The Impossible Thread

No! No! No!» I scream as the gunshots start ringing in my ears, and my friends start falling all around me. Oh, God, I think to myself. «This can't be happening! »

Where is Claude? Where is my brother? We had left

the farm and entered the forest, walking with our fingers

interlocked over the backs of our heads, behind the French Gestapo

men, surrounded by a safety cord formed by the German soldiers,

who aimed their weapons directly at us. We had been marching for

a while, when, all of sudden, one of the Germans barked at us to

stop. «Hier! » Here! We were shaking so much, I don't know how

we were even managed to stay still. I was terrified. But maybe

even more than terror, I was shaking with anger.

And that's when I saw him. He was there, all smiles and

chatter with the Germans. And then, it all became clear. Very much

clear. Fucking pig! He had sold us. Someone whom he called his

friends. The same friends who had paid for food, drinks and movie

tickets after his parents had cut down his allowance, after he got

den commotion erupted ahead, boots thudding

heavily against the muddy ground as the Germans barked orders

we struggled to understand. My breath came in short, ragged

bursts, my mind scrambling to make sense of the chaos. Fear

ricocheted through our group each glance exchanged between us

was a silent plea for reassurance that none could give. In the

confusion, the forest seemed to close in around us, the canopy

overhead trapping the smoke and the scent of gunpowder. I could

hear someone sobbing, and I realized it was me, my voice too

small to matter in the cacophony.

Not being able to locate Claude was gnawing at me, each

second stretching unbearably as I scanned the ranks of bowed

heads, searching for his familiar shape among the shadows. The

Gestapo men moved like predators, like birds of prey hovering

around us, preparing to dive on us, their weapons gleaming

ominously in the blinding sunshine. I squeezed my eyes shut,

wishing I was somewhere else anywhere but here, caught in the

mauls of war and betrayal.

The world narrowed to the thunder of gunshots and the

desperate thudding of my own heart, a relentless beat that drowned

out all thought. I felt a hand brush against mine, fleeting and

trembling, and for a moment, I clung to that warmth as if it could

anchor me in the storm. But then, the sharp command cut through

the air, and everything unraveled.

« Runter! Auf die Knie!» the same soldier barked again.

«Jetzt! Schnell!» He shouted, taking his gun out of the holster

faster than I could blink. He sensed our fear and our hesitation, just

like a shark sensed blood.

My legs buckled. The feeling of the cold mud against my

knees, the sharp sting of fear and loss will stay with me forever.

Then it began. As we dropped to our knees, he went from one of us

to the other, methodically, and shot us in the back, one by one.

The silence after the shots was a roar in my ears, more

deafening than any explosion a silence filled not only with terror,

but with the bitter taste of betrayal.

I look around, frantically, for Claude. Where was he?

«Claude! Claude! » I scream, as a loud bang rings in my ear and an

unbearable pain starts to spread over my left shoulder, causing me

to fall flat on the floor. And then the whole world went black.

###

I woke up gasping, a scream caught in my throat. I was covered in

cold sweat, my heart a drum against my ribs, and for a moment, the

world was a swirling chaos of fear and darkness. The smell of

damp earth and pine was in my nose, and I could hear the close,

terrifying clicking of a gun being cocked. I was back at the

Sologne. We were all there, lying on the muddy and wet floor the

clearing, with Germans all around us. They and the French

bastards that help them hunt down people like us. And now, it was

our turn. They walked all around the place as if it was theirs. One

of them was that weasel Lussac. Of course, at the time we had no

idea of who he really was. According to René, the friend who had

come with us and him, Lussac had come to tell us about one of our

friends, who had been involved in some kind of accident. «God, I

hope he is OK», I remember thinking.

But no, it was all a lie. Our friends, I would learn later,

were either being hunted down or had already been rounded up.

The silence was heavy and thick with our fear, a silence that felt

louder than any bomb. I could see René and, finally, my brother

Claude beside me, their faces pale and tense in the sunlight, and I

knew what was coming.

And then, the nightmare broke.

I blinked, and the scent of hay was replaced by the clean

smell of my own room. The cold sweat on my skin was the only

thing that remained of the fear. I am not at the By farm. The drone

of the plane was just a car passing by outside. The silence is not a

silence of fear, but a silence of peace. I am in America. I am safe. I

am home. It's hard to believe, sometimes, that the past is a

memory, and this new life, this beautiful, quiet reality, is my

present. The fear is a ghost, but the peace is real.

The terror of the nightmare was still a cold knot in my

stomach, a ghost from a past that refused to stay buried. My heart

was a frantic drum against my ribs, and my body was rigid with the

memory of fear. And then, as if from another world, I felt the

gentle pressure of arms around me.

Suddenly, I was in Sawyer's arms. In the cot, next to our

bed, our daughter slept

peacefully, blissfully unaware of what was happening.

Sawyer held me so tight, warmth that chased away the cold sweat

of the dream. She ran her hand over my head and my face, a touch

so familiar and so comforting that it slowly began to pull me back

to the She held me so tight, a warmth that chased away the cold

sweat of the dream. She ran her hand over my head and my face, a

touch so familiar and so comforting that it slowly began to pull me

back to the present. She had done it so many times. The

nightmares, the panic, the fear they were a part of my new life, too,

a lingering echo of the past. But so was she. Her presence, her

touch, her quiet comfort that was also a part of my new life. In her

arms, I was no longer a soldier in a mud puddle, but a

boy in a bed,

finally safe, finally home.

###

June 7th, 1944 - By farm, Sologne

The air is thick with the scent of hay and rain. We arrived at the By

farm an hour ago, a ghost in the dawn. The journey here was a

quiet kind of terror, a shadow-dance through the Sologne forest. It

was just me, Claude, René and André, our footsteps hushed by the

damp earth. We were the first to arrive. Now, we wait. The farm is

a quiet sanctuary, a place of a temporary truce with the world. But

even here, there is a stillness that is not peace, but a waiting. We

are waiting for the others, for Raymond, for Pascal, for all the

boys. We are a family scattered by the storm of war, and we are

now, finally, trying to find our way home to each other. The quiet

is a heavy thing, a silence full of unasked questions. I look at

Claude and André, their faces as tense as my own. We are together,

but we are not complete. Not yet.

The memory of that night clung to me with the sticky

persistence of dread a feeling I could not simply shake off, no

matter how many times Sawyer held me or how far I traveled

from Sologne. Even now, fragments from the By farm returned

with startling clarity: the hayloft's silence broken not only by the

threat of bombs but by the more insidious tension of waiting, of

not knowing who might come through the darkness next.

The room was still and quiet except for my heavy breaths

and the muffled hum of life outside. I let my eyes adjust to the soft

glow bleeding through the curtains. Sawyer was sitting at the edge

of the bed, her expression open, patient.

«Baby? Are you ok?»

I stood at the window, arms folded, eyes tracing the lines of light

and shadow on the floor. «I'm fine, don't worry …»; I went to the

cot, took my little Mia (her name was Amélie Phoebe, after our

mothers) in my arms, wrapped my arms tightly around her, andkissed her on the forehead. For me, my daughter was a radiant

beam of hope in a world that often seemed overshadowed by

uncertainty.

###

I still remember how it all began.

It was in those moments after waking suspended between

nightmare and reality that I would remember the faces that arrived

at dawn. The Germans, crisp in their uniforms, and then the French

civilians who accompanied them, their features etched into my

memory like warnings. Each detail the gold-rimmed glasses, the

raincoats, the way they spoke or stayed silent seemed charged with

meaning, as if the world had shrunk to a handful of men and the

questions they carried in their eyes. Their arrival was less a

beginning than a continuation of the terror that haunted my sleep, a

reminder that, for some of us, safety was never more than a

fleeting illusion.

As the interrogation began, the past and present merged the

ache of loss, the frantic search for Claude, and the relentless fear of

discovery all coming to a head in those quiet, desperate exchanges.

The hayloft, the faces, the questions: each belonged to a world

where peace and danger existed side by side, and memory was

never entirely free from the grip of History.

I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday. It was 9 pm

when the group of Germans showed up one in civilian clothes, tall,

clean-shaven, with gold-rimmed glasses he seemed to be the one in

charge, and the rest wore uniforms. With them were three French

guys: one was short, maybe 5'5'', with darker skin and a sturdy

build, dark hair, and probably about forty years old. He spoke bad

German and wore a black suit and raincoat. The other two barely

said a word and didn't speak German at all.

The second French guy was taller maybe around 5' 9'' very

skinny, pale, and clean-shaven, with a face as sharp as a knife. He

had on a light gray felt hat, while the first guy didn't have one. His

beige raincoat was done up all the way, and he sounded like he was

from Paris. He looked young, maybe thirty to thirty-five, and thin.

The third guy hardly talked at all. I don't remember much

about him except he was a bit shorter than the others, just over

5'5;, average build, clean-shaven, starting to go bald, and dressed

in dark clothes.

The French questioned us for a bit sometimes all together,

sometimes one on one. They wanted to know where we kept our

weapons, where our main base was, where we were headed, and

who had sent us. The whole search dragged on until around 8:30 in

the morning. Nobody had any weapons on them. The car took off

with the German boss and two of the French guys, but they came

back about thirty minutes later after getting more instructions.

They seemed really interested in our staff maps and all the

scribbled notes. In the end, only Claude got grilled hard he said he

was in charge after they threatened us.

They lined us up in pairs and told us to toss our IDs on the

ground. I was in the first group, and they marched us out to a

clearing maybe half a mile away. We stood side by side, turned our

backs, and then the gunfire started, just a sudden, deafening burst.

The rest of the group came after and got the same treatment. The

ones doing the shooting were four Germans and that skinny French

guy I mentioned earlier.

