Free Under a War-Torn Sky by L.M. Elliott Page B

trees and scrub whisk past. He’d break his leg all over again if he tried to jump. He opened the next car door, passed a row of private sleeping compartments, and found a narrow toilet door at the very end of the car.
    It was open just a crack. As Henry approached, the door swung open. A fat, middle-aged man pressed past.
    Henry slipped into the tiny bathroom. He only had to wait a moment before an envelope slid under the door. Hands shaking, Henry opened it. Inside was a ticket to Montreux plus a note. It read: The train will stop in ten minutes. Remain in the toilet until you feel the brakes. Step off the train quickly. Walk into the station. Cross the street to Café Spiez. Destroy this note.
    Henry reread it three times, memorizing the sparse thirty-four words. He tore the note into bits, ripped off his wrist tag, and flushed them down the toilet. He crammed the ticket into his pants pocket.
    SQUEEEEEEEAKKKK!
    Henry fell against the bathroom wall as the train began to brake. He took a deep breath and walked out. People were crowding out the back door onto the black steps between train cars. Henry lost himself among them and quickly hopped to the ground as the train stopped moving.
    Keep your head, now, Henry steadied himself. Don’t look around like you’re lost. Walk like you know exactly where you’re going.
    He spotted a pair of Swiss soldiers idly propped up against the wall, watching the push and hurry of passengers. Henry stepped beside an older couple to block himself from view. He entered the small station through ornate doors, passed rows of wooden benches, and emerged on the other side. Across the way was Café Spiez, its door open to the warming spring air. Waiters were setting tables outside for lunch.
    Henry’s heart was pounding in his head. But so far, so good. He checked for traffic and jogged across the street, limping only slightly. Where to now?
    A waiter looked up as he smoothed out a tablecloth and fussed at Henry. “ Schon wieder spät! Ab in die Küche. Schnell! ”
    Henry had no idea what the man was saying. But he could tell it was part of some play-acting. He fought the instinct to look back over his shoulder to make sure the waiter wasn’t really talking to someone else.
    Henry skittered into the café. There was a huge curved bar inside, its wooden grain carefully polished and shining. On the back wall, large bevelled mirrors reflected the scene outdoors. A thick, bald man stood behind the bar. Several people sat at the scattered tables. At the sight of Henry, the bartender slammed his fist to the counter and threw up his hands. He hurled a torrent of angry words at Henry, “ Noch einmal und du bist deiner Stelle los! Ab in die Küche! ”
    He came out from behind the bar to hustle Henry through swinging doors to the kitchen. Hastily the man yanked off Henry’s coat and wrapped a huge white apron around him. “Off tie,” he whispered to Henry. “Up sleeves.” Henry ripped off his tie and handed it to the man. He rolled up his sleeves.
    When the man shoved him towards a huge sink, full of steaming water, Henry understood. He was to appear as if he were kitchen help, late arriving. He must need to blend in for a while before catching the train to Montreux. Henry nodded. He stuck his arms deep into the soapy water and began scrubbing.
    â€œNo speak,” was the man’s final gruff instruction before disappearing.
    Henry could feel the eyes of two old cooks on him. He tried not to look back. Waiters began to drift in and out, pinning scraps of paper on a board, and barking orders at the cooks. The griddle sizzled with fat sausage.
    With a heartstopping thump, the doors into the kitchen flew open and crashed against the walls. The soldiers Henry had seen at the train station entered and slowly scanned the room. His hospital escort accompanied them.
    Henry stared down into the soapsuds and tried not to panic. Surely the old