Schmidt exclaimed when he saw the contents. “_Ach!_ and cheese, too.” He held the cheese to his nose and inhaled deeply. “That’s goot. You are a fine boy, André Gagnon.” With a twinkling smile, he added, “Almost as goot as my own Otto. “Look, I show you.” He reached into the pocket of his tunic. “Just today a letter came from my home in Osnabrück--and pictures.” Pointing to one, he said, “That’s my Otto. He’s like you, no?” André studied the snapshot of a boy about his own age but with light, almost white hair, frowning into the sun. A little embarrassed, André could only say, “He wears funny clothes.” The German chuckled. “If he could see you, he’d think yours were comical too.” Glancing at the letter in his hand, he sighed. “_Ach!_ but they are having it bad in Osnabrück. The Englisher and the Americaner planes they bomb, bomb, bomb our town. Part of my home is gone. My wife and boy say they get no sleep.” Almost to himself he muttered, “When will the war end?” Then, turning to the boy, he said sadly, “_Ach_, how do you know, any more than me? We smile, eh, while we can ... and enjoy the sunshine.” Patchou had wandered off to one of the other barracks and started a fight with one of the camp dogs. André called over his shoulder, “I’ll be back again in a day or two,” and ran to separate the two animals. By the time he and Patchou reached home, the last twilight had faded. The house was dark, for blackout curtains were drawn across the windows. Inside, his sister sat hunched alone in the wide, stone-floored kitchen, listening to music from a forbidden radio. “Where’s Papa?” André asked. Marie looked annoyed. “He’s gone off with Victor Lescot. That Raoul Cotein is making trouble again. Now he says our cows broke into his pasture. What an old weasel he is! Even the Germans behave better.” Later, with supper over, she paused suddenly, and raised her hand for André to be silent. Breaking the stillness, the weird wail of air-raid sirens rose far away. Marie looked tired. And there was fear in her eyes when she heard the sirens, which meant that another air raid was beginning. “_Again_ tonight,” she sighed, “and so early. It is not yet ten o’clock.” She went to the kitchen window and made sure the black curtains let no light through. “You run upstairs, André, and see that the curtains there are tight. And stay with Mother,” she ordered. Mme. Gagnon had been ill for several weeks. Now she lay in her big bed upstairs, nearly asleep. She opened her eyes as the sirens died away and then began again. “Well, son,” she said, “did you eat a good supper?” André nodded. A little wind from the sea had sprung up, and somewhere a loose board rattled. Also, there was a noise in the attic. “Must be a rat,” André said to himself, and decided to take Patchou up there tomorrow. “He’ll have some fun catching that little thief,” he thought.