Peter climbed inside the double-decker bus with his suitcase and violin. He’d overheard the volunteers saying they were headed to Dovercourt, a summer holiday camp in Essex about sixty-four kilometers south of London. The only problem with this arrangement was that it was winter.
Peter quickly wiped a tear away and looked around to check if anyone had seen him crying, but no one had noticed.
Hans and Stephen were already seated in the bus. They waved to Peter.
“Peter!” Hans called. “That boat was rough, eh?”
“Where’s Becca?” Stephen asked, looking behind Peter.
Peter looked at Hans and Stephen, eyes hollow with grief. “On a train to London.”
“What?” Hans asked.
Peter walked on past them, unwilling to discuss “the best the English could do.”
Hans and Stephen looked at each other. “Maybe the holiday camp won’t be such a holiday,” Stephen said.
“At least it’s not a Nazi camp.” Hans shrugged.
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