According to the newsreels and the radio, there was a war going on somewhere in the world. Lots of people dying and killing each other, but in the St. Mary of the Immaculate Conception Girl's School none of that was apparent. The gymnasium was noisy, bustling with students jostling each other, and people whispering back and forth.

"Alright," standing on the stage at the end of the gym, stood Headmistress Mary, looking stern but cheerful. "Welcome to the new school year. A few words before I dismiss you to your classes. First, we understand that with the draft many changes may be necessary at home and at school. We will deal with them as they happen, and hope that you will cooperate with us on these matters. Second, because of a rather unique set of circumstances, we will be welcoming the first male student at this school." Harsh whispering broke out. "Mr. Peter, please stand." Awkwardly, a blond teenager stood in his chair. All eyes were on him, and he nearly quailed under the combined attention before lifting his chin and staring at the headmistress fearlessly. "Peter will be the first boy here because we could not guarantee his safety at the St. Joseph School for Boys." More whispering broke out. "Because Mr. Peter is German." Dead silence fell as Peter sat down again, his face flushing red. "Now, expect you to all be polite and welcoming as well as mind yourselves. Third," the conversation went on, but Peter Ziedner was pressed back into his seat as he recalled the series of unfortunate events that had led to him being dumped in a girls school at all.

#$#$#$#$#$#$#

America really was a large country, and after an even longer ocean crossing, Peter Ziedner was more than ready to find out wherever the Army was sending him and his father. He paused, blinking past the rising sun, and turned to see that his father was sleeping. Aided and abetted by the rocking of the train. He turned back to the countryside, admiring the landscape and the few houses he saw. Nothing like France, Nothing like anything he'd ever seen really.

"I can hear you thinking, Peter." His eyes opened faintly, "you should sleep." The train car, loaded with prisoners and routinely patrolled by soldiers who usually did a double-take when catching sight of him. It was quiet, and someone was snoring not far away.

"I can't," he admitted, swallowing hard. In the distance, he caught a glimpse of an enormous bird winging over the horizon. "How can you?"

"I have you, Peter," his father said patiently. "The Amis have not ripped you away, and I am alive."

"But we are prisoners." Peter sighed, "and we are so far from home...and…" Mother was dead. Grief caused his throat to swell up, and he looked again at the countryside. There was something that looked like a farm on their side of the tracks...but he really had no idea. He'd spent his life in his mother's villa...and with two indulgent parents. Everyone he'd known who'd helped him into North Africa had been surprised to see him attempting something so risky.

"Peter," his father paused and looked around, "despite what they." Meaning Berlin and high command. "Want you to think...there is no shame in living. We must live, despite the circumstances. I am simply pleased that." Words failed him as he considered the dark night when true terror gripped his heart. When his world spun around him and vanished until he'd found himself captured. Worsened by the fact that the Americans had also had his son, for reasons Peter hadn't truly explained until they were handed over to the proper authorities. "You were brave to seek out what you wanted." He thought back to Sergeant Troy. The man owed him nothing, he had had no reason to risk life and limb to capture him...and he had done it solely for his son.

Peter, gentle and sweet Peter, doing his best to emulate his father but still so much of his mother. Motivated by affection and fear, but still so utterly reckless.

"Yes, Father." Peter looked torn but didn't contradict him.

Prison really wasn't a place for Peter. His son wasn't a soldier, he had avoided being involved with the Hitler Youth by the sheer fact that he was in Algeria for so many years. Perhaps that could go in his favor.

Surely the commandant of wherever they were heading would understand that? Leaving a young man in a men's prison had to be against some sort of code, even in America. He wondered what sort of release he could secure for his son if he could get him sent somehwere….but then again it would revealed at this son was his weak point. Not that they didn't already know. It was clear to anyone with even the most basic observation skills.

Where would they send Peter? If they sent him anywhere, would it be a boarding school? Did America have boarding schools? He had to admit that he knew very little about the cultural landscape of this country. Would they send Peter to live with a family? If they did would they ensure that they weren't hurting Peter for daring to be German?

"Father?" The quiet of the train, punctuated by an occasional snore, seemed to ring louder in his ears.

"Go to sleep," he said wearily, leaning back in his seat. "It will be harder to sleep when the sun is up."

#$#$#

"I hope you understand," Colonel Harris was younger than Colonel Zeidner by a few years, with a regulation haircut that was trying and failing to contain tight red curls, and an eternally youthful face that was creased into an unhappy frown as he considered the man in front of him. "That this entire thing is wildly out of regulation."

