Now, for the first time, he felt desperately alone. He nodded silently.
When the Germans had gone—with his mother’s copper kettles—André ran back to the barn. Patchou lay in his dark corner under a manger, as quiet as a mouse.
“Come into the house, Patchou,” he said. “We’ll have to keep you there now.”
For an hour or so André went about doing his father’s chores and his own. The heavy, low-lying clouds began breaking a little.
He had just finished milking the cows when the German truck returned with a dozen rough-looking gunners and the sharp-faced officer. Machine guns were unloaded and hauled up the stone loft steps.
Some time later the officer and some of the men piled into the truck and drove away.
“They must have left at least six up there,” André said to himself. He must go up the road later, and warn his father and Marie about the hidden gunners.
He opened the front window so that he might be warned of an approaching car.
André ate the cold supper Marie had left under a cloth for him. The minutes dragged by. By nine o’clock there had been no sign of his father and sister, and no word. For a while he sat on the floor beside his dog. Tomorrow was June 6th—Patchou’s first birthday. André hoped Marie would keep her promise to bring back some sort of toy to celebrate the occasion.