He slipped on his coat, pulled his cap low, and eased himself noiselessly out of the house.
Marie sat alone, her eyes on the clock.
Her heart jumped a beat when an approaching patrol car whizzed down the road. It passed the house. Again the dark silence.
The back door opened and André returned, his boots caked high with mud. When he asked, “Where’s Papa?” she said, “He has gone out. Ask no more questions and go to bed.”
“I will wait for Papa,” he replied firmly, and perched on the edge of a chair, studying his sister’s face.
He had felt excitement growing among the others in the house. Now it belonged to him, too.
They listened for outside noises through the sounds of the storm. André said, “Ronald Pitt’s a fighter pilot, Marie. Did you know that?
“I never talked to one before,” he continued. “He told me his Spitfire plane got hit, late one evening, and he parachuted down into a wood. The Germans didn’t find him. He’s been hiding in the fields and towns for two weeks.”
Marie nodded. “He’s one of the lucky ones—so far.”
André chattered softly on. “Those bandages were a fake, weren’t they? He wasn’t really hurt. Somebody painted his jaw with iodine and put on those bandages so he wouldn’t have to talk to any Germans.”