"Yes, sir." Prisoner, he may be, but he still had his pride and his dignity. Since arriving at the frankly enormous prison camp yesterday, he knew Peter was the subject of debate among the officers and even the regular guards. Someone, knowing of the situation, had arranged for one of the smaller buildings to be converted into quarters for the two of them. It was thoughtful, and far more consideration than he thought he'd get.

"Prison," Colonel Harris pointed out, "even the son of a colonel, isn't a place for someone as young as….Peter." He glanced at his files, acid green eyes skipping over the details written there.

"No, sir." He waited.

"We can arrange to send him to your extended family," Harris offered, "the Red Cross can make inquiries."

"Ah," he paused, "I have no more family." He said bleakly, keenly aware of the American's eyes on him.

"You have several cousins still alive." Harris pointed out, and Ziender cursed whichever spies had unveiled that fact.

"They are fanatics," he opted for honesty, visibly surprising Colonel Harris' aide. "I am not certain that they would...react favorably to Peter having been to America."

"It wouldn't be safe for him with your family?" Harris tall and lean where Zeidner was shorter and a little more barrel-chested, moved with the grace of a lady. A fact that prompted the captured colonel to bit his tongue in an effort not to remark on.

"No, sir."

"None of this makes his appearance in a military installation alright. We can arrange for him to be boarded in a house."

"He would never agree to it," he paused, a little embarrassed of the situation his son had put him in, but the bed had been made and he would lie in it.

"Really?" Harris demanded flatly.

"It is why he is here," he wondered how much to reveal. "My wife is dead. I am the only family he has left."

The red-head shifted, acutely uncomfortable. "My condolences for your wife," he said, "but this is a prisoner of war camp and not a home for grieving teenagers."

"If you consider that Peter will not behave."

"I'm not concerned with that, but cards on the table; no one wants to keep a 15-year-old in a POW camp. It's not...cricket." Unless Ziedner was mistaken, that was an English term. "He's underage, which puts him firmly in a separate category." Harris, unbending, stared Ziedner down.

"What did you have in mind." He asked, and Harris looked a little more relaxed.

"Either assign him to a home nearby," Harris mused, "or send him to a boarding school...or enroll him in a school nearby."

So America did have boarding schools. Interesting.

"Then his safety could be assured?" He asked. "Even the renowned friendliness of Americans." Colonel Harris gave the impression of a schoolmaster peering over nonexistent glasses. "Must have its limits."

"It does," Harris met a guard's eyes over his shoulders. "We may be limited in our options, but rest assured that we are not keeping him here. Since it may take some time to arrange these things...you will have time to acclimatize."

"What?" He knew English very well, but he did not know that word.

"Get him used to the idea that he won't be spending the duration with you." Harris's lips pursed unhappily and the colonel got the impression that he was already stretching the hospitality as far as it was willing to go. He hoped that Peter could control himself so as to not irritate the men here further.

"Yes, sir."

"Alright," the commandant waved. "Dismissed."

He saluted, and as soon as he was released into the regular prison yard, he moved toward where his son was talking with some of the younger men. He waved away their salutes and gestured for Peter to follow him into their quarters. It was a prison, yes, but still a nicer prison than he was expecting.

"Father?" Peter glanced around, sitting when his father waved him down. "What did the Americans want?"

"Well," his father looked briefly torn. "They are not comfortable with you being here."

"What? Sergeant Troy said."

"Sergeant Troy is only a sergeant." His father reminded him. "And keeping us together had already taken much more than I have ever wished to ask of Americans." Subsiding, Peter hunched inward and stared up at his father. "Colonel Harris outranks him, and he is correct when he says that a prison camp is no place for a child."

"I am not a child!" Peter exclaimed, and flushed as he proved the point. The stern look in his father's eyes only sharpened. "Father, please don't let them send me away. Where would I go?"

"I do not know," his father admitted. "Only that there are a number of options ad Kommandant Harris tells me. Perhaps a boarding school or to be sent to live with a family."

"I don't," Peter tried to imagine what living with an American family would be like, and his imagination failed to conjure anything but the image of John Wayne spanking him. Flushing, he shook his head. "They would kill me."

"I do not think so." His father sat beside him. "Surely you cannot wish to spend your time here. This is a prison camp."

"You are here," Peter swallowed down a lump in his throat. "I should be here."

"I am here because I am an officer," Father sighed again. "You aren't even a soldier."

"I could be," he knew he sounded petulant, but he didn't cross several countries and an ocean and then most of America to be left behind at the last minute.

"No, Peter, you are not. Even being a colonel's son is not enough to sentence you." He was grateful that Colonel Harris had brought it up.

"But what about the war? Should I try to?"

