The gun in the man’s hand remained pointed steadily at Sophie. “How many of you are there?” he demanded.

“What?”

“I said, how many of—”

“Georges, put the damn gun down.” A new voice interrupted him.

Another torch flickered on, aimed at Sophie, and she winced, holding her hand up against the disorienting glare.

“Merde,” the newcomer muttered. The light was extinguished, and he whistled the two descending notes that Sophie had tried in the trees. “You were supposed to wait for us outside.”

Sophie repeated the whistle and then said, “I did wait.”

“You know this woman?” the man named Georges asked angrily, though he lowered the gun.

“No. Yes.” The newcomer waved his hand. “She is on our side.”

“Hmph.” Georges grunted. “She shouldn’t be in here.”

“Yes, yes.” The reply was weary. “I will remedy that immediately.” He stepped to the side, his silhouette merging with the fluid blackness inside the doorframe. “After you, Madame.”

Sophie glanced once more at the small girl still clinging to the man with the gun, her face a pale oval in the meagre light. “Apologies,” she whispered and then retreated back outside the cottage.

The door shut behind her, her escort at her heels as if afraid she’d turn back.

“Who are these children and why are they here?” she demanded.

“That would be none of your business. Why were you even in that cottage?”

“Looking for you, obviously.” She stopped, refusing to move until she got answers. “If you mean those children harm—”

“Harm?” The man sounded indignant. “I can assure you, Madame, we’re not harming them.”

“They’re so thin. One of them sounded ill.”

“That’s what happens when you’ve survived this long hidden in attics and ghettos.”

“They asked me if I was here to take them to the funeral,” Sophie pressed. “I want to know what you are going to do with them.”

The man cursed under his breath but answered her. “We’re taking them out of France.”

“How?”

“Not in a cattle car to be exterminated,” he hissed in a low voice.

“How many children?”

“As many as we can.”

“And the funeral they spoke of?”

“It’s one of the ways Georges gets them across the Swiss border. Dress them up as mourners.”

“Then what happens to them?” Sophie demanded.

“Merde.”

“What happens to them?” she repeated.

“They are placed with families who can look after them. Satisfied?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I am not saying anything else on the matter, for my safety, your safety, and theirs. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me.” He stepped in front of her. “Our business is in the barn.”

Sophie did as she was bade.

“I am Henri,” he said as they skirted the cottage. “You are Celine?”