Under a War-Torn Sky by L.M. Elliott

Author:L.M. Elliott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Usborne Publishing Ltd
Published: 2015-03-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Henry peeped around the edge of the stall. Moonlight seeped through the open door. All of the guards had left the barn. He tiptoed to the edge of the door. There was one soldier standing by the cottage’s front door, waiting to grab whoever approached. Could the guard see into the barn from there? Henry looked back over his shoulder to gauge the German’s view. Maybe. He might be able to see Henry as he went up the ladder.

He’d have to pull himself up from the back stall. Henry squatted and ran along the wall to the stall farthest from the door. He couldn’t see the soldier from there, so the soldier must not be able to see him.

He climbed up onto the manger. On tiptoe, he could just barely grab the edge of the hayloft. Thank God for all those chin-ups in basic training. His arms shaking, Henry managed to kick, kick, and swing his feet up enough to catch. He pulled himself up to the hayloft floor.

As quietly as possible, Henry burrowed down into the hay to the door of the boy’s hiding place. “It’s me,” he whispered before pulling it open. “C’est moi.”

The boy was huddled into a tight ball, pressed against the peephole. His shoulders shook. He was crying.

“Ils ont tué mon grand-père. Ils ont emmené ma mère,” he choked out the words.

They had shot his grandfather and taken his mother.

Henry picked him up and rocked him. He whispered into the boy’s ear.

“There is a man left. A soldier – soldat – à la porte maison. Comprends?”

The boy nodded. Henry pointed to the back part of the barn. He took the boy’s hand and led him to the hayloft’s edge. Henry swung down and then caught the boy from below.

Together they slipped out the back door.

The front of the farmhouse faced away from them towards the road. The soldier seemed planted on the stoop. They’d have a chance to make it up the back hill, if they moved very fast. The orchard trees dotted the hillside. They might be able to work their way up tree by tree.

Henry pointed to the trees. “Can you run?”

The boy nodded.

Hand in hand they darted from one tree, to the next, to the next, to the next. Each time they reached a tree trunk and crouched behind it without being seen felt like a miracle. They’d pant for a moment and then go on, zigzagging up the hill, zigzagging between fear and relief, fear and relief.

When they reached the hill’s crest they threw themselves onto the ground and rolled away from the edge onto a wide plateau. They lay there gasping, but out of sight of the soldier at the bottom of the hill.

“Now what?” whispered Henry.

“Mon oncle.”

Henry took his hand and pulled the boy to his feet. “Let’s go.”

They retraced their steps from the previous night. Perhaps the path in the pine forest was one often used by the boy’s uncle and they could find him there somehow. Henry looked down at the boy, who clung to his hand.

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