Enoch's eyes drifted over the enormous crowd, hands in his pockets. He'd always wondered how many people could fit into the Vélodrome, the bicycle racing track in Paris, and was sure that this was too much. Why did they ever think keeping thousands of Jews in this place would be a good idea?

'Mon Dieu, vous s'êtes battu?! Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?'

He frowned, turning his head.

And had to look down to make eye contact with the person who'd spoken to him: a young man, maybe a year younger than he was, with blonde hair, pale blue eyes and a pointy face. Judging by the clothes he was wearing he was one of the nurses who worked at the infirmary in the middle of the Vélodrome, which was very convenient since that was why he was here. Blood was slowly dripping down the right side of his face and although he was slowly beginning to feel the pain in his cheek again, he'd been hesitant to actually go up to someone and ask for help.

'Excusez-moi,' the young man continued, reaching up. Enoch immediately backed away. 'Sorry, I don't really speak French – je ne parle pas Français –'

This was a lie. His French wasn't bad at all, mostly because he'd spent the last 5 months with Parisian students who couldn't speak English to save their lives, but for some reason he hoped the nurse would leave him alone if he realised they didn't speak the same language.

That wasn't the case.

'Oh, I can speak some words in English,' the boy said with a heavy accent, smiling up at him. 'Can I look at your wounds, monsieur? They are horrible and I can see you are, euh...'

'Bleeding. That's correct.' Enoch kept his voice monotone and his way of speaking short. He knew someone had to take care of the bruises and cuts on his face, but he'd never liked it when someone was fussing over him.

The nurse mumbled something in French, before looking him the eyes again. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully. 'I will need to clean them. They will get infected otherwise.'

'If you must.'

The boy smiled politely. 'Venez avec moi, s'il vous plaît.'

Enoch felt like he didn't have a choice at this point. Without protesting in any way he followed the young man, passing other nurses, doctors and patients.

The whole stadium was filled with noise, which would've driven him completely insane in any other situation, but for some reason the young Jew had been nothing but calm for the past day since the moment he'd entered Vélodrome D'Hiver.

Well, if you didn't count his attack on the French soldier fifteen minutes ago.

Other than that, he'd been as reserved as someone could be.

'Please, sit.' The nurse gestured towards what was clearly supposed to be an improvised hospital bed, placed in the middle of the track field. Enoch obeyed quietly, sitting down. The adrenaline was slowly wearing off and now he could actually feel what had happened – the soldier had managed to give him a few good punches to the face before they'd been pulled apart and especially his left cheek hurt like hell.

'What happened?' The young man appeared in front of him again, a piece of cloth in one hand and a small bottle filled with liquid in the other. 'You did not fall?'

'No. Punched a Nazi. In my defence, he was incredibly – oi! Watch it!' The nurse had touched his bleeding cheek with the piece of cloth and the wound immediately began to sting, due to the disinfecting liquid. In a reflex, Enoch pushed his hand away.

'Oh, excusez-moi – I am just trying to clean the wound, monsieur...?'

The young man looked up, eyebrows raised.

'O'Connor. Enoch.'

'Ah. Merci.' He smiled, before raising his hand again. 'Alors. Do I have your permission, monsieur?'

'Hm. Sure. If you tell me your name.'

The young man smiled. 'Horace Somnusson. You should not punch a soldier, monsieur, it does not matter that they were rude.'

Enoch flinched when the nurse, who now had a name, touched his cheek again, but tried his best to stay still. 'They dragged me out of my room at 5 in the morning and I'm not allowed to punch the bastard in the face when he insults me?'

Horace continued cleaning the wound and didn't look up to him, but Enoch could see how his smile had faded and his expression had turned serious. 'I know what happened before all these people got here. A person told me what they did.' Enoch knew "they" were the Nazi's, so he didn't say a word. 'I do not agree with their actions, but I think that you should not make them angry. It will, euh…' He hesitated, clearly looking for the right words as his hand hovered in the air. 'It will get you into trouble.'

'I'm not in any trouble,' Enoch answered, sounding a bit annoyed. Why did this boy – because he was, in fact, still a boy, hardly older than 18 – worry so much about his wellbeing? 'I got off with a warning.'

'Then you should remember that.'

They both fell silent for a few moments, as Horace walked away and disappeared out of sight, before returning with what seemed like bandages.

'Alors… You will need to come back after a few hours, monsieur, so I can look at your wounds again.'

'Please, don't call me monsieur. And I think I'll be alright, honestly.'

Horace, who was now busy covering up the one cut on his cheek, glanced at him. 'You appear as someone who can take care of himself,' he answered with a somewhat mocking tone in his voice, but with a faint smile on his face. 'You hit a soldier. But I am very serious, mon-' He quickly cut himself off when he saw Enoch looking at him. 'Enoch.' His smile grew wider.

There was something about this boy that kept Enoch from disliking him. He couldn't exactly point it out – maybe it was the little smiles, or the way he pronounced his English (and mispronounced Enoch's name, which he somehow didn't mind).

'Can I ask you why you are in France? You are from England?'

'Yeah, born and raised in London.' For the first time, Enoch smiled. 'When I turned nineteen, I thought it would be a good idea to spend a year abroad. So I travelled to Amsterdam, stayed there for two weeks and then decided to go to Paris. That was five months ago.'

'You did not know that the Germans were here?'

'Oh, I did.' His smile slowly faded again. 'I just thought…' He didn't finish his sentence. What had he thought? That he wouldn't get into any trouble because he was British or something?

Horace didn't ask any follow-up questions and finished covering up the cut on Enoch's cheek in silence. When he was finally done, the taller boy decided it was his turn to ask a question.

'Aren't you a bit young to be a nurse? And how is your English so good? Most people I've met so far never bothered to learn another language besides their own.'

With another smile, Horace picked up the remaining bandages before looking up at him again. 'My grandfather was from England. When we are with him, we are not allowed to speak French.'

'Makes sense.' Enoch glanced at a passing doctor before looking back at Horace. 'But you're younger than me, right? Why are you here?'

'I assist my father. He is a doctor.' Horace turned around and pointed at a tall man in a white coat, who was talking to a female nurse with his back turned towards them. 'I am here to help him. And the people that need my help, of course. I want to be a doctor when I am older.' He looked back at Enoch. 'Is it still hurting? I mean your cheek?'

'Not as much as before. Thanks.' Enoch smiled at him, before standing up from the hospital bed so he had to look down to make eye contact again. 'I, uhm, you said you wanted to check on me later?'

'Oui, before you go to sleep, s'il te plaît. After dinner.'

'Got it. Thanks again.'

Horace just gave him a polite smile. 'Until then.'

Walking back across the track, Enoch glanced over his shoulder, but Horace was already helping someone else and didn't notice. So he kept walking, hands in his pockets and looking straight ahead.