Catching the Wind(21)

He tried to pretend that the stormy sea didn’t bother him. Or the stench and frigid air. England wasn’t far now. They would be warm and well there. In England Brigitte would find her strength again.

Several hours later, the rocking ceased, and Dietmar waited, praying they were safe. A fisherman opened the hatch, and he and Brigitte emerged slowly. The fog was clearing in the sunlight, and he saw a desolate beach before them, covered in pebbles.

One of the fishermen carried Brigitte through the water, up to a patch of tall grass. The sharp rocks cut Dietmar’s feet as he crossed the beach, but he was grateful to be off the boat.

Turning, he looked back at the strait of water. Searching for dogs, for men in black uniforms and lightning bolts chasing them. But all he saw were waves.

No one would follow them here.

He tried to thank the fishermen in English, assuring them he could find transport to London, but they didn’t seem to understand. Minutes after landing, the fishermen climbed back into the trawler, their boat vanishing into the fog.

Dietmar and Brigitte tromped across muddy fields for hours until another fisherman gave them a ride. But instead of taking them to London or the depot for trains, the man left them at a police station.

A constable, dressed in dark blue, glanced between them. There was no red band around this man’s arm or iron cross dangling from his collar. “Where do you come from?” he asked.

Dietmar stood tall, hoping he looked older than his thirteen years. “London, mister.” Mother once told him to call the men from England mister instead of Herr. He hoped this man would understand him and direct him to the city.

“And your parents—”

Dietmar’s gaze fell to his bare feet.

“I see.” He spoke to another officer in English, but his words were a flood, so rapid that Dietmar couldn’t decipher one of them.

The constable looked at Brigitte. “What age are you?”

Dietmar felt Brigitte’s hand tremble in his.

“She—” he started, practicing the words in his mind before he spoke. “No talk.”

The constable’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and Dietmar feared he would find out about the boat. That the man would send them back to Germany.

“We need aunt,” Dietmar said, trying to be clear.

“What’s your name, son?”

Dietmar understood the question, but he couldn’t tell the man his real name. His mind raced until he remembered the name of his uncle in London.

“Daniel,” he said, hoping it was a good English name.

“Daniel—”

“Knight,” he replied.

The man jotted a note into a book.

“Come along, Daniel Knight,” the constable said when he looked back up. “And bring your sister. I’ll drive you up to Tonbridge.”

Dietmar shook his head. “London.”

“No children are going to London until the Huns stop dropping bombs, but plenty of boys and girls are being billeted near here. The people in Tonbridge will find you a home until it’s safe to return.”

Dietmar didn’t remember his mother saying the word billeted—or Huns—but he knew the word home well. That was what Brigitte needed most of all.

The man fed them sausage and chips and somehow found them each a used pair of shoes that fit well enough. Then he drove them to the public hall in Tonbridge. Brigitte clung to Dietmar’s hand, her fingers trembling as they waited with the other children for a home. Men and women circled the vast room, examining the girls and boys as if they were livestock.

The younger children were led away first from the room, and then the girls. One couple stopped before Dietmar and Brigitte, but Brigitte recoiled from them, burying her head in Dietmar’s shoulder when they tried to speak to her. They appraised Dietmar for the briefest of moments before the woman turned up her nose and backed away.

No one else attempted to talk with him or Brigitte. Perhaps it was because he stank of vomit. Or because he was an unruly-looking boy. Besides Brigitte, only older boys remained in the room.

He reached into his pocket and clutched the knight hidden beside Brigitte’s princess. He might have helped Brigitte find safety across the channel, but now he was an anchor that prevented her from sailing any farther. A crutch splintered into a hundred lousy pieces. In order to rescue Brigitte now, he must walk away. Because if he stayed here, standing beside her, no one would ever take her home.

He leaned toward her. “I need to speak with the Chef.”

“Please don’t leave me.” Her whisper trembled like her hand, but the return of her speech emboldened him.

Brigitte didn’t need him anymore. She needed a warm bed for the winter and good food. She needed a doctor and medicine to make her well again. Here in England, she would recover her strength and her laughter. Her love of princess stories and fairy tales.

Removing the knight, he placed it in her palm, gently folding her fingers over it.

“I’ll only be a moment,” he lied. “The knight will protect you until I return.”

Her gaze rested on the wooden toy as he kissed her cheek, his heart aching. “I will find you.”

Her blue eyes were wide when she looked back up at him. “You promise?”

He nodded. “A thousand times, Brigitte.”

Her smile shook, but it pleased him to see a glimpse of her joy. “Princess Adler.”