Immediately afterwards, they began to finish us off. I fell at

the same time as my friends, and I was then shot twice in the

shoulder blade, and covered my head with my arms, like my

friends who had been shot. About thirty feet away, I heard the

second group being shot. My shoulder hurt like anything I had ever

felt.

For a moment, there was complete chaos bullets and cries

and the heavy silence that follows sudden violence. The earth

beneath me seemed to absorb both blood and memory, the cool

morning turning colder with each passing second. I lay motionless,

feigning death as best I could, barely daring to breathe. The acrid

scent of gunpowder hung around me, mixed with the sharp tang of

fear.

After the final shots echoed away, footsteps crept closer,

hesitant but determined, searching for signs of life among the

fallen. I felt the weight of bodies beside me, friends now silent, and

I willed myself smaller, invisible, nothing but another casualty in a

field of loss. Time stretched and twisted, moments feeling endless,

until the voices faded and the world settled into a tense, dreadful

quiet.

Only then did I open my eyes, just enough to glimpse the

sky through trembling leaves and to hear the distant rumble of

engines retreating down the road. Survival felt both miracle and

burden, my heart pounding against the ground as I waited for the

right moment to crawl away from the nightmare that would never

truly release its hold. It was then that I started hearing soft moans

coming from the ground beside me, and suddenly my friends

started to move. They were alive ! Oh, God, thank you ! They were

OK.

For a breathless moment, none of us dared speak more than

a whisper. The world felt fragile, as if a single word might shatter

whatever thin miracle had kept us alive.

From my left, Claude's voice, cracked and raw, reached

out. «Is everyone… Can you move?» I turned, squinting at the

outline of his face in the morning haze. «I'm here», I managed,

though pain throbbed through my shoulder. A cough broke from

somewhere nearby, followed by a weak laugh too much relief in

too little air.

Camille, his cheek pressed to the earth, let out a groan.

«They're gone, aren't they?» His words trembled, fear and

disbelief mingled in his tone. Raymond crawled closer, his fingers

brushing the dirt. «They drove off. We need to get out of here

before they come back. Claude… Claude, are you alright?» His

voice faltered on the name a ghost between us all.

A faint reply came from behind a tuft of grass. «Alive. I

think… I think I can walk». Claude's silhouette shifted, clutching

his side.

My own hands were shaking. «Does anyone have anything

for the wounds? I was hit, shoulder hurts like hell». Camille

fumbled with his jacket, pulling out a grimy scrap of cloth. He

tossed it over. «Not clean, but it'll do», he muttered, voice tight.

«We need to move. Fast». Raymond nodded. «We'll head for the

river. The trees will cover us. Once we get to the road, we split no

point in staying together». Claude's breathing was ragged. «Did

you see their faces? That Frenchman…» His words trailed,

haunted.

Raymond spat. «I saw him. I'll remember. All of them, even that

salot, Parent. Especially him. But right now, we run.»

A silence hung in the air a silence born of exhaustion,

terror, and the fragile hope that somehow, against all reason, we'd

made it through. I pressed the cloth to my shoulder, wincing, and

started to crawl, each movement a promise to the living and the

dead.

Claude's voice, steady now, cut through the quiet. «Ready?

On three, we go. One…» We tensed, hearts pounding against the

morning that should have been ordinary.

«Two…»

Claude struggled to his feet, swaying.

«Three.»

We moved stumbling, limping, clutching wounds into the

woods, leaving behind what we could never forget.

At that moment, a blur of golden fur and unrestrained joy came barreling towards us, and my happiness erupted in a way I hadn't felt in years. The chaotic,

overwhelming release shook my entire body. I fell to my knees,

arms outstretched, ready to embrace the promise of a better world

that was running towards me. Eddie's happiness was just as

uncontained. His tail wagged so furiously his whole body shook,

and his barks were the joyful sounds of a dog who had found his

purpose. The moment we met was a beautiful, chaotic tangle of

tears and fur. I buried my face in his neck, and Eddie licked my

hands and face, a non-verbal act of love that told me, «You're safe

now. We are both finally safe».

We ran towards the bridge. But then, so did the German

soldiers. Until, out of nowhere, a shot rang. And another. And

another. To our complete amazement, the Nazis started, literally,

dropping like flies at our feet. The shots seemed to come from

nowhere and everywhere. We were terrified.

Raymond, his heart hammering in his chest, saw the line of

German soldiers waiting for us at the bridge. His mind raced,

calculating our chances zero. That's when the gunfire started. The

first soldier fell, then a second. We just stood there, staring, our

terror momentarily replaced by sheer bewilderment. He glanced at

us, Jules Neirinck, Maurice M., their faces pale with shock. None

of us had any idea where the shots were coming from.

As another German soldier dropped, Pierre B. felt his own

terror give way to a flicker of hope. He looked back towards the

trees, trying to spot their unseen savior. That's when he saw it a

flash of unnatural black glinting in the pale light. It wasn't the

worn, wooden stock of a rifle he knew. This was sleek, metallic,

alien. The long, barrelless silhouette was unlike anything he had

ever seen in a weapons manual or a newsreel.

He felt his blood run cold, his mind unable to process the

sight. He didn't know who was shooting, but he knew with a

chilling certainty that the weapon they held was not from this

world.

Then, one of the boys from the second group, who were

running towards us from the opposite side of the bridge looked at

the rest of us in utter disbelief. «You are not going to believe

this…», he said. «But there's a girl shooting at the Germans!!»

«A what?!?» I asked, nearly shouting. «Where?!?»

«On the bridge! Look!»

I could barely see anyone, but, as if on cue, she moved.

And she sort of saluted us, smiling. For a moment, none of us

moved. The world had narrowed to the span of the crumbling

bridge and the figure barely more than a silhouette perched atop its

battered rail. Framed by the pale dawn, she reloaded with practiced

hands, her face covered by a balaclava which barely showed her

eyes. The Germans faltered, confused by the ferocity of the unseen

sniper.

Our breath caught as she fired again, forcing the enemy

into chaos. The bridge, once a place of passage, now stood as a

barricade, guarded by an ally we never expected. We ducked

behind the thick roots and brambles, our eyes fixed on her a single

girl, standing against a tide of soldiers.

In that instant, hope flowered in our chests, wild and

reckless. We scrambled closer, desperate for safety, for answers.

The gunfire became our shield, each echo pushing us onward, each

bullet testament to courage we hadn't known still lived in this war-

ravaged land. And as the sun crept higher, painting the river gold,

we realized nothing: nothing would ever be the same.

###

That's when the voice rang out: «Guys? Is everyone OK?» So, I

thought. The angel can speak. Because, at that moment, that's

exactly what she was: an angel on our shoulder. It was a young and

melodious American voice.

We huddled together, hearts pounding, every sense

sharpened by adrenaline and disbelief. The world seemed to shrink

to the bridge's battered stones, the sharp crack of rifle fire, the

impossible vision of her both distant and immediate, impossibly

brave, impossibly young.

The Germans, shaken, retreated into the mist that clung

stubbornly to the riverbanks. One dropped his weapon and fled;

another called frantically for cover, his voice nearly drowning in

the thunder of renewed gunfire. But the girl moved with fluid

precision, never wasting a shot, her silhouette unwavering atop the

ruins.

We pressed forward, crawling through dew and mud, drawn

not just by the safety she offered, but by the shattering of every

certainty we had clung to in the darkness of occupation. Who was

she? Where had she come from? In those blinding moments, it

didn't matter. She was ours our myth, our salvation.

A lull fell suddenly, abrupt and total. The air hung, heavy

with smoke and morning light. One of us, braver or more foolish

than the rest, stood and waved. The girl saw, nodded once, and

disappeared behind the crumbling parapet, leaving only the echo of

her defiance. We reached the bridge, trembling and changed, aware

the world we left behind could never be reclaimed but ahead, for

the first time in years, there was possibility.

I heard my own voice, echoing through the clearing, trying

to reach the bridge: «Where are you? Who are you?» In the

meantime the Germans had all but disappeared, dazed and

confused at the thought they had just been fired at by one woman,

who had, singlehandedly taken out five or six of them. One shot,

one kill. Mon Dieu, she was good…

And suddenly, a slender, but, nevertheless, quite

curvaceous figure, completely clad in black, appeared in front of

my friend Pierre B., with a toothy grin: «Hi!» she exclaimed,

nearly making him jump. «I'm Benny. And you're…?» She asked,

her voice trailing off.

«…Pierre…» He answered, completely mesmerized. The

girl was beautiful. She was about our age, with what appeared to

be jet-black long hair, pinned up by a clip. She didn't look like any

of the girls we knew. She had an almost military bearing, but at the

same time, she somehow managed to look quite feminine. «So, is

everyone OK?» We just stood there grinning like idiots. She

grinned as well and looked down. «Ah, I see! By the way, his name

is Eddie. «Merci, Eddie!! Thank you!!» I said as he jumped up and

down beside me, in absolute excitement. My English was broken

by emotion, «and Merci, Mademoiselle». She smiled, «That's

Benny. And you are very welcome».

But, as she realized that most of us had blood running down

our arms, the pleasantries finished quite quickly. She grimaced

towards the rag that Claude was pressing against his wound.

Benny's eyes flickered, sharp and assessing, landing last on

Claude. She knelt before him, deftly unfastening a small satchel

from her hip. «Let me take a look», she said, tone gentle but

brooking no argument. «You really shouldn't be using this, you

know?» she said, pointing at the rag.

«It's filthy. You realize it could cause you an infection,

don't you?» She deftly cleaned the wound, covering it with what

looked like some sort of bandage. She looked like someone who

knew exactly what she was doing. «There», she said «this should

do the trick. Luckily it was a through and through. Of course we'll

have it checked by a doctor, but I believe it'll be fine.»

«Where did you learn to shoot like that?» my friend René

C. asked her. It seemed impossible that a girl our age could have

just shot and killed a number of Germans the way she just did.

