Schmidt exclaimed when he saw the contents. “Ach! and cheese, too.” He held the cheese to his nose and inhaled deeply. “That’s goot. You are a fine boy, André Gagnon.” With a twinkling smile, he added, “Almost as goot as my own Otto.
“Look, I show you.” He reached into the pocket of his tunic. “Just today a letter came from my home in Osnabrück—and pictures.” Pointing to one, he said, “That’s my Otto. He’s like you, no?”
André studied the snapshot of a boy about his own age but with light, almost white hair, frowning into the sun.
A little embarrassed, André could only say, “He wears funny clothes.”
The German chuckled. “If he could see you, he’d think yours were comical too.”
Glancing at the letter in his hand, he sighed. “Ach! but they are having it bad in Osnabrück. The Englisher and the Americaner planes they bomb, bomb, bomb our town. Part of my home is gone. My wife and boy say they get no sleep.”
Almost to himself he muttered, “When will the war end?” Then, turning to the boy, he said sadly, “Ach, how do you know, any more than me? We smile, eh, while we can ... and enjoy the sunshine.”
Patchou had wandered off to one of the other barracks and started a fight with one of the camp dogs. André called over his shoulder, “I’ll be back again in a day or two,” and ran to separate the two animals.
By the time he and Patchou reached home, the last twilight had faded. The house was dark, for blackout curtains were drawn across the windows.
Inside, his sister sat hunched alone in the wide, stone-floored kitchen, listening to music from a forbidden radio.