Winfred

75

Official Report

British Intelligence

Code: 3986

Kathleen Winfred

The next morning, we went back to town.

By now, people were coming to terms with losses and beginning to pick through the remains of their homes to salvage what they could of their possessions.

This time, Von Steubon and Pirot came as well. As both spoke French, communication was much easier for them. Von Steubon preferred to stay quiet and help with other things, like clearing away fallen rubble and directing the work details. He used his knowledge of the French language to direct the villagers in their efforts to clean up more efficiently.

Pirot, however, stood in one place on the sidewalk and was soon surrounded by multitudes of people, mostly women and children.

Children brought her little gifts, such as small flowers they had picked from ruined flower beds, or small pieces of bread from the bakery, thanking her and being generally over-joyed at finding someone who spoke their language.

One little boy appearing to be about six years old, near the end of the line, looked terribly downcast. When he reached Pirot, he burst out crying, and began to speak in rapid-fire French.

Pirot looked as though she didn’t know what to do, and she glanced at me, beckoning me to come over with a shake of her head.

She looked worried, as she whispered to me in German.

“His mother was all he had left, and now he’s lost her. I don’t…I don’t really know what to do for him. He has no one.”

I looked at the brown-haired little boy, my heart going out to him. I glanced around the street and my eyes fell on one figure in particular, before settling back on the little boy.

“Pirot,” I said. “I think I know what to do for him…at least to start with.” I looked at the boy. “Can you convince him to come with me?”

She nodded. “I think so.” She began to speak in French once more, gesturing from the boy to me. The boy turned teary green eyes on me, looking unsure, but he eventually nodded.

Pirot signaled to me, and I held my hand out to the little boy, who hesitantly took it.

We began walking, in silence, as I had no idea how to communicate with him since he spoke only French.

We reached the end of the block and I looked around, locating Von Steubon once more.

“Freidrich!” I called, waving at him to get his attention. He finished moving the beam, probably from the collapsed roof of one of the houses, that he had been helping to carry and then began to walk towards me, taking off his gloves as he went.

The little French boy, likely scared of Von Steubon’s black uniform and its clear designation of Von Steubon as a Nazi officer, hid behind me, peering slightly around me and watching Von Steubon warily.

“What is it, Ilsa?” he said, glancing at the little boy.

I spoke quietly, in German, telling him about the little boy’s loss of his mother and his current situation.

The look that came over Freidrich’s face, as I spoke, was one of understanding and sadness: empathy for the boy’s situation.

When I finished speaking, I let go of the boy’s hand, gesturing to Freidrich and then looking back to him.

He shook his head and clutched my skirt instead of my hand.

I looked helplessly at Freidrich.

He shook his head. “Don’t worry,” he said.

I watched as he knelt down on one knee, facing the child, and smiled kindly. He spoke in quiet French. The words had a soothing effect on me, even if I knew nothing of French, and wondered what Freidrich was saying. The words seemed to have the same effect on the child, because his grip on my skirts loosened and he eventually let go entirely, taking a step towards Freidrich.

Freidrich continued talking, soothing the child and gesturing to himself. I assumed that he must have told the child about his own experience with the bombings.

Suddenly, the little boy bridged the remaining gap and threw himself into Freidrich’s arms. Freidrich, with no hesitation, returned the boy’s hug,

Freidrich looked at me, and I nodded, before turning back to my own duties.

Throughout the rest of the day, I searched for Von Steubon in the crowd. He was never without the little boy, who seemed to have become his shadow.

I smiled, tilting my head to the side a bit and watching Freidrich with the child.

My thoughts were interrupted by a familiar laugh.

“Someone’s smitten,” said Matthew.

I slapped his arm, and he only continued to laugh as he walked away, going on about his work.

I looked back at Von Steubon once before going back to my own duties.