Heavens, did the Alliance not send her someone who could speak a normal language?
B
ecca sits down firmly on her trunk. If anyone wants to steal her trunk, they will have to take her with it.
The gendarmes approach, but they speak a gibberish of Turkish. Or perhaps another language. She tries French, but they shake their heads. Eventually, one of them says, in heavily accented French. “If you want your documents, you will have to come to the police station and make a report.”
“Merci beaucoup.” Her voice drips sarcasm. How helpful. When all they needed to do was to take chase, ferret out the youngsters — how far could they have run?
The gendarme points to a Jewish couple. Becca stares. They have only just arrived on the scene.
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