«The Army».

«What Army?»

«The United States Army. I was there for five years.»

«How old are you?»

«Twenty-three».

It was impossible. Of course, we knew little to nothing

about the American army, but to even imagine they could teach

women, no, girls to shoot like that was unblievable, even to us, and

crois moi, we have certainly had our share of impossibilities over

the past five years.

«We've got to get you guys out of here, fast. C'mon, Eddie,

c'mon boys, let's go! Benny's voice, a low and urgent command,

snapped us back to reality. Our joy, still raw and overwhelming,

gave way to a sharp reminder of the battle we'd just survived as we

winced from the pain of the gunshot wounds in our arms. We knew

our rescue was far from complete, as we were still in enemy

territory. Without a word, we fell in behind Benny and Eddie, our

trust in them absolute.

As we walked, our tired legs aching, we reached down to

pet the dog who had found us, whispering words of gratitude.

"Mais tu es un brave chien, tu es un bon chien!" we said, our

broken French mixing with our tears. The dog was more than just

our guide; he was a living, breathing symbol of our new, fragile

hope.

###

The forest floor was a tapestry of shifting shadows and the quiet

rustle of leaves under our boots. Benny moved with a quiet, lethal

grace, her eyes constantly scanning the trees. We followed, a line

of boys silent and watchful, a new kind of fear and trust in our

hearts. The alien weapon slung across her back no longer felt like a

threat; it felt like a promise, and Eddie scampering by our side.

We were nearing the edge of the woods when he appeared.

A lone figure, dressed in the dark leather coat of the French

Gestapo, stepped from behind a wide oak tree. He had a cigarette

in his mouth and a cruel smirk on his face.

«Well, well», he said in a sneer, his eyes lingering on

Benny. «What have we here? A little bird lost from her nest?»

«We don't want any trouble. Please let us through. » The

words were said in a steady, but commanding voice, one that he

was clearly not used to hearing, much less from a woman. He

walked toward her, his hand moving with a slow, deliberate

arrogance.

Eddie, with his heightened senses and his military training,

reacted instantly and instinctively. The man's cold, menacing

energy was a red flag, an immediate threat to Benny and to us, his

new pack. All the training, all the protective instincts that were

once used in the war kicked in with full force.

He didn't hesitate, lunging towards the man with a low

growl, a powerful force no longer a victim but a protector.

I saw the terrifying Gestapiste and the enraged dog, and I was torn

between my own fear and my desperate need to prevent a tragedy.

«It's ok, Eddie», Claude pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion.

«Stay, Eddie, stay!» I shouted, my heart pounding in my chest. We

knew that a single act of violence could mean our immediate death.

This moment was a profound test of the bond we had just

formed, a tense, terrifying dance between a protector's fury and a

plea for peace.

«Where are you going, ma puce?»

«Listen, asshole… I said let us through!» As she motioned

forward, he reached out and grabbed her by the elbow. «Where do

you think you're going, maquisard?»

Let. Go. Of. My. Arm.» She said, in between gritted teeth.

Her voice came out monotone, and her face was stone. He sneered,

his grip tightening. «This forest is ours.»

In an instant, everything changed. The calm in Benny's

eyes evaporated, replaced by a cold, feral light I had never seen

before. It wasn't just fear or anger; it was a kind of a switch. Her

hand shot out, not to block him, but to grab the wrist of the hand

that held her and with her free hand, she hit him squarely on the

face with the butt of her rifle, so viciously he stumbled backwards

and hit his head on the tree. The man's cigarette fell from his lips,

and a cry of pain escaped him, as he put a hand to his nose and felt

the blood. «Pute, you broke my nose!» He lunged towards her, but

she didn't flinch. She was a completely different person. She

moved with a frightening speed and precision. A flurry of blows

rained down on him punches to his face, a knee to his stomach, a

vicious stomp on his knee that made him bellow in agony. She was

a machine, a programmed fighter, her body acting without thought,

without mercy. The blows were brutal, efficient, and horrifyingly

quick.

«Son of a bitch! Motherfucker! I told you to let me go!

Who the fuck you think I am? Some unarmed kid you can roughen

up? I'll kill you! I swear to God, I'll fucking kill you! Piece

of shit!»

She wasn't just fighting him. She was fighting a ghost, a

memory from a place of sand and dust we could never

comprehend. With each hit, her face became a mask of cold fury,

her eyes reflecting raw, desperate violence. Her breath came in

sharp, ragged gasps, as if she was re-living a nightmare.

We watched in a stunned, terrified silence as she drove the

man to the ground, her fist rising and falling with a terrifying

rhythm. The man was a broken mess, and she still wasn't done. It

was Maurice M. who was the first to react.

«Benny! Stop! He's finished!» He yelled, and moved

forward, grabbing her arm. She didn't respond. He had to

physically shake her, to break her out of the trance.

The light in her eyes flickered, the coldness melting away,

replaced by a deep, shuddering terror. She looked at her hands, at

the man she had just broken, and then at us. Her body trembled as

she fell to her knees, her face a mask of shame and self-loathing.

The terror we had felt for her and the Gestapiste was

replaced by a wave of pity for the girl we saw now a young woman

who had just had a terrible part of her past brought to the surface.

And she was crying. We stood frozen, our eyes wide with shock,

looking at the man on the ground and at Benny's face, now a mask

of cold, raw fury. We had just seen her do something

incomprehensibly brutal, and the fear we had felt in the face of her

incredible skill was now replaced by a chilling realization: thetraining she had told us about, had turned her into a weapon, a

veritable killing machine.

But then, as her body began to tremble and the tears began

to fall, everything changed. The cold light in her eyes disappeared,

replaced by the deep, shuddering terror of a frightened girl. Her

body crumpled as she fell to her knees, looking at her hands as if

they were alien things. All our fear vanished, replaced by a wave

of profound pity and a fierce, immediate need to protect her. She

wasn't an unstoppable soldier from the future; she was a girl who

was hurting. Maurice M., who had been the first to break through

her trance, knelt beside her, his hand on her shoulder. Others came

forward, their faces etched with a new kind of understanding.

We didn't see the violence anymore. We saw the pain that

caused it. In that moment, we saw the real cost of the war that was

still a part of her, a war we were lucky to have been saved from.

We were no longer just her followers; we were a brotherhood, now

united in our need to protect our new sister from the demons of her

own past.

«I'm sorry, guys. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to…» Her

voice was a broken whisper, her body trembling with a shame we

could all feel. She didn't look up, as if she couldn't bear to see the

judgment she expected in our faces. «It's okay, Benny. We

understand», René P. said, his voice as steady as a stone in a

stream. He knelt on the ground beside her. «You were defending

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yourself. And defending us, He deserved every blow».

The words, so simple and true, were like a bucket of water

thrown on a fire. The sound of her ragged, horrified sobs changed,

becoming a desperate, choked gasp. She finally looked up, her

tear-filled eyes wide with disbelief as she looked at René, then at

the rest of us. She had expected to be feared, but all she saw was

understanding. She had expected to be judged, but she was met

with forgiveness.

And at that moment, she was no longer our soldier, the girl

from the future who knew things we couldn't comprehend. She

was just Benny, a girl who was hurting, and we were the only ones

who had ever seen what her kind of pain looked like. We had been

saved from one war, but she had been living with another inside of

her. We were all survivors. We were a brotherhood of ghosts, and

she was one of us.

«These Gestapistes, they are the worst kind of filth. They

sell their own people», Claude said, his face a mask of hatred.

His words hung in the air, a final, unvarnished truth. The

man on the ground was no longer a threat; he was an object of

pure, righteous contempt. We all felt it. The German soldiers were

the enemy, yes, but the Gestapistes were something far worse.

They were traitors, our own countrymen who had chosen to profit

from our suffering. Their moral rot was an ugliness we found more

repugnant than any uniform.

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We looked down at the man, a collective silence of disdain

settling over us. He wasn't worth our pity. He wasn't even worth

our anger. He was a symbol of the moral corruption we were

fighting against, a sickness we were now leaving far behind. We

had no words for him, only a shared understanding that we had to

move on. Our journey was to a future free from men like him.

«Just leave him», Maurice M. said, his voice flat with

disgust. As he walked away, he spat on the man lying on the

ground. Espèce de salot.

His words and his gesture were the final saying on the

matter. The man was not even worth our consideration. We turned

and followed Benny, our feet crunching on the leaves, leaving the

Gestapo agent behind as nothing more than a discarded piece of

trash. In that moment, we were not just leaving an unconscious

man in the woods; we were leaving our past behind. The terror, the

hate, the moral corruption they all belonged to that place. Our

journey was to the future, and we were walking away, step by step,

from the world that had tried to destroy us.

###

«Why is your name Benny?» one of us asked, breaking the silence

of the forest. The question was simple and innocent, a sign that the

terrifying violence we had just witnessed was already fading,

replaced by a simple curiosity about the girl who was leading us.

She didn't miss a beat. «It's a diminutive for Benedita».

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The name felt old and beautiful, a stark contrast to the

small, practical name we knew. Benedita. It sounded like

something from a storybook, and the meaning, she would later tell

us, was «blessed». In that moment, listening to her casual, honest

words as we walked through the Sologne forest, it felt like the

most fitting name in the world. She was our blessing, our guide

through a nightmare, and the promise of a future that felt, for the

first time, not just real, but sacred.

«You wanna know something funny? I had never been to

France before this», she said, her voice a quiet stream in the rustle

of the leaves. «The closest I ever was, was Portugal. My father is

from there, and my mom's from Mexico. That's the motive for my

name; it's Portuguese and Spanish».

I watched her face, a wave of confusion and wonder

washing over me. Here she was, this young woman who had just

demonstrated a terrifying capacity for violence and who was

leading us through time, confessing that this was her first time in

our country. We had assumed her connection to us was a product of

history, of some cold, academic mission. But now, she was telling

us that it was a personal choice, a journey she had made without

any prior connection to our land.

