occasion. The shed was barely long enough for a man to lie in, and only a few feet wide. Its steepled roof allowed standing to full height, and the low door was built into the wall nearest the garden path and faced the house.
Ferrand had taken old pieces of wood stacked in the back of the shed and constructed the moveable false wall that looked more like a floor-to-ceiling tool rack. He had done it in the early morning hours, tapping the nails lightly and repeatedly with a cloth-covered hammer to minimize noise. The construction was not held together well, but when placed upright behind the door, it provided sufficient space for Jeremy to stand against the front wall and hold it in place. Ferrand had hung rakes, shovels, and other garden implements on it, and he had thrown a pile of rags in the opposite corner. With Jeremy concealed behind the wall, Ferrand had leaned a wheelbarrow against it.
When the soldiers had swung the door open, one waited outside while the other probed the interior.
Jeremy’s hiding place stood in the door’s shadow. He held his breath, wishing he could calm his thumping heart.
Flashlight switched on, the soldier had crossed to the pile of rags and kicked them aside while keeping his rifle ready with his free hand. Finding nothing, he swept the light around the shed, searching the nooks and crannies. Then he moved to the door and swung his weapon toward the space behind it.
Jeremy had pressed into the dark recess behind the false wall, but he had no more room. Between him and the muzzle of the rifle pointed at his chest were only the boards and garden tools. But the soldier took only a perfunctory look, switched off his light, exited the shed, and returned to the house.
Several minutes later, Jeremy pushed the wall forward at an angle sufficient for him to slide through. Then he opened the garden door a crack to peer at the house.
Images of Amélie flooded his mind—her standing stooped in the rain facing the German soldiers, the strands of music that stopped as he caught his first blurry glimpse of her following Chantal into the room and then sitting next to him and tending to him. Her impish smile and melodic laugh burned into his psyche so that he smiled slightly as he thought of her. And once again, he heard her play Chopin on the piano.
He pictured her large, honey-colored eyes. He imagined her turned-up nose and full lips. She was petite, but under her loose clothing, he could not see her figure…
I don’t care. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She risked her life for me. He thought she must be around twenty, roughly two years younger than he. Then he brought his thoughts under control. Her family risked for me.
He thought of Chantal, a younger version of her sister, also bubbly, exuberant, and fearful; an adolescent facing challenges no one should have to endure. Yet, there she was with the Nazis in her living room. She must be terrified.
Then Ferrand. The old veteran who had fought in and survived the trenches of the Great War had gone out into the storm to save a stranger. This father’s love and protection of his daughters manifested in his anger at the exposure to danger Amélie had initiated, yet he had put his own life on the line for the same purpose. He might be old and bent, but he’s noble and crafty, a true hero.
Jeremy sat in the dark, his thoughts and emotions jumbled. Dulled by days of fighting and evading capture, his ability to analyze and choose a course of action seemed impaired. But one driving thought prevailed. I put them in danger. I can’t stay.
With a lump in his throat, he opened the door only enough to slide through. Closing it softly behind him, he ducked and shuffled behind a hedge growing along the