Chapter 8
Liverpool
March 28, 1944“You the Frenchie?” a gruff voice shouted in Del’s ear, and something dug itself deep into Del’s stomach, so hard that he could barely draw breath. Gasping, Del opened his eyes.
An elderly man in uniform stood over him, brandishing a parade stick. He brought it down on Del’s shoulder, a swift blow that made him wince. Del raised an arm to defend himself.
“I said, you the Frenchie?” the man shouted again. Del tried to answer, as the man’s stick clattered painfully across his forearm. Del desperately tried to form words, but his tongue was dumb and his lips were slick with saliva.
“Not French,” Del protested weakly.
“Name,” the man demanded, and Del told him. The man pointed his stick at Del’s face warningly. “You stay put. Don’t move an inch. Anyone t