Her name, Benedita, now made perfect sense. It was a

beautiful, lyrical blend of her family's history, a name that carried

the sun of Portugal and the warmth of Mexico. She was a product

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of a world we couldn't even imagine, a place where countries

mixed and blended in a way that was new to us. This strange,

impossible girl, our savior, had her own story, her own roots. And

she, with all her history and all her blessings, had chosen to come

to France to save us.

«There's all kinds of people in the States, and in New York,

where I'm from. From all over the world».

The words landed softly in the quiet woods, a new kind of

revelation. We had always thought of America as a single,

powerful country. We had seen their soldiers, heard of their

immense industrial might. But Benny wasn't talking about soldiers

or factories; she was talking about people. The idea that a city

could be filled with people from every corner of the world, living

side by side, was a concept so foreign to us that we could barely

comprehend it.

The war had taught us to hate. It had taught us to fear

anyone who was different. But the world Benny came from, and

the city she called home, seemed to have learned a different lesson.

She wasn't just describing a place. She was describing a kind of

freedom we hadn't even known to hope for the freedom to live

among others without fear, a true and lasting peace. New York

wasn't just a destination on a map; it was a promise.

All we knew from New York, or from America, for that

matter, was from the movies, the ones we had seen before the war.

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And now here she was, telling us about it.

I thought of the cowboys on the dusty plains, the gangsters

in sharp suits, and the women in flowing dresses singing in grand

ballrooms. That was the America we knew a fantastical, larger-

than-life place that existed only on the silver screen. It was a

beautiful dream, but we never believed it was real.

But Benny wasn't talking about a movie. She was talking

about a home, a city of people from "all over the world," a place

where a girl with a Portuguese father and a Mexican mother could

belong. She wasn't an actress playing a part; she was a young

woman with a clear voice and a kind face who was promising to

take us to a place that felt more real than any movie we had ever

seen. The Hollywood dream had ended, and in its place was a

promise more precious than gold.

We walked for what seemed like another hour, the light

from the forest ceiling growing dim, before we saw it. Not a

military camp filled with tents and trucks, but a small clearing

holding a series of long, white vehicles. They looked like giant,

clean boxes with wheels, connected by wires and glowing screens

that showed things we couldn't even begin to understand.

The air was filled not with the smell of smoke and damp

earth, but with a low, constant hum, like a hundred radios all

playing at once, but without any noise. We followed Benny to the

largest of the vehicles. Inside, it was warm and well-lit by a soft,

humming light. The air smelled of clean metal and something

sweet, like freshly baked bread.

The three American men, Daniel, Steven, and Richard,

were inside, along with two other people. They sat in what looked

like comfortable armchairs, watching strange, colorful screens

filled with moving pictures and numbers. They smiled as we came

in, their faces kind and reassuring.

This was the basecamp. It was a place of calm and

technology, a stark and beautiful contrast to the mud and fear of

our world. It was a sanctuary, a physical manifestation of the future

we had been promised. We were finally home.

ChAPTER 3

After everything we had been through, finally reaching Basecamp felt like stepping out of a wild dream. Picture this: hot showers washing away the grime, clean clothes wrapping us in comfort, and a warm dinner that filled our bellies with gratitude. It was more than just survival; something fundamental shifted inside us. We weren't just escapees or survivors anymore. In that moment, we were just boys, and right at our feet, guarding our newfound peace, was Eddie — the dog who had somehow captured our hearts.

We all huddled together in a cozy little room, the weight of the world lifting off our shoulders. The silence around us buzzed with relief, the kind that can only be felt after years of chaos. With Eddie snuggled at our feet, we shared quiet moments that felt almost surreal. No more running, no more hiding; we had survived. And here we were, basking in a simple, genuine kind of happiness that we hadn't felt in ages.

Then, the Buonaseras walked in and caught sight of us perched on the floor with Eddie, our faces scrubbed clean and weariness finally fading from our bodies. It must've been a sight: four scruffy boys doting on a scruffy dog, the tension of the past dissolving into soft laughter and easy conversation. Steve's face lit up when he saw us; «Ah, I see you met Eddie», he said, and it was clear he understood. His words weren't just an introduction; they carried the weight of acknowledgment — a small miracle in our midst.

For a heartbeat, all the trauma, all the horror, and all the fear we had dragged along with us faded into the background. It was replaced by this heartwarming image of a dog and his boys, finally finding peace. Just being there together, settling into our new life, felt like the start of something beautiful.

#

«Yes», we would say, our faces lighting up with a mix of love and gratitude as we looked at Eddie, our new friend. The words were simple, but they packed a punch—holding the weight of everything we'd been through. «He saved us».

But it wasn't just about the physical act of him guiding us out of the woods. No, it was so much more than that. In Eddie, we found this amazing beacon of light amidst all the darkness. He pulled us away from the chaos and terror of our past, leading us into a world filled with love and safety. For boys like us, who had felt so broken — both inside and out —this was nothing short of a miracle.

Our love for Eddie was a direct counter to all the hatred we'd faced before. Every laugh, every moment of joy we shared with him was loaded with gratitude—a powerful expression of hope we thought we'd lost. Sitting in that quiet room with him by our side, we realized we weren't just survivors anymore. We were a family. And it felt incredible to know our new life was proof that love could truly save.

With each passing day, our bond with Eddie grew deeper. I can't help but think about those afternoons when the playfulness took over. Like when Pierre E. was trying to put on his sock and our dog snatched it up, darting around the room like he owned the place. Or when François's cap went flying, and we all erupted into laughter as we chased after him. Those moments felt like pure magic, a beautiful sign of trust in our healing journey.

We were discovering joy in the simplest things, and honestly, it felt like a celebration of our newfound hope. You could practically feel how far we had come together, and that was something worth cherishing. Eddie wasn't just a friend; he was part of our family now, and together, we were building something that felt so right.

But then was when our laughing stopped. Our hearts just shattered when we heard Eddie's story, which began with the death of his beloved handler. The man's name was Harrison, and he had been a member of Benny's unit.

«The veterinary psychiatrist said the best way was to physically separate him from the unit and reassign him. He'd been with us since he was six months old. Being with us would be a constant reminder of Harrison, and they didn't want that. After all, it was the United States Army and life had to go on, the war had to be fought. He was an asset, as valuable as a gun or a Humvee or a plane.»

«I took him to the funeral», Benny would go on. «Then they put him in a cage as he was being psychologically evaluated. He wouldn't move for days. Then he'd be violent at any unknown person who came to see him. The Army ended up realizing that he was unrecoverable and a waste of time and money and decided to put him to sleep

We knelt next to Eddie and hugged him, some of us with tears running down their cheeks. We were no longer seeing just a dog, but a kindred spirit, a fellow victim who had been broken by the same war that had shattered our own lives. We buried our faces in his golden fur, with our tears of grief for him mixing with the tears of our own unspoken pain.

We understood his story in a way that no one else could. His journey from beloved companion to a "waste of time and money" mirrored our own journey from sons and brothers to being left for dead on a forest. His suffering validated our own, and in his tear-soaked fur, we found a profound, silent understanding. Our hug was a silent promise to him that he would never be alone again, that his loyalty and love would never again be met with cold, clinical indifference. In that moment, we didn't just find a friend; we found a fellow wounded soul.

But it was then that, Eddie being Eddie, in a matter of seconds, he shed his wounded past and reverted to his usual, happy self. As he saw our tear-stained faces, as he felt our raw empathy and unwavering love, the final piece of the puzzle fit in, a powerful force that finally broke through the shield he had built around himself.

He sprang up from the ground, his body no longer heavy with despair. With a happy bark, he snatched the cap from Pierre B.'s head and took off, his tail wagging furiously. We, a moment ago lost in grief, simply erupted in a chorus of laughter and chased him, with our howls of joy echoing through the camp. Roland tripped and laughed, and Jean fell to his knees, his face red with joy as he reached out to grab Eddie.

We didn't just see a dog; we saw a four-legged, furry brother who had saved us. He was a silent confidant, a warm presence, and a loyal friend who understood our trauma without needing a single word. He was a living, breathing testament to the fact that we were no longer alone, that our family was now bigger and more beautiful than we could have ever imagined.

And I'm sure that, for Eddie, we were his new purpose. He didn't see broken boys with shattered souls. He saw little boys who just needed a dog to be happy again. He saw our need for his simple, unconditional love, and in joyful laughter, he found the final piece of his own healing. The love between them was a silent, powerful form of mutual therapy, a beautiful testament to the idea that two very different wounded souls could come together and find a new kind of peace.

CHAPTER 4

«Hello, children», one of the men said. He immediately looked familiar. His face, his voice. It was a vision of the past. Then it dawned on us: Monsieur Rubinstein. Our teacher. This man looked exactly like him.

My heart seized in my chest. The world, already so strange and impossible, tilted on its axis. He stood there, the familiar gentle smile on his face, the kind eyes, the stoop of his shoulders. It was a face we thought we would never see again, a face we had last seen filled with sorrow as he was taken away from our class by the Germans. It was impossible. It couldn't be him. He was an old man then.

He took a step forward, and I saw the lines around his eyes, the same ones I remembered, crinkling with kindness. My mind raced, trying to find a logic in this madness. And then, I remembered what Benny had said, the reason for this whole impossible mission: a promise. A promise made by our teacher's grandson.

This wasn't him. This was a ghost of a memory made real. This was the grandson who had made his face, his voice, his very being a mirror of the man who had loved us. He was a living, breathing testament to a promise kept across eighty years, a love so deep it had created a perfect vision of our past in our future. He wasn't our teacher, but in every way that mattered, he was. He was the one who had brought us home.

