‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ I said to the same guard sitting outside room 6. ‘Cold out today, isn’t it?’ ‘Touch of snow in the air, mademoiselle,’ he said, patting his hip. ‘So the old joints tell me.’ I saw Patrick and Olivier once more, both still feverish and horribly ill looking. ‘This afternoon,’ I murmured, as I took their temperatures. They answered with feeble nods, and closed their swollen eyes. The morning crawled by. I busied myself pacing corridors and wards, glancing at patients’ charts from time to time, not daring to go near the boys again. I rehearsed my part, over and over. Afternoon finally came, and my pulse quickened when I saw one of the two stolen Wehrmacht cars enter the courtyard –– a black Traction of the type the French and German police used, complete with fake license plates and German stickers on the windscreen. I recognised Pierre, my male nurse contact from the café, as the driver. The other stolen car, an ambulance van, drove into the courtyard behind the Traction.
