Richard was dragging the terrorized boy through the gate when he saw two German soldiers approaching the camp, a boy of fifteen or sixteen wedged between them.
“Let me go! I ain’t no thief. Didn’t steal nothing,” the kicking, punching, and struggling boy shouted at the soldiers escorting him. The two men were too busy keeping the little maniac under control to look up. But Richard didn’t need to see the face to recognize one of them. How could he not?
The broad shoulders, the authoritative gait, and the low but deep voice belonged unmistakably to his former group leader, Obergefreiter Johann Hauser. Richard’s legs twitched, the instinct to take to his heels fighting a fierce battle with rational thought. Somehow, he managed to stay in place, hoping against hope to fake his way out of the