«Bonjour, Monsieur», I said, my voice barely a whisper, the formal greeting the only thing I could muster. His smile was so kind, so reassuring.

It was the same smile I remembered from the classroom, the same one that had welcomed us into his world of books and ideas. It was the smile of a man who knew the secrets of the universe, who saw the potential in every student he taught. And in that smile, in the calm lines of his face, I saw a profound understanding. He knew why we were staring. He knew why our hearts were pounding in our chests. He wasn't just here to save us; he was here to be the final piece of the puzzle, a living, breathing testament to the love that had set this impossible mission in motion. We were finally home.

I felt so profoundly happy. I was realizing this was not a dream. It was becoming real.

He showed us photos of his grandfather, our beloved teacher, an older version of the one we knew, but we were so happy to see that he aged in safety and in his bed, with his family around him, and not in some concentration camp or gas chamber.

The man who was our teacher's grandson reached into his jacket and pulled out a small leather book. He opened it, and one by one, he showed us the pages. We leaned in, our hearts in our throats, and there he was. Our Monsieur Rubinstein. Not the man we remembered—a weary man being taken away by soldiers—but an older man, his hair white, his face filled with the kindness we knew, but also with a peace we had never seen. He was smiling, surrounded by family, with a grandchild on his knee.

The tears that fell from my eyes were not of sorrow, but of the most profound relief I had ever known. The ghost of fear that had lived in my heart for so long, the constant worry about his fate, finally vanished. We had feared the worst, a fate of suffering and pain. But he had lived. He had been safe. He had grown old with the love of his family around him. The promise to save us was one thing, but this was a different gift entirely. It was the gift of peace, the knowledge that the man who had sacrificed so much for us had, in the end, won his own beautiful victory.

And then he added, «When you arrive, a home has been prepared for you. You will be given new identities, new clothes, and the chance to live a life you were denied. You are no longer boys from 1944. You are young men with an entire future ahead of you. You will go to school, learn new languages, and choose your own paths. The promise has been fulfilled, and the rest of your lives are yours to write».

«New identities?» we asked, the words holding a collective fear. The thought of losing our names, the last anchors to our past, was a terror we hadn't considered.

The Professor smiled softly, that same kind, reassuring smile we had known from our teacher. «Don't worry», he said. «The only thing we'll change is your birth year».

The relief that washed over us was so profound it was almost a physical thing. We had feared losing everything, the very core of who we were. But he had understood. He had seen that our names—Raymond, Pascal, Gabriel, Pierre—were the one thing we couldn't lose. The only thing that tied us to our past, the thing we needed to shed, was our birth year. He wasn't taking our identities; he was giving them back to us, made new. We were still the boys from Paris. We were simply now free to live.

The disbelief that had followed us from the forest, through the rush of the autoroute traffic and under the shadow of the impossibly beautiful airplane, finally dissipated. It wasn't the sound of the bus or the sight of the technology that made it real. It was his face. It was the face of our teacher, of the man who had loved us so much he had found a way to save us across eighty years of time.

I looked at the others, and I knew they felt it too. The tension in our shoulders dissolved. We stood there, a group of boys from a world of war, in a place of perfect peace, surrounded by people who had made a dream into a life. We were not just rescued; we were home. The past was over. Our new beginning, a long, beautiful summer morning, had finally arrived.

«What will our new lives be like?» we asked, the question filled with the hope we were only just now allowing ourselves to feel.

«You'll live at home with us and our families», the three men said, their smiles so kind, so warm.

The words were the final, perfect answer to every fear we had ever held. We were not going to be alone, strangers in a strange new world. We were going to a home, to a family. Our brotherhood was no longer a band of boys lost in time; it was now the newest part of a much larger family, one that had gone to extraordinary lengths to save us. The men who had brought us here were not just our rescuers; they were our new family. The long journey was over. The impossible had been made real, and our new life, filled with the warmth and love of a home we had not yet seen, was just beginning.

«But what about our families?» One of us asked, I no longer remember who, the question a sudden, raw break in the relief we felt. It was the one thing we hadn't dared to talk about. We were safe, but they were still ghosts in our minds.

«We're planning to bring them over very soon, as soon as possible».

The words were so simple, so direct, that they hung in the air for a moment, and then the smiles on our faces were impossible to hide. The fear and the longing that had been a part of us for so long evaporated. We were going to see them again.

I thought of Raymond and his sister, Elodie. I pictured Pascal's r brother, Étienne, and Gabriel's sister, Geneviève. I saw the faces of our brothers and sisters, our parents, our grandparents—all the people we had left behind, all the love we had thought was gone forever. The boys next to me were smiling, some of them with tears in their eyes, their faces reflecting the beautiful truth of what we were promised. We weren't just going to a new home; we were going to a new home with our families. We were going to be whole again.

«They have been told you were ok», the Professor said gently, «but that they could not see you for your safety and theirs.»

The final piece of the puzzle fell into place. We had been rescued, our families would know, and even better, they had not had to endure the eighty years of our absence believing us to be lost. My mother, my father, all the families back in Paris, they had not been in mourning. They had been waiting. It was a burden lifted from our shoulders that we hadn't even known we were still carrying. The thought of them believing us gone, grieving us, was a sorrow we had not had to endure. In this new world, we weren't just alive; our memory was alive in our families' hearts. We weren't just saved; we had also, in a way, saved them. The long, dark night was over, and the rest of our lives were an open book.

«But we cannot do that until after the war ends, which, as you know, will happen very soon.»

The words made perfect sense, and the last of my questions dissipated into the air. We were safe, our families were safe, and the war that had defined our lives was at that very moment in its final days. We escaped, but our families had to wait. It was a frightening thought, but we were given the knowledge of the future where it would be all over. We were the living example that something new was possible.

Knowledge was the most powerful thing we had been given. We had not only been saved, but we were also given the gift of knowing the future. We knew that the war was ending, and we knew that our families would be safe. The dreadful anticipation would pay off. The long nightmare was finally, truly over.

#

«Professor, can I ask you something?»

«Yes, of course», he said.

«It's about Benny».

«I know how confusing it must be for you. I mean, she is a girl, but you know that where we come from, women are in the Armed Forces just like men».

The Professor responded gently, recognising that our questions came from deep uncertainty. He shared stories of courage and sorrow, trying to help us understand Benny's invisible wounds from war. We realised history's pain lingers, and saw Benny as someone fighting ongoing battles within herself. This connection fostered gratitude for those who rescued us and unity with young soldiers around us.

As morning settled in, we learned healing was a collective journey. Benny's resilience showed not just in combat but in her openness with us, and trust quietly grew among our group. The Professor's stories encouraged us to embrace our new reality and appreciate its unexpected positives.

Explaining Benny's struggles as similar to veterans' trauma, the Professor helped us relate, noting some friends had family members affected too; the distant places marked on maps suddenly felt closer.

The Professor's words deepened our understanding of ourselves and our rescuers. Benny's service and burdens from the Middle East revealed how old and new wars connected us through shared pain and hope, making us recognise the hidden scars and quiet strengths of others.

The Professor's words opened our eyes to the truth that trauma does not belong to a single era or a single person. Benny's courage, her fierce protection, and even her moments of anger were not just the marks of a soldier—they were the echoes of battles fought long after the guns fell silent. In her, we found a reflection of the men we remembered from home, men who bore the weight of memory in quiet moments and sudden flares of emotion. The realization was sobering, yet it brought with it a kind of kinship: the knowledge that, across decades and borders, the wounds of war create their own language, one understood by the hearts of survivors.

We listened in silence, the Professor's gentle explanations allowing Benny's story to unfold before us, layer by layer. Her struggles, once foreign and mysterious, now made sense; she was not only our rescuer but also someone in search of her own healing. Her battles had not ended with her mission to save us. Instead, they had continued, reshaped by every act of kindness and every new beginning. In that moment, we understood that our arrival was more than an escape—it was a chance for all of us to help each other find peace.

It was this understanding that paved the way for everything that came next. As we settled into the serenity of Basecamp, surrounded by a newfound family and the promise of reunion with our loved ones, a sense of possibility blossomed. Our journey was no longer just about survival, but about transformation—about turning the lessons of pain into bridges of compassion. The courage to hope had returned, just as the world around us began to fill with laughter, stories, and the vibrant colors of a future we could finally believe in.

The words, so simple and so kind, fell into place like the final pieces of a puzzle. Of course, we had seen it. Our fathers, our uncles, the men who had come back from the last war—some of them had eyes that looked at you but saw something far away, and voices that rose in a sudden, inexplicable anger. We had a name for it in our own time, a kind of sadness that never left them.

That's when I caught Pierre looking at Benny. She looked truly beautiful with her long, dark hair down and wearing a long, flowery dress. She caught him and smiled, making his face turn red. Suddenly, she got up and went to sit beside him. «Hi! Pierre, right?»

«Oui... I mean, yes.»

Benny settled on the bench beside Pierre, folding her hands in her lap. For a moment, neither spoke. The sounds of laughter and soft conversation drifted over from the others, but here in the corner of the camp, there was a gentle hush.

«You like the dress?» she asked quietly, as if half-amused by his flustered silence.

Pierre nodded, his cheeks still a little pink. «It's very pretty. You look… different. I mean—just not like before. Good different.»

She laughed, a sound warmer than he expected. «Sometimes it's nice to feel like myself again. Out there it's all uniforms and boots and rules. Dresses are rare.»

He hesitated, then: «Do you… ever miss home? Before the war?»

Benny's smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful sadness. She glanced at the wildflowers growing by their feet, then back at Pierre. «Every day. But I think—sometimes home is the place where you are needed most.»

Pierre thought about that, tracing a pattern in the dirt with his toe. «I never thought people like you could be sad. You're so brave. And strong. I always feel like… I'm just trying to keep up.»

