Pier, the partisans were told, was a burly giant, more a bear than a man. His body, whispered one partisan, was as thick as a hundred-year-old tree; his arms like huge cut-off stumps; his hair like moss grown wild; but his eyes—Mon Dieu!—they could see all the way through to one’s soul. His ears, the partisan confided, could pick up sounds miles away. He and he alone had killed more Germans than any other member of the underground. Mickey leaned back against the quarry stone, relishing the feel of the coolness against her weary body. If only she could strip off these filthy clothes and have a bath. If she had a kingdom, she would relinquish it right now for a cake of soap and some toilet paper, things she’d taken for granted for years and never thought she would be without. The urge to scratch her body was so commanding she dropped forward to her knees and then stood up. Lice. Everyone had lice except herself and Yvette. From the beginning they’d tied their heads in scarfs, and in the early dawn they’d crept off by themselves and inspected each other’s heads.