"No." Peter blinked at his father's outburst. "Do not sabotage anything, Peter."

"You said."

"I know what I said," his father took a deep breath. "I know that you must do what you can to stop the enemy on the battlefield, but we are not on the battlefield. You cannot endanger yourself or give them a reason to treat you as if you are a threat or a soldier."

"But," Peter paused and struggled to think of something.

"You would not only put yourself in danger, but every prisoner the Americans have."

"Yes, Father." He bit his lip and waited. "I don't want to go."

"It will not be for some time yet," his father assured him, looking a little relieved. "They must make the arrangements, but it will possibly be better for you, Peter."

"To be separated, after all this time?" He hated the idea, and he hated everything about the war. Taking his mother and his father, how he had ended up in America, how he'd been bound and gagged in the middle of the desert as his father's life hung in the balance.

"To find a sense of normalcy. To...be young as you ought to be." Peter wondered if he could be normal. He was fifteen and had done the impossible for his father, and he wasn't about to be stuck with a family who thought he was a child.

"I don't like it."

"Don't pout," his father ordered. "We will not damage our chances, son."

"I wonder what they might have planned."

#$#$#$#

"Are you insane?" Colonel Harris stared at his aide, who seemed to be struggling with the urge to not laugh.

"No, sir. You said you wanted a school within an acceptable distance that would be safe for Peter Ziedner. A new semester starts in a week, and that's enough time to get him enrolled. I've already discussed it with the headmistress."

"He…" Colonel harris pinched his nose. "No."

"He'll agree to it because it's the only option," Captain Rose told him, "and because he is desperate to get him out of here." One would have to be blind to miss the way Colonel Ziedner hovered over his son, unsure of leaving him alone for even a moment. It wasn't as if the camp was unsafe for him to be in, but the situation wasn't ideal. The higher-ups had been demanding information on Peter Ziedner too. Most of them had been for chucking the boy into a boarding school, but Harris had promised he'd see about keeping them close if not together.

"I'm not sure how they'll take it."

"We can still arrange for them to see each other on the weekend, but this is the best that they're going to get."

"Damn," Colonel Harris muttered, "sure hope that kid doesn't have too much pride."

#$#$#$#

"Peter Ziedner," turning at the sound of his voice, he found himself staring at a girl about his age with thick black hair curled onto her head, and a uniform that looked like it had once belonged to an older sibling. Still, her eyes were sharp and her attention was focused.

"Ja," clearing his throat he tried again. "Yes?"

"Edith Manor, I'm part of the welcoming committee." She held out a hand, ignoring the crowd dispersing around him. "Welcome."

"Hi!" A second voice piped up, younger and friendlier. "I'm Mary Toms! I'm part of the welcoming committee too!" Short, chubby, and wearing a wide grin and a messy hairstyle, she too held out her hand. "Welcome to St. Mary's!"

"Thank you," he shook her hands, trying to remember if he should bow over it or not. It had been a while, so he settled on just shaking their hands. "I...am Peter Ziedner."

"Are you really German?" Mary wondered, taking up the position on his right side.

"Are you really American?" He asked, and struggled with what to say. "I...am I?"

"Come on!" Edith raised a hand, gesturing for them to follow. "You're in my morning class."

"Yes," he glanced around, catching a few of his classmate's eyes, knowing full well that he was the topic of conversation of the day and that there was no way to escape that fact. "What do I?"

"Just follow," Edith replied, and he clutched his books a little closer. "So, did you pack a lunch?"

"Ja," he cast his mind back to the little cubby it sat in. "I did."

"Good, I hate to share." Edith opened a door, and a dozen pairs of eyes fell on him, including a stern-looking nun. "Morning," she called, and the conversation resumed. Grab a seat and we'll go from there."

"Grab a seat?" He stared at the few empty seats left, and the sudden distance yawning in front of him like the mouth of some great, insurmountable beast. There was no neutral area to sit in, and he jumped as he took the seat furthest away from any of the girls in the classroom. Gratified when Edith slid in a seat beside him. "You...choose your seats?"

"You don't?"

"Ah, no." He looked around at the many girls, and the nun standing in the front of the classroom and gulped. The men had joked about being surrounded by pretty frauleins, and telling him that he'd have to share, but they didn't think that these women were anything less than friendly.

A few more students filed in, and the nun put down her book as the bell rang.

"Welcome back, girls," she paused, "and gentleman." A few giggles broke out. "Right," the nun rallied herself. "I am Sister Margret, and this year we're going to focus on some of the more interesting classics, as well as a few modern works. Since this is a literature class, we'll be reading Milton, Shakespear, Thomas Pain, Hemingway, Donne, as well as Mark Twain." With the exception of Shakespear, Peter honestly had no idea who any of these people were, or what they could have written. Feeling utterly lost, he wondered if he should bring attention to this fact.

