Before Our Dawn| ongoing

twenty-seven

Chapitre vignt-sept
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The dusty alley seemed to stretch endlessly, a forgotten corner of the world where desperation clung to every shadow. Hans, flanked by his comrades, walked with a sense of resignation that had become all too familiar. And after his encounter with Isra yesterday, the one person who had made Paris a little less bleak had retreated from him.

Friedrich and Kurt accompanied him on patrol, scanning the vicinity for trouble. So far, the streets had been peaceful, and people went about their day, perhaps pretending that the war wasn't real and that if they just looked the other way when soldiers marched by, that they could continue living in obliviousness.

Friedrich, his breath misting in the crisp air, leaned in and remarked in a low voice, "Have you seen that woman around, the one from that day?"

"Oh her," Kurt replied, smiling mischievously. "You know, she was nice-looking—absolutely exotic. Arab, if I remember correctly. Or Algerian? I can't remember. Not your typical Parisian, that's for sure."

Hans tensed at the mention of the woman, Isra, but he didn't want to show too much interest, so he feigned nonchalance. "What woman are you talking about?"

"Don't act ignorant," Friedrich said, sighing long. "The one you saved. From us. Saving—whatever you want to call it. We weren't going to hurt her, you know."

Kurt's grin widened, and he added, "Yeah, Hans, you seemed pretty friendly with her. I bet you wanted her all to yourself."

Hans felt a pang of discomfort at their comments. He didn't want to discuss Isra with them. "She's just a woman I talked to. Nothing more. I haven't seen her since that night."

Friedrich and Kurt exchanged knowing glances but dropped the topic, apparently satisfied with Hans's response. The soldiers continued their patrol, their boots clacking against the cobblestone. 

Kurt grumbled under his breath. "I can't stand these quiet patrols, Hans. It's like being a bloody babysitter. We should be out there on the front lines, not here, babysitting these cowards."

His friend, a bit more level-headed, chimed in, "Well, it's not up to us. We've got orders, and we follow them."

He sneered in response. "Orders? Orders from some desk jockey who hasn't seen a day of real combat. It's a waste of our skills."

The sudden commotion seized Hans' attention. Soon, Kurt and Friedrich stood rigid, shedding their lax posture, and watched as a little boy, no older than eight, dashed past them on the sidewalk, his small legs carrying him with surprising swiftness. 

Behind him, a soldier's enraged shouts grew louder. "Thief! Stop him! He's a thief!"

The three soldiers gave chase, their heavy boots clattering against the cobbled streets as they closed the gap between them and the fleeing boy. The boy's face was a mask of terror, and his ragged clothes fluttered behind him as he darted down the narrow alleyways.

As they neared him, Friedrich reached out to grab the boy, his fingers brushing the fabric of the child's worn shirt. The boy stumbled but managed to break free, continuing to sprint ahead with renewed determination.

Kurt, determined to catch the little "thief," shouted, "Don't let him get away! He's probably stolen food!"

Hans, wrestling with the internal conflict of right and wrong, followed the others closely. He, too, wanted to know why the boy had resorted to such desperate measures, especially when rations were meager for everyone. It didn't seem right to punish a child without understanding his circumstances.