She reached out, touching his hand lightly—a gesture both reassuring and grateful. «Brave isn't the same as fearless, you know. Most days I'm just doing what has to be done. And sometimes, I'm scared too. But I'm glad you're here, Pierre.»

He looked up, surprised and a little shy, but she held his gaze steadily. «Without you, I might never have remembered what it's like to hope for something better. You remind me of that. All of you do.»

The silence between them filled with a new kind of understanding—gentler, less uncertain. Benny smiled, this time with a brightness that reached her eyes. «Come on. Let's see what stories Lana is telling. I bet you've got better ones.»

Pierre grinned, suddenly bold. «Not better—just different. But maybe, together, we'll make new ones worth telling.»

We didn't think that the Professor talked about the Middle East as a place on a map; he was talking about a place in her mind, a landscape of violence that she had carried with her, just as our own soldier fathers had. We finally understood her violent fury, her stoic distance, and her hidden tears. They were not signs of coldness but of a profound and constant pain. We had not just been saved by a professional soldier; we had been saved by a person who was wounded, just like us. In our journey, we had not only found a new life, but we had also helped heal the very person who had made our salvation possible.

She once had a fight with some guy in traffic over a red light or something like that. He got out of the car and tried to confront her. «Well», the Professor said with a quiet sigh, «I can tell you she broke his arm in three different places».

We were silent. The Professor didn't need to say anything more. The story was a chilling, mundane example of a fury we had only seen directed at a Gestapo officer. We thought her violence had been an appropriate response to evil or a necessary act of survival. But the image of her, in civilian clothes, breaking a man's arm over something as ordinary as a traffic light, made the full, terrifying scope of her pain real to us. We understood now. The war was not just a memory for her; it was a ghost that followed her home, a quiet rage that was always there, just under the surface. It was a violence that did not discriminate, born from a place of deep, unhealed trauma.

In our world, wars were fought in trenches and battlefields. In her world, wars came home with you. We looked at Benny now, no longer just a brave soldier, but a wounded one. She had saved us from our war, but we were now helping to save her from hers.

The revelation was a quiet shock. We had always seen Benny as a shield, an impenetrable force from a world we could not fathom. She was a soldier, a professional, a being without doubt or fear. But now, we understood that she, too, had been fighting a war of her own. Her violent, almost machine-like fury against the Gestapiste now made a terrible kind of sense. It was not just a show of force; it was a symptom of a deeper wound.

Benny had traveled back in time to save us from a war that had left us scarred. But we, in our simple acceptance of our lot, had helped to save her in return. We were not just her mission. We were her hope.

#

In the serene setting of our Basecamp, the chaos of our journey gives way to a quiet, profound peace. Later on, we were introduced to other members of the team. One of them was Lana. Eyes wide-eyed with excitement, we approach her, our questions about America pouring out in a mix of French and broken English. We were so hungry for knowledge and our imaginations were running wild with images of jazz, Hollywood, and zoot suits.

The sunlight caught on the loose strands of her sandy-blond hair, which tumbled freely over her shoulders. Her eyes, an expressive shade of hazel, seem to hold both laughter and understanding—a gentle warmth that draws us closer. She was wearing a simple blue dress, its cotton fabric faded by adventure, paired with sturdy boots still dusted from travel. There's a quiet confidence in her posture, a spark of curiosity in her gaze, and when she smiles, it's with the full-hearted openness of someone who lives with one foot in two worlds. As the daughter of one of the Americans, she was a beacon of this new, vibrant world. She patiently answered our questions, her words painting a picture of a world so different from the one we left behind. She talks about the rhythm of jazz music, the spectacle of Hollywood movies, and the flamboyant style of zoot suits—all symbols of the freedom and cultural vibrancy that awaited us. Her easy manner and willingness to engage with our curiosities made us feel comfortable and hopeful.

We crowded around her, our faces bright with anticipation.

«Lana», asks Pascal grinning, «is it true everyone in America dances all night beneath the city lights»?

Lana laughs. «Not everyone! But in places like New York, you can hear jazz pouring out of the clubs until sunrise. Some people say the city never sleeps».

«And the movies?» asks Pierre E., his eyes wide. — «Do you see movie stars on the street»?

Lana leans in conspiratorially. «Maybe not every day, but if you go to Los Angeles, you might catch a glimpse of someone famous. There are giant theaters where the premieres happen, all the lights flashing and people dressed to impress. But in New York you're more likely to see them whenever they do something on TV

: 

 And the suits with the big shoulders and hats—like in the pictures? – Marcel asks, tugging at his collar.

We laugh, as Lana twirls imaginary lapels. «Oh, yes! Zoot suits, all bright colors and wide-brimmed hats. People wear them to dance halls, especially when the big bands play. It's all about making a statement, feeling the music, and spinning across the floor». Lana's eyes sparkled as she continued, «If you ever find yourself in the right part of the city, you might stumble into an old swing dance club — places where the floors are worn smooth from decades of spinning shoes, and the air is alive with the sound of trumpets and laughter. There, everyone from taxi drivers to film stars swirl together, forgetting the world outside as the band swings into a new tune. Some say the best memories are made on those crowded dancefloors, under strings of colored lights».

We glanced at each other, dazzled by the vision unfolding before us.

 It sounds like magic. - says Pascal softly.

Lana smiles warmly. «In a way, it is. But you'll see—America is more than what's in the movies or music. It's a place where you can dream as big as you like. And sometimes, those dreams come true in the most unexpected ways».

We sat back, letting the possibilities settle over — the distant rhythm of jazz, the shimmer of silver screens, the promise of a thousand new adventures.

«You know, Louis Armstrong created one of my favorite songs.»

«Really?» René P. asked. «Which one?»

Lana pressed a button on what we had learned before was a «laptop» and a beautiful and peaceful melody started to play. And soon, we heard the unmistakable voice of Louis Armstrong:

I see trees of green, red roses too

 I see them bloom for me and you

 And I think to myself, what a wonderful world!

I see skies of blue and clouds of white

 The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night

 And I think to myself, what a wonderful world!

The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky

 Are also on the faces of people going by

 I see friends shaking hands saying, "How do you do?"

 They're really saying, "I love you"

I hear babies cry, and I watched them grow

 They'll learn much more than I'll ever know

 And I think to myself, what a wonderful world!

Yes, I think to myself, what a wonderful world!

It was one of the most beautiful songs we've ever heard. It's message of simple beauty and enduring hope hit us with a profound force. In a world of blackouts and rationing, where every day was a struggle for survival, the lyrics were a stark and beautiful reminder of what we had been fighting for. It was a song of peace, of hope, and it came from a world where Louis Armstrong was not just a musician but a beloved elder statesman singing of a beauty that was so new to us. We were deeply moved by the music, and, at that moment, we felt that we and Lana were sharing a beautiful, wordless understanding of the wonderful world we had fought so hard to bring into existence.

It was then that I caught one of my friends looking intently at Lana. It was Camille, and he really wasn't trying hard to disguise it. She seems to have noticed it too, because she smiled at him, making his face turn crimson.

«My grandmother was a soldier too, in a place called Vietnam», she said. «It's in Asia... I believe that in your days, it was a French colony called Indochina. Anyway, he was there during the War, in the late 1960s. And he used to listen to this song, He told me it reminded him of home. Of the beautiful world he was fighting to come back to».

We stared at the screen, our minds racing to comprehend the weight of this new revelation. At that moment, the song becomes more than just a beautiful melody from the future. It became a timeless anthem of hope, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, the simple beauty of the world and the enduring love of home were worth fighting for.

«Wanna listen to some more of his favourites? He likes sone pretty cool ones.» And with that, she pressed the button again, and the first chords of a new song filled the room.

As the opening notes of the song Lana said was called Light My Fire, by a group called The Doors spilled into the room, we sat up, startled by the unfamiliar sound. The music was nothing like the jazz or swing we knew. It was wild and winding, the organ swirling like a restless current, the rhythm pulsing and hypnotic. The singer's voice—deep, smoky, with a kind of lazy confidence—drew us in with words that seemed to promise adventure and danger all at once. For a moment, we just sat there, eyes wide, unable to speak. The song felt reckless, almost forbidden, as though we were listening in on a secret too bold for our own world. It was at once mysterious and urgent, hinting at a freedom we had never dreamed of—a night that never truly ended, where the city lights blurred and everything felt possible. It made the music of our time feel tame in comparison, as if this song had broken free from something we'd always taken for granted. When the guitar solo began, wild and soaring, a kind of energy swept through us. Pascal bounced a foot against the wooden floor, and Pierre E. let out a low whistle. Camille stared at Lana as if she had conjured the song herself, while René P. simply shook his head, grinning in wonder. We understood, suddenly, what it meant to want to run headlong into the night, to let the music carry you until dawn.

When it ended, the room was thick with awe and a little longing. We had been given a glimpse of a world as intoxicating as the promise of peace, a world where dreams were wilder, where the music itself seemed to set you free. For the first time, we understood why Lana spoke of America as a place of endless possibility—not just for its movies or bright lights, but for the way its music dared you to be brave enough to light your own fire, and never look back.

We hardly had a moment to catch our breath before Lana searched for another song. She glanced back at us, her eyes alight with playful mischief. «Let's see what you think of this one», she said, pressing play. A raw, electric riff rang out, sharper and more restless than anything we'd ever heard. The voice that followed was brash and defiant, the words — I can't get no satisfaction — echoing the frustration and longing that simmered just beneath the surface. We listened, stunned, as the song throbbed with a pulse unlike any swing or jazz tune from our own time. It was noisy, almost wild, the kind of music you might imagine playing in a city that never slept. The singer's accent was rough, his words tumbling out like a dare. Pascal grinned, shaking his head in disbelief. «It's got a rhythm like a racing heartbeat. Everything sounds so big—so loud!» Pierre E. leaned forward, eyes wide, trying to catch every word. «It's not just about dancing, is it? It's like they're complaining about the whole world, about not fitting in, about wanting something more». Camille stared at the speaker, brow furrowed, a strange smile slowly spreading across his face. «It's angry, but it's also funny. Did people really let themselves shout like that on the radio? It feels like something you'd sing out a window just to feel alive.» René P. tapped out the beat with his knuckles, his features twisted in awe and delight. «It sounds like trouble», he said softly, «but the kind you want to run towards, not away from».