He wondered if that would count against him.

#$#$#$#

"Well," once again back in the kommandants office, Colonel Ziedner had the strangest feeling that Captain Rose was laughing at him. At least, if not at him then just in general and he was probably the cause of his amusement. "We've wrangled a deal with a local school corporation, and the authorities in town."

"Authorities?"

"Even the army has to play nice with locals," Colonel Harris replied and paused. "The school will allow Peter to attend during the week, and a local woman has agreed to take care of Peter as well."

"Take care?"

"Think of it as boarding him, but he'd also be answerable to the lady. Her name is Mrs. Benedict. We've interviewed her and she's willing to take him in during the week."

"I see." It was too good to be true. "What is..how you Americans say, the catch?"

"The catch?" Colonel Harris didn't bother with the pretense of false understanding. "Is that if either of you steps out of line, you don't see him. You screw up or if he screws up, we're sending him to a boarding school and you won't see him and he won't see you."

"If that is the catch, then I must assume that this Frau Benedict is some fire-breathing monster."

"She's a widow, has seven kids who are all adults, and her son is Father Benedict, the one who chairs the head of the school boards. She's retired and spends most of her time writing and gardening."

Blushing faintly, Colonel Ziedner stared at the man and tried to discern where the trap lay. "It is too good to be true," he admitted at last.

"I said," Colonel Harris lit a cigarette, glaring. "That I would go my best, and I have done my best for both my conscience, security, and the best we can manage for Peter's unique situation. By all means, Colonel Ziedner, it would be easiest to throw him at a boarding school and be done with it."

"No," glaring, he straightened. "I am not suggesting sending to boarding school. I cannot imagine that he would be well-received."

"Hence the girl's school provided he swallows his pride and keeps his eyes straight and his hands to himself."

"Peter has been well taught," Colonel Ziedner said coolly, detesting the implication that his son would be anything other than a gentleman. "When does this school start?"

"In a week," Colonel Harris answered blandly, and Ziedner wondered if that was enough time for his son to adjust to the sudden change. Not too long ago he had been in North Africa, traveling across America as a prisoner. It would be an enormous step to be sent to live with someone else, even if he was close to his father. And to start a new school? What else could he do?

"I...presume they have uniforms?" He asked, suddenly wondering if Peter would have to wear a skirt.

"Yes," Colonel Harris pulled something from beside his desk and set a brown parcel on top of his paperwork. "Two uniforms are in here, and Mrs. Benedict said that she'd fix up the civvies."

"I," that was very sudden and he struggled to think of something to say. This was no a military matter. This was his son, his only child, and the last of his family. "This is very generous."

"It is, isn't it." Harris admitted, "we'll be taking him on Wednesday to meet with Mrs. Benedict and to get the clothes fitted. Dismissed." They stood, and as Colonel Ziedner stood, the American cleared his throat. "Break it to him gently."

"I will," he agreed, and as soon as he was in the compound, send for one of the enlisted men to pry Peter away from the football match, before he retreated to his little barracks. It was warm, and Peter was drenched in sweat as he bounded into the little cottage.

"Father, I was close to winning!" He complained, but there was a smile on his face. "Are you alright? Did the Amis do anything to you?"

"No," he watched his son, "they have….there is an opportunity for you….and I have accepted it."

"Are you sending me away?" Peter's voice rose, cracking faintly. "Father!"

"No, well….yes." He raised his hands, trying his best to soothe his suddenly agitated son. "We will still be close, Peter. You will visit every weekend."

"What?"

"Yes," broking no argument, he continued. "You have been enrolled in a school, and during the week you will stay with an American widow."

"A widow?"

"Yes." He took a deep breath and laid out the rest of the deal, as well as the threats that had been thrown his way. If he weren't a German officer, he probably would have found his son's reaction hilarious. But he was an officer and this was his son. He had already gone to war, but sending his son somewhere else was hardly an appealing option. "You will go, Peter. You will obey the rules this woman sets out, and you will attend this school." He nodded, clearly displeased by the entire situation, and slumped on the side of his cot. "This school is not like...other schools."

"Is it a reform school?" The anxious question brought a smile to his lips, and he shook his head.

"Because...you are German...and there is a war the officials did not think you would be safe at the boy's school….you will be attending a school for girls."

"What? I am a man! Vater!"

"You will go," he repeated sternly, "and you will, as Colonel Harris said, keep your eyes forward and your hands to yourself. We