I walked back to the barn. We had left the door slightly ajar, and I slipped through the gap. My plimsolls made no sound on the dirt floor.
I heard sounds from the loft, as though the injured man was rummaging in his haversack.
He was muttering to himself. My stomach turned over. I stopped dead still.
No. It couldn't be. I must have heard wrong.
I stayed completely still, listening, my heart thumping. He was still rummaging, but he had stopped muttering.
Something rolled across the loft and dropped over the edge on to the barn floor. The man swore.
My blood froze in my veins.
He had sworn in German.
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