Lana watched our reactions, her smile gentle but knowing. «That's rock and roll for you», she said. «It's loud and messy and sometimes makes adults nervous. But it's honest—about what you want, what you can't have, what makes you feel alive.»

For a moment, the room was filled with the clamor of electric guitars swirling around our astonishment. We let the noise shake loose the last bits of caution. Suddenly, the world outside seemed quieter, contained, and this new music—bold and unrestrained—felt like the key to a door we'd never known existed.

«How were kids allowed to listen to that?» Pierre E. askes, his voice filled with

astonishment. «Here, the radio would be cut immediately. The Milice would be at

our doors».

Lana smiled. «Parents weren't happy«, she says, «and there were lots of arguments. But that was ir. There was no censorship or propaganda. The government couldn't tell them what they could or could not listen to. It was all there, on the radio, on the TV, in the newspapers. All the arguments, all the different opinions, all the songs. It was a mess, like I said before, but it was free».

We were mesmerized, our minds racing to comprehend a world where we could listen to any kind of music we wanted and the worst that we could expect was a telling-off by our parents, not to be arrested by the government.

This was exactly what we were fighting for. Not just for a peaceful world, but for a world of messy, beautiful, and sometimes loud freedom.

«You see», Lana said, her voice filled with quiet conviction, «the point is that not everyone in my country agreed with the war in Vietnam. In fact, many people were deeply against it».

At that moment, she paused, looking at our astonished faces. In our world, to disagree with the government is an act of treason, a choice that could get you killed. The idea of widespread public protest was a virtually alien concept.

«People from all walks of life protested», she continued. «Musicians like The Doors and The Rolling Stones we have just heard, and even students just like you. They marched, they wrote songs, they spoke out against the war. And they were allowed to. They weren't silenced or arrested for it. That's the messy, beautiful thing about freedom—it means you have the right to disagree».

We fell silent, our minds struggling to process this new idea. A world where you can protest a government without being shot was an unimaginable luxury for us. This revelation deepened our understanding of what we were fighting for, and it showed us how our struggle hadn't just been for a quiet, peaceful world, but for a world where people were free to speak their minds, even if to challenge authority.

#

Suddenly, Lana said, noticeably trying to lift our moods up, «I got another one for you!» And the notes of a clearly cheerful song started. Lana grinned as the song's bright chords bounced into the air, snapping us out of our reverie. «Ah, this one is pure sunshine,» she said, swaying to the playful, candy-sweet melody. «It's called Sugar, Sugar, and its story is pretty wild. See, it was written in 1969, but not by a famous rock band or cool jazz group— in fact, it was by a band that didn't even exist in real life! The Archies were actually a cartoon band, made up for a Saturday morning TV show for kids. But when the song came out, nobody cared if the performers were drawings—people fell in love with the melody, and it shot straight to the top of the charts.»

She winked at Camille, who was still beaming from the last song. «It was written by two guys named Jeff Barry and Andy Kim, and though the musicians who recorded it stayed in the shadows, the song became a massive hit—one of the biggest of the whole 1960s, imagine that!»

We could easily understand why it became so popular. It talked about sweetness and fun, its lyrics making you feel, as Lana put it «like you're at a summertime fair, eating cotton candy and spinning around on the tilt-a-whirl. In a way, it shows how sometimes, music can be a little bit magical—something that starts off as a joke or just for fun ends up becoming the soundtrack to a whole generation's happiest moments».

As the catchy chorus floated around us, we caught ourselves tapping our feet and humming along, letting the sparkle of Sugar, Sugar wash over our heavy thoughts —reminding us, for a moment, how sweet and simple the world could be.

#

Then something happened that made us laugh. Someone other than us had noticed the furtive exchange of glances between Lana and Camille. A song where the singer asked a Pretty Woman, «are you lonely just like me?», and to «stop for a while» and «talk for a while, and give your smile to me». He asked her to «look my way» and «say you'll stay with me».

The playful lyrics seemed to dance through the air, weaving a gentle spell between Camille and Lana. As the singer crooned his invitation to the «Pretty Woman», Camille's cheeks flushed with a vivid, unmistakable red, and Lana met his gaze with a bright, teasing smile. The music became more than just melody in that gentle exchange, one shy, one brave; it evoked something tender, turning the moment into a private, intimate secret. For Camille and Lana, it seemed as though the song had inscribed their emotions into the very air, sweet and unavoidable, while the others quickly picked it up, filling the room with laughter. Knowing where it had come from, Lana said, gritting her teeth, «Benny, I am going to kill you...» With a mischevious smile, she pressed play, and a song about hound dogs filled the air, not only in our room but all over the basecamp.

Suddenly, we looked at the picture of a smiling boy at the screen, looking not much older than ourselves, and finally realized why some of the boys at the camp playfully called us «Elvis». Our Zazou haircuts, all carefully styled and sometimes slicked back, actually looked a lot like the one the singer, Elvis Presley, had in that photo. Lana pointed it out and laughed, saying our way of rebelling with fashion kind of predicted how American teens would do it later on. Honestly, that realization still makes me laugh and makes me appreciate how our old-school style somehow found its way into this new world of ours.

CHAPTER 5

Walking through the streets of Paris again felt like stepping into a time machine, but instead of nostalgia, it was more a mix of bittersweet and surreal. Everywhere I looked, memories flooded back—every café, every corner, every shadowed alley hid whispers of laughter and tears from our childhood. It was like the city could see right through me, recognizing the boy I used to be while also seeing the man I'd become.

We skipped past the old landmarks, those symbols of our past, feeling that strange tug of familiarity. The Eiffel Tower stood tall and proud, never changing. But we were different, transformed by experiences that shattered our innocence. It was overwhelming and disorienting, like trying to fit a new puzzle piece into an old picture that no longer quite matched. No one could even begin to imagine how happy we were at the simple thought of being able to be there without anyone preventing us from getting close.

And then, there we were, smack in the middle of the bureaucratic grind—new IDs, new passports, new everything. That is when I understood how symbolic this whole process was. Each document was a ticket out of our past, a tangible way to say, «We're done with that». Even though, as they promised us, the only thing that changed was our birth year, it was as if we'd been handed a second chance along with those new documents. Gone were the identities marked by fear and trauma, replaced by something fresh, something hopeful. This wasn't just about the paperwork; it was about shedding layers, peeling back the time we spent in the shadows of war, and stepping into the light.

This stop in Paris was a final goodbye, an important moment to acknowledge what we were leaving behind. Unlike so many who were haunted by their memories, we had the chance to walk these streets one last time on our own terms—no more living in the echoes of the past. I found peace in knowing that we weren't running away; we were walking forward.

As we navigated the City of Lights, I couldn't help but feel a sense of liberation. The journey to America loomed ahead, not just as a new country but as a beacon of hope—a brand-new life free from the weight of what came before. We were ready for that promise, ready to embrace whatever awaited us. So, here's to Paris: a city filled with ghosts and memories, a quiet testament to our past, but also a beautiful reminder that we have the power to choose our future. And, after all, as they had promised us, we were free to return, anytime we wanted.

#

Everything about the airport was dizzying. We had never seen anything so bright, so busy — there were signs flashing everywhere, and the loudspeakers kept calling out names or numbers in languages we barely understood. People hurried all around, their clothes sharp and neat, clutching strange suitcases with wheels. We could hardly believe our eyes at the size of the airplane — real metallic giants, bigger than any train we'd ever seen. We kept thinking how different it all was from home or anything we'd known before the war.

Back during the war, planes meant fear. Their engines always roared above us, and we'd duck and hope the bombs would fall elsewhere. But these planes here were gentle somehow, lined up in neat rows, waiting to carry folks to far-off places. It was hard to make sense of it—machines that had once brought terror now seemed to promise freedom. Every takeoff, every landing, made my heart jump. Was this what peace looked like?

The flat, moving sidewalks inside the terminal were another wonder. We'd seen escalators once or twice in Paris, but these were different—smooth and silent, gliding people along while they hardly had to lift a toe. We all stepped on, clutching our bags, giggling the way we used to when we snuck into the cinema. It felt like something from a storybook, this world where you hardly had to walk at all.

When it came time to board the plane, we felt both scared and excited. We walked up a hallway that moved, leading straight to the airplane. The inside was cool and clean-smelling—so unlike the crowded, stuffy train cars we remembered from not so long ago. The seats were soft—impossibly soft—and I couldn't stop running my hand over the cushion. Everything seemed made for comfort: the little windows with perfect circles, the small bins overhead for our things.

As the plane started rolling down the runway, I gripped the armrest so tight my knuckles turned white. We'd seen planes in the sky, but always as enemies. Now we were inside one, and it seemed almost impossible. When the plane finally lifted off, I pressed my face to the window and stared out, watching France turn into a patchwork of fields and towns before it faded away beneath the clouds. I thought about everything I was leaving behind. It was a sad kind of relief, but also, for the first time in ages, I felt hope.

Lana told us the journey across the Atlantic would only take eight hours. That seemed like pure fantasy. Before the war, crossing the ocean was something you did on a ship — a long, slow voyage, not something you could do in a single day. But here we were, flying over the water like it was the most natural thing in the world. I couldn't understand exactly how these engines worked, but the miracle of it left me speechless.

Before the war, I'd only heard of the very rich taking flights. For ordinary kids like us, it would have been just a dream. Now, after everything we'd survived, to be flying to America on a peaceful plane—well, it felt like living in the future.

