'Hey, you... Are you okay?'

It was getting darker in the stadium. People were starting to light some lanterns and it was getting quieter as well, which created a weird ambiance that Enoch couldn't really ignore.

But that wasn't really important right now.

He'd found a small, blonde girl on his way back after getting something to eat, crouched in a corner and hiding her face behind her hands, and with a bowl of watery soup in one hand he knelt down in front of her.

'Where are your parents?' He wasn't speaking in English anymore, but had switched back to his basic French as he addressed her. This was a whole other situation than when he'd met Horace a few hours ago.

The girl looked up, raising her head out of her hands. She couldn't be much older than 7, and from the looks of it she'd been crying. He smiled at her in an attempt to comfort her, before repeating his first question: 'Are you okay?'

No answer. She just stared at him, eyes wide and hands covering her mouth.

His smile quickly faded away. 'Are you hurt?'

Still no answer. A few seconds passed before she shook her head.

'Are you hungry?'

She nodded, and glanced at the bowl of soup in his left hand. Her face was dirty and pale, her dress was torn and her hair looked greasy, making it very clear that there was nobody looking after her.

'Here, you can have this.' He smiled again when handing over his food. He could afford to skip dinner, even though he'd be hungry all night – this child needed to eat.

A family of five shuffled past him, and he glanced up at them. 'Monsieur?'

The father came to a halt and looked down, frowning. 'Are you talking to me?'

'Do you know this girl? Have you seen her parents?' he asked, making a head gesture towards the girl.

'No, sorry.'

And the man continued walking.

'Merde...' Enoch mumbled, running his fingers through his hair. So the girl really was alone. He stared at her as she consumed the food he'd given her, a small frown on his face. She was wearing a yellow star on her chest, just like the one he had, with one word embroidered on it, in big, black letters: "Juif".

He'd never really thought about how many Jews actually lived in Paris until every single of one of them started wearing those stars. They seemed to be everywhere, and suddenly he'd thought of something – wouldn't it be very hard to keep an eye on all of those people? It wasn't like he hadn't heard of what Hitler wanted to do with those "undesirables". It wasn't like he hadn't noticed the Germans in bars and on street corners, staring at him as he passed them by.

He'd just thought that they'd have to try really hard to just let the Jews of Paris disappear. There were thousands of them.

He'd been wrong.

As the girl kept drinking his soup, he looked at the people around him, packed together on the stands. Had they all been dragged out of their homes, too? Had they put up a fight, like he'd done? Or had they accepted their fate as soon as they'd seen the soldiers?

'What's your name, little one?' he asked as soon as he noticed that she'd finished eating, his voice calm and quiet. The girl stared at him for almost ten whole seconds, before finally opening her mouth to speak.

'Claire.'

Enoch smiled. 'Claire, my name is Enoch. Do you know anyone here?'

She shook her head.

'So you're all alone?'

She nodded.

Jesus Christ... He could hardly imagine how she ended up here.

'I'm also alone here.' He sat down in front of her, because his knees were starting to hurt, and took back the empty bowl. 'We could stick together.'

She nodded again.

Enoch studied her face, and suddenly realised she not only looked a bit thin, but her cheeks were glowing red, despite the fact that it was a rather chilly summer evening. He hesitated, before reaching out to her and carefully touching her cheek. The girl was burning hot... With a frown on his face, he pushed himself up.

'Claire, can you come with me?'

She looked up to him and didn't say a word.

'Merde,' he murmured again, glancing over his shoulder. The three tents in the centre of the Vélodrome, set up by the people of the Red Cross, weren't that far away... he wouldn't have any trouble carrying her.

'Claire, you'll have to trust me for a moment.' He squatted down in front of her to look her in the eyes. 'I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help, and you can't stay here on your own. Do you trust me?'

No answer.

'I'll take that as a yes,' he mumbled, before he picked up the girl without a single problem. If she really was sick, someone needed to take care of her.

With Claire on his left arm, and his right hand on her back to keep her from falling backwards, he made his way back to the infirmary, and was immediately approached by a female nurse with the star of David on her uniform. 'Everything alright, monsieur?'

'I believe she is sick.' Enoch came to a halt in front of her, a worried look on his face. 'She's really hot.'

'I'll have a look at her.' The nurse smiled and carefully held the little girl in her arms. 'Are you her family?'

'Uhm, no,' he answered. 'She doesn't have any family here.'

'Oh.' Her smile faded. 'But... Can I ask you to stay here to wait for her?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Merci, monsieur.' She smiled again, before turning away and disappearing into one of the tents, with Claire in her arms.

'Enoch?'

Enoch looked over his shoulder, to see how Horace came walking towards him. He looked exhausted, but started smiling as soon as they made eye contact.

'So... you do speak French.' This was the first thing he said when he stopped walking and grinned. Enoch managed to smile back at him, running his fingers through his hair. 'I do. I'm sorry for lying to you.'

'Don't worry about it.' The blonde nurse studied his face for a few seconds. 'How does your face feel?'

'Pretty good. If you don't touch the bruises, I hardly notice them.'

'That's good to hear. I still need to check that cut, though.'

Enoch just nodded. An infected wound didn't sound appealing, so he followed Horace and sat down in a chair placed against one of the tents when the boy gestured towards it.

'Why were you talking to that nurse?' Horace asked, sounding curious.

'Well, uhm... I found this little girl on the stands. No parents, no family.' He flinched ever so slightly when Horace slowly pulled the bandages from his skin. 'Didn't say a word to me besides her name, but I think she had a fever so I brought her here.'

'A very smart decision.' Horace was now looking at the cut on his cheek. 'We really need more doctors here... There are more than fifty volunteers outside but they won't let them in.' His face grew dark. 'You can't take care of thousands of people like this. It's cruel.'

'So...' Enoch started slowly. 'You don't agree with all of this?'

'The arresting and detaining of Jews?' Horace glanced at him, and Enoch noticed how he suddenly looked almost scary. 'Of course not. I am a catholic but that doesn't mean I think people who practice other religions are in the wrong.'

Enoch smiled without any happiness or joy. 'If only more people had the same mindset.'

Both of them were silent for a moment, just like almost everything around them. It was now weirdly quiet in the stadium, especially after the pandemonium of noise from just hours before, but for some reason it was very calming.

'The cut doesn't look that bad,' Horace stated in a soft voice. 'It's not that deep and I think that, if you don't touch it, it's best to let it stay like this for tonight.'

'Great, thanks,' he answered, talking equally as quiet. Horace just smiled and sat down in an empty chair next to him.

Somewhere in the Vélodrome, a baby started crying. Seconds later, Enoch could hear a woman singing a Hebrew lullaby in an attempt to console her child, and after a while the crying stopped. The woman kept singing, however, and as they sat there Enoch just listened.

What was going to happen to him? Would he have any chance to contact his parents? Did he want to worry them?

Maybe he could escape. Maybe he could somehow sneak out and get back to London before they even noticed he was gone.

Deep inside he knew it wouldn't work. The whole place was loaded with soldiers, and since he'd punched one of them this afternoon they would keep an even closer eye on him.

The woman stopped singing, and the silence returned. Horace had got up from his chair, brushing his hair out of his face. 'I will see you another time. Good night, Enoch.' And with a last smile, he disappeared around the corner.