Free Hero on a Bicycle by Shirley Hughes Page A

were spotted. But all they encountered were one or two heavily laden women, intent on getting back to their houses as quickly as possible, and a few half-starved cats. At last they reached the end of a very long, narrow, and deserted street. It was in almost complete darkness, and all the houses were tightly shuttered.
    “It’s number seventeen,” whispered David. “I’ll go first, and then I’ll signal for you both to follow.”
    He walked lightly and rapidly until he came to a door at the far end of the street. He knocked twice. At first, there was no response, only what seemed like an interminable pause. Then suddenly the door was flung open, and in the rectangle of light that spilled out onto the street, Paolo could see soldiers — German soldiers. They grabbed David, pinning his arms behind his back.
    “It’s a trap! Run!” he shouted before they silenced him with a blow.
    There was a lot of shouting then, and confusion. A bullet hit the wall behind Paolo’s head. The plaster shattered and fell to the ground, but he was too stunned to be frightened. He reacted blindly, without hesitation.
    “This way,” he said, pulling Joe along with one hand and clutching his bicycle with the other. Two more shots followed as they made their way off around the corner. He felt Joe stumble and fall against him, but Joe quickly righted himself and kept running. Other doors were being flung open now, and people were coming out into the street: women were screaming; men were gesticulating. The panic that ensued gave them a few seconds’ lead. Paolo pulled Joe into a side alleyway that led through to another street. It was then that he remembered the icecream shop.
    Ice cream was a long-forgotten dream, a memory of happy afternoons before the war: shopping with his mother, followed by delicious treats. His favorite place to go had been the ice-cream shop. The parlor had closed when the war began, but he recognized the door and remembered how the kindly proprietor had once shown him the big refrigerators containing the different flavored ices. He gave the back door a push. It creaked open. Quickly, he shoved his bicycle inside and then, after dragging Joe inside, shut the door behind them. He could hear running footsteps very close at hand — booted feet on cobblestones — and orders shouted in German. Joe and Paolo stood together in the half-dark. Joe was leaning heavily on him, heaving for breath. Paolo gripped his arm and encountered something warm and sticky — blood.
    “They got me in the shoulder with that second shot,” Joe whispered hoarsely.
    Paolo was too scared to answer. Instead, he looked around. It was the ice-cream shop, all right. They seemed to be in the kitchen. It smelled of damp, decay, and urine, but there were the two big fridges looming up out of the dark. Outside, the soldiers were kicking open doors all along the alley. Paolo shoved his bicycle into a corner and pulled Joe behind one of the fridges. There was just room for them, if they pressed up against the wall.
    A second later, the door from the alleyway was flung open and two soldiers burst in. Flashlights shone around the room; packing cases were pulled aside and cupboards searched. Both fridge doors were wrenched open. Paolo held his breath. One man was so near to him that he could have reached out and touched Paolo’s arm.
    Then one of the soldiers spotted the bicycle. There was an exchange, and the door that led into the shop was kicked open. The soldiers rushed through, rifles at the ready.
    “Come on,” whispered Paolo. He grabbed the bike, and he and Joe slipped out silently into the alley. Paolo peered down the street. He could hear excited voices nearby, but in the immediate vicinity, there was nobody around and all was quiet. He motioned for Joe to follow him, but, looking back, he saw that Joe was not in a good way. He was staggering, and blood had soaked through the left arm of his jacket and was dripping down his hand. Paolo ran