Good luck homing pigeon

Chapter eighteen: There is strength in numbers (6th June 1943)

This last month had passed like almost nothing at all; probably because of how eventful it had turned out to be. The duties of being a homing pigeon was a blessing; mainly because if offered a sufficient distraction. And distraction stopped me from seeing what was in front of my own eyes, every single day. I was getting just a little extra food every week, from the meetings. And whatever I could save I gave it, and my dinner rations from the night after to Sandrine. It helped her a little, but not much. And to be honest, the extra food only helped me just as little as it did her. We nearly resembled those walking, talking skeletons known as our fellow inmates; the only difference being a little more weight and longer hair, stuffed beneath our bare-thread, old scarves.

This was why, once again, I was glad to be the homing pigeon. It gave me the most special feeling of self-importance, even in the darkest and dampest of cloudy days. Some saw it as risky, I saw it as exciting. Some saw it as stupid, I saw it as saving those who needed to be saved. And it seemed now the more you showed your bravery and loyalty in this place, the more people who appreciated and showed their own loyalty. Therefore, the more people you felt entitled to save. If it were up to me, I'd rescue the entire barrack. But, as the block leader said; one step at a time. And today, the block leader was going to take one hell of a step in her next mission. To find and blackmail my sister.

We were all slaving away in the work huts when the block leader assigned one of the foremen at the hut nearby to watch over us as she went to run an errand. Just before she took off, I could've sworn I saw her whisper something more to him. But...what could she possibly have to say?

"I wonder where she's  going?" Sandrine whispered, "she doesn't normally leave a work shift."

"To collect personal supplies, I suppose." I bluffed, "she loves her gin."

"Well, I never pictured her to spend her nights drinking down her sorrows, but I suppose everybody has something. The foreman watching us I've heard, has a particular taste for cheap tobacco that rots your teeth."

"How appealing," I snorted, "I suppose women are just lining  up to be his faithful lady."

"There's a bigger line of women just dying for a kiss."

We stifled our giggles as the foreman patrolling us began to stalk, up and down the work hut. As long as he was here, we weren't allowed to laugh, or smile, or show any signs of content. If he was miserable, then we all had to be.

When we were allowed out for our lunch however, we still felt fairly tense as we waited at the back of the line for our share of soup. So we kept our chatter to a minimum, then silenced it altogether once we reached the front. The foreman, somebody I was right to be wary about, sent an ugly, yellow-toothed smile to Sandrine as he poured the steaming broth into her tin-cup.

"I've been patrolling these work huts for the past three months, and I hadn't even noticed you." He winked, actually winked at her! "Where've you been hiding?"

"In hell," she answered rather boldly. "Which is mostly this entire place."

"Fiery," his smile spread into a wily grin. "I like it."

I'd noticed he'd given Sandrine just a little more soup than I and everyone else, but I said nothing of it as we found a spot to sit, against the wall of the work hut together. Sandrine needed the extra food more than I did at the moment; though neither of us liked the fact that it came from a sickening foreman.

"He just loves to flirt, doesn't he?" She spat, "honestly, if a man like him thinks he can charm any girl he wants, he must think he rivals Casanova."

"Or Clark Gable," I added, "And what a charming  smile he has too."

"I wouldn't call it charming!" She scoffed quietly, "I could smell his breath from a mile away. Like sewage."