Spying on Miss Muller by Eve Bunting

me.
    â€œI have always considered you my friend,” Miss Müller said, “in spite of...” She stopped, but I didn’t think it was because she’d lost another English word. In this half-light her eyes were dark blue, almost the navy blue of our uniform.
    â€œYou know, I can’t help being half German. I didn’t choose that my two countries should be at war.”
    Pat Crow was coming out of Old Rose’s sitting room now, heading along the corridor toward us in one direction, and Betsy Crawford was rushing and puffing from the other direction. Betsy passed us first. “Crumbs, I’m late,” she said. “Old Rose will have a cow. Oh, excuse me, Miss Müller. I didn’t realize it was you with Jessie.” Betsy Crawford was blind as a beetroot and wouldn’t admit to it because she didn’t want to wear glasses. She also always had gaps at the top of her stockings. Lizzie Mag said it was because she couldn’t see.
    â€œShe can
feel,
can’t she,” Ada asked. It was true. We were always checking for gaps with our fingers, pulling the legs of our knickers down so they met the stocking tops.
    Betsy turned in my direction, and her look said “Talking to the enemy,” plainer than if she’d spoken.
    â€œGaps,” I said loudly. Her face got red as fire and I was glad.
    When she left I said, “I don’t know what you think I can do, Miss Müller,” speaking faster than fast before Pat Crow got to us in about fifteen seconds.
    â€œYou could do a lot. You may not know this, but you’re well liked and quite a leader. You could perhaps soften them toward me. Try to explain I’m not against...” She stopped as Pat Crow reached us.
    Pat ignored Miss Müller entirely. “You know what my dad just told me?” she asked, looking only at me. “One of those houses on the Shore Road got a direct hit last night. The father was coming off the night shift in the shipyard. He’s a welder. And he came rushing home after the siren and everything, and when he got there, there was no house, just this big hole in the ground. His wife and two children were inside.” Pat lowered her voice. “They could only find bits of them, Jessie. Isn’t that awful?”
    Miss Müller shifted her little rain boots from one hand to the other and kept her head lowered.
    â€œEven their dog was killed,” Pat said. “My daddy said the man went ranting, raving mad. They had to hold him down and they had to get an ambulance and take him to Purdysburn.” She glared at Miss Müller. “In case you don’t know, Miss Müller, Purdysburn is the hospital for the insane.”
    â€œI’m sure the planes didn’t mean to drop a bomb on innocent people.” Miss Müller’s English was suddenly so bad I could hardly understand it.
    â€œThe RAF would
never
kill civilians,” Pat said coldly. “They’re trained not to, and anyway they’re too decent.”
    Miss Müller bit her lip. “Lots of Germans are being killed every day and night. You think your Royal Air Force doesn’t drop bombs on us?”
    I stared at her, dumbfounded.
    â€œWell,” Pat Crow said, “now we know where
you
stand.”
    Pat stalked off, but my feet seemed glued to the floor.
You? Us?
    â€œJessie!” Miss Müller tried to put her hand on my arm again, but I squirmed away. “I was not the one who dropped the bomb,” she said.
    â€œWe know that. And we know other things, too.” The glue had come unstuck, freeing my feet, and I was running toward the dorm. An Alveara girl did not run except in case of fire or hemorrhage. We’d had that pounded into us, but who cared? I passed Pat Crow, who shouted “Jessie” also and tried to catch up. But Pat was as thick as a stump and didn’t run too well. Nobody could have caught me. I ran to the dorm, jerked open the door of