The other people on the flight were friendly in ways that made me nervous. The stewardesses (that's what they called them) smiled and asked if we were comfortable, if we wanted a drink. I said oui, smiled back and nodded. It was strange—such polite kindness, was simply something we weren't used to, at least for a long time.

Even the small talk between strangers was new to me. People asked about the movie playing or joked about the food. I'd never known conversations without worry or suspicion hanging over them. Just to sit and chat, to laugh a little, was a kind of freedom I hadn't known for so long...

At one point, an American man sitting nearby leaned over and asked, «Is this your first time in America?» I nodded, not trusting my English, but he just grinned wide and rattled off a list of places I should visit—the Empire State Building, a baseball game. I barely understood, but it made me feel welcome in a way I hadn't expected. Then he said, «You're gonna love it», just like that, so sure and bright. I could have cried. Instead, I smiled back, hoping he could see how grateful I was for his kindness.

For us, that simple phrase was more than just a greeting. It was proof that there could be joy again, that maybe, just maybe, a new life was possible. To the others on the plane, we were just another group of kids. They didn't see our past, only our accents and our manners. They thought we were polite and curious, and for once, I liked how they saw us. It was a chance to start over, to be ordinary, to believe in miracles again.

CHAPTER 6

Seeing the Statue of Liberty for the first time was something I'll never forget. I'd seen pictures in schoolbooks back in France, but to look at her with my own eyes, out the window of an airplane—well, it just about took my breath away.

As we flew over the harbor, we pressed close to the little window, not saying a word. The Statue looked so much bigger, so much more alive, than anything I'd ever imagined. Her torch shining out over the water was like a real light guiding us here, after all we'd been through. It didn't feel real—almost like something out of a movie — but there she was, welcoming us into a new world. I couldn't help it: my eyes filled up, and for the first time in years, they were tears of hope, not fear.

The Americans call her a symbol of freedom, and I suppose she is, but to me, it felt like she was there just for us. She seemed to be saying, «You made it. You're safe now». It didn't matter that we were far from home. After so much running and hiding, after all the things we'd seen and lost, standing there in that airplane, looking at that statue, I felt something I hadn't felt in forever: like maybe things could be good again.

When we finally got off the plane, New York City nearly knocked us off our feet. We had seen buildings in Paris, of course, but these skyscrapers—their tops disappeared right into the sky! We craned our necks until they hurt, trying to take it all in. Were we came from, nothing was ever this big, this fast. It was like the whole city was made for giants.

The sounds were something else, too. Not the scary kind of noise — no bombs or sirens— but cars and streetcars clanging, people hurrying past speaking every language you can think of, music drifting out of radios somewhere. Everything was moving, everyone had someplace to go. It felt alive, and we wanted to be part of it all.

And when night fell, that was when the city really dazzled us. Neon signs flashing in every color, big billboards bigger than anything we'd seen before, the bright lights of Times Square making it feel like daytime even after the sun went down. The whole place seemed like it was sparkling just for us.

Standing there, in the middle of all that excitement and light, we realized this was our chance. Our chance to live the life the world almost took away from us. At that moment, with America stretched out ahead, anything felt possible for us.

#

For us boys, stepping onto the streets of New York was like plunging into another universe. Never in my life had I seen so many faces, so many styles, so much movement—it was dizzying, almost like a dream. Back in occupied Paris, everything felt gray and watched; here, it was as if the city itself breathed freedom.

The crowd amazed us the most. There were people of every sort—so many different faces and voices, each with their own language, their own gestures. In Paris, everything had been so strict, so tense, under the boots of the Germans. Here, the people wore clothes in every color you could imagine, from simple trousers to dresses so bright they seemed to shine. It felt like being at the world's biggest fête, where everyone was allowed to be themselves—something that felt both strange and wonderful after years of hiding who we were.

And the way everyone acted! The city buzzed with the sound of conversations—not whispered in fear, but loud and cheerful, filled with jokes and shouts. We kept staring at the little glowing objects everyone carried, their fingers tapping and sliding on the glass as if they were writing invisible letters. It was like magic! We watched, stunned, as a woman laughed at her glowing rectangle, a man spoke right into his, and a couple walked close, eyes fixed on their screens instead of each other.

We didn't understand this new way of talking, this strange dance of thumbs and lights, but we knew right away: here in this city, people were freer than we could ever have imagined.

CHaPTER 7

NEW YORK, 2025

We tried to absorb it all, to make sense of the sensory assault that was New York. The city's energy was a current, pulling us along whether we were ready or not. We'd find ourselves in Times Square, a blinding spectacle of light and noise, and then, in the span of a few blocks, we'd be in a quiet, leafy park where children chased pigeons and young couples shared secrets on benches. The contrast was dizzying.

For me, it was the people who held the most fascination. I saw a young man with hair as long as a girl's and a jacket with bright, mismatched patches. He was laughing with a woman whose hair was a shock of vibrant pink. I nudged Pascal. "Look at her hair. It's like something out of a comic book!"

Pascal just shook his head, his eyes wide. "What do you suppose they did to it? It's not natural."

"Maybe it's a new fashion," I offered, though the idea seemed absurd. Back home, you'd never see something so bold. A flash of color like that would draw too much attention, the kind you didn't want.

As we walked, we found ourselves drawn to a small bookstore. Inside, the air was quiet and smelled of old paper and dust. I ran my hand over the spine of a book, my fingers tracing the letters. It felt real, tangible, a connection to a world I understood.

Suddenly, a voice broke through our conversation. «Lost, are you?» An old man with kind eyes and a crooked smile was looking at us. He wore a simple cap and an overcoat, and he was leaning on a cane. He had a dog on a leash, a small terrier that was sniffing at Bertrand's shoes.

Gabriel stepped forward, a bit hesitant. «Not lost, monsieur. Just... new to the city».

The man's smile widened. «I can see that. You boys look like you've seen a ghost. Don't worry, this city's a good place, if you know how to handle her. You from the old country?»

«From France», Jules said, a touch of pride in his voice.

The old man's expression softened. «Ah, France. A beautiful place. Been there a couple of times myself. Now, listen. If you want to know what this city's really about, you need to go to a ballgame. A real ballgame. You'll see. Nothing like it in the world.»

Meanwhile, Roland picked up a book with a striking cover—a rocket ship soaring through the stars. He read the title aloud, «The Martian Chronicles».

«Books about Martians?» asked Claude C.

Roland turned the book over in his hands. He looked at me, his eyes full of wonder. «The strange and wonderful tale of man's experiences on Mars, filled with intense images and astonishing visions, The Martian Chronicles tells the story of humanity's repeated attempts to colonize the red planet. The first men were few. Most succumbed to a disease they called the Great Loneliness when they saw their home planet dwindle to the size of a fist. They felt they had never been born. Those few that survived found no welcome on Mars. The shape-changing Martians thought they were native lunatics and duly locked them up.

But more rockets arrived from Earth, and more, piercing the hallucinations projected by the Martians. People brought their old prejudices with them – and their desires and fantasies, tainted dreams. These were soon inhabited by the strange native beings, with their caged flowers and birds of flame. Imagine, a whole world on another planet».

The bookshop owner smiled. «You aren't too far on that one, son. They sent probes up there to try and find'em.»

«They've... discovered things?» Michel D. asked, his voice barely a whisper. He stepped closer to the shelf, his eyes scanning the titles.

«Sure have», the bookseller replied, a twinkle in his eye. «We've sent probes up to see what we can see. They've found a lot of fascinating things, even if they haven't met any Martians just yet».

He pulled a different book from the shelf and opened it to a page filled with dazzling photographs. «This here is a picture of the planet Jupiter», he said. «See those stripes? That's a storm that's been raging for centuries». He turned another page. «And this is a galaxy, a whole collection of stars. Our own sun is just one of billions».

We all gathered around, our heads close together, staring at the images. It was hard to comprehend. The world we had known was so small, confined by borders and fear. Here, the universe seemed to stretch on forever.

«It's... incredible», François said, his voice full of awe.

«And it's a testament to what we can do when we work together», the bookseller said, his voice suddenly serious. «We're all so busy with our own troubles, but when we look up at the stars, we remember we're all in this together, all on this one little planet». He closed the book and put it back on the shelf. «There's a lot of hope out there, if you know where to look for it».

Jean P. nodded slowly. "Hope," he repeated, as if tasting the word for the first time. "We can do with some of that."

"We can all use a little more hope," the bookseller agreed. He gestured toward the front of the store. "Now, I'm afraid I have to close up. But you boys are welcome back anytime. There's always a story waiting for you. Take those. As a welcoming gift».

Our eyes glittered, «Merci, monsieur». Roland said, from all of us.

«You're welcome, kid». He said, with a reassuring smile. .

As we left the store, the street felt different. It was still loud and chaotic, but it didn't seem as overwhelming. The strange glowing rectangles, the fast-moving cars, the kaleidoscope of faces—it was all part of this new, vast world. The feeling of being small and insignificant didn't feel so frightening anymore. Instead, it felt like freedom. The universe was huge, and we were just a small part of it. A part that had survived and was now ready to explore. Paul slung an arm around my shoulder, a big grin on his face. «So what do you say, we go look for Jupiter?»

I couldn't help but smile. The weight of our past seemed to lift for a moment. We were just a group of friends, explorers in a new land. Serge S. and Pierre B. were pointing at a magazine rack, marveling at the sheer number of publications. «Did you see all those books?There are so many»,Serge whispered. «How can anyone read all of them?»

«Maybe they don't have to», Pierre said, a flicker of something in his eyes—hope, maybe. «Maybe they have the choice».

The nice man had given us directions to a subway station, a winding, confusing set of instructions that left us all scratching our heads. «And remember», he called after us, as we left the store, «stay hopeful! The world's bigger than you know».

"