The Prisoner by Robert Muchamore Page A

to the roof with his booty. He ate and drank slowly and was greatly releived that the food seemed to be staying down. Then he got a feel for the two cook’s knives by repeatedly throwing them into the side of the wooden shelter.
    A maintenance crew cleaning skylights in the market hall roof took the wind out of his sails, but they disappeared after an hour and Marc watched the sunset, lying on his back while scoffing tinned peaches.
    He slept well – perhaps too well for someone in so much danger. When he woke it was light. There were already staff working in the offices below, though it was a Saturday so they’d only work until lunchtime.
    Marc suffered fewer aches and pains than the day before, though his ribs were badly bruised. Breathing deep was excruciating from where Fischer had punched him in the kidney, but the damage was healing, at least judging by the clear urine when he peed in the empty peach tin.
    He decided to make his move today: half-day in the office gave him an opportunity to leave while the streets were busy and catch an afternoon train, and as very few passenger trains ran on a Sunday he’d have to risk two more nights hiding out on the roof if he didn’t.
    When the staff left, Marc picked up everything from the roof and headed inside. He dumped his litter behind one of the file cabinets, where it wouldn’t be discovered until he was either home safe or dead. After a quick wash in the bathroom, he stole another of the commandant’s clean towels and headed down to the fifth.
    Commandant Eiffel had worked an extra hour and was just locking the door. Mercifully she didn’t look up as she waited for the lift. Once she was out of the way, Marc picked the lock then completed his final tasks: sticking the photos to the travel warrant, adding today’s date and stealing a larger sum from the petty cash tin.
    As he headed out, Marc remembered that the guard on Großmarkthalle’s exit occasionally asked why he was leaving, so he grabbed a couple of Deutsche Post’s yellow telegram forms, folded them in three and kept them in his hand.
    It was heart-in-mouth time on the stairs as three Gestapo officers came by, but their minds were focused on a stunningly beautiful teenager being dragged up by her hair. She had a Star of David on her dress and when Marc neared the ground floor he saw that the big wooden pen was crammed to bursting with more than two hundred Jewish women.
    To reach the exit Marc had to walk alongside the pen under the gaze of half a dozen SS men guarding the Jews. A frail palm with a folded note inside shot into Marc’s path.
    ‘Post this for me,’ the woman begged.
    Her voice was weak. Marc made an instant decision and snatched the letter. At the same moment, he could hear women arguing on the other side of the pen. Their German was faster than he could follow easily, but the gist of it was that they believed that the pretty girl had been dragged upstairs to be raped rather than interrogated.
    ‘Do you like the Jews?’ a guard asked, stepping in front of Marc with a big Alsatian at his side. He had a few days’ growth of beard and his uniform was dirtier than any German Marc had seen until now.
    Marc acted dumb. ‘No speak German.’
    ‘Give,’ the guard said, before snatching the letter. ‘You wait. My colleague speaks French.’
    As the guard beckoned a colleague with his gloved hand, Marc frantically waggled the yellow telegram papers and made running motions with his arms.
    ‘Standartenfuhrer, urgent!’ he said.
    Marc’s experience with Germans had taught him that their harsh regime made everyone afraid of upsetting their bosses.
    ‘Urgent,’ he repeated. ‘Telegrams for the Standartenfuhrer.’
    This did the trick. When the French-speaking officer arrived, he glanced at the folded blank telegram forms and pointed Marc towards the open doors where the trucks delivered cargo.
    ‘Go that way, it’s faster. But don’t interfere with the Jews again.’
    Marc nodded and