Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3 ONE HOUR LATER Paul brushed off his soccer ball one last time, then slapped it on the table at the market. "I'm not taking that," the man behind the table said gruffly. Paul knew his name was Boris. He was the only leatherworker left in town. "Nobody wants one of those," Boris said.

Paul scrunched up his face, trying to think of what to say to Boris next. "But it's good leather," Paul said. Boris shook his head. "Don't want it." Paul sighed. He hadn't thought of what would happen if he couldn't sell the ball. He grabbed it back and found a quiet spot in the dirt to sit down and think. This park near the river used to be a place filled with flowers, where families sat on blankets and ate crunchy bread and soft cheese. Where kids threw their bread crusts to the ducks and floated toy sailboats in the river. There were no flowers anymore, no food for picnics. The Nazis had chopped down the trees and sent the wood to Germany. Nobody came here for fun. Even the ducks were gone; people had eaten them out of desperation. But Paul had an extra reason for hating it down here. It was something that had happened last fall. Paul picked up a stick and stabbed it into the dirt

as the memory flashed through his mind like a jagged piece of glass. He'd come here with Maman that day, to sell the last of the silver cups she'd inherited from her grandmother. They had to sell the cup to buy coal for the winter so they wouldn't freeze. Paul was waiting for Maman as she bargained with the merchant who bought silver. And then suddenly Paul saw a man walking very quickly across the park. Paul instantly recognized him: It was his teacher, Mr. Leon. Paul and Gerard loved Mr. Leon. He never yelled at them when they kicked their ball through the hall. He told the best stories about the Castle Le Roc, the crumbling old castle at the edge of town. He told them that many believed there was a dragon that still lived in the tower. It was a huge winged beast with a snake's head, a falcon beak, and fiery breath.

"Its glowing eyes peer through the cracks of the tower," he would say, in that low, smooth voice of his. "Its wings go whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!" Most people in town were too scared to go to the castle. But sometimes Paul and Gerard would sneak up there. But even better than his stories, Mr. Leon made Paul feel safe. No matter what was happening outside their school. That day in the park, Paul was about to call out to Mr. Leon. But suddenly Mr. Leon broke into a run. And two Nazi soldiers came chasing after him. Paul closed his eyes, trying to stop the nightmare memory — the three gunshots, the sight of Mr. Leon falling to the ground and then rolling into the river. Paul had watched as his teacher's body sank down. Even now, he couldn't believe that Mr. Leon was gone. Paul stabbed the dirt with the stick again. He remembered how the Nazis closed down the

school after that. They said Mr. Leon was a traitor, a criminal, and a spy. But as it turned out, Mr. Leon was a hero. What nobody had known before Mr. Leon's murder was that he belonged to a secret group called the resistance. It was like a small army, but not with soldiers. Its members were regular people — writers, shopkeepers, farmers, doctors… and teachers. They stole Nazi secrets for the Allies. They blew up Nazi trains loaded with weapons and tanks. It still shocked Paul that Mr. Leon had been in the resistance. It didn't matter now, though. The resistance had been crushed, in Le Roc and all over France. That's what Paul had heard. The Nazis had hunted the members down, killed thousands of them. And usually the Nazis didn't just shoot them. They tortured them first so they would spill the names of others in their group.

Mr. Leon, people said, had been lucky he died quickly. Paul closed his eyes. Mr. Leon had risked his life fighting for something important. Couldn't Paul at least try a little harder to get a present for Maman? He couldn't give up so easily. Back at Boris's table, Paul set the ball down once again. "I told you," Boris said, his lips closing in a tight line. "Nobody wants that ball. Take it home." Paul felt a lump forming in his throat. "Please… it's my mother's birthday," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I need the money so I can get her a gift." Without a word, Boris snatched the ball. He reached into his pocket and handed Paul ten coins. Paul's heart leaped. He smiled at Boris, then took the coins and ran to the bakery, the one all the Nazi officers went to. Paul slapped his coins on the counter. The pretty, young shopgirl, Marie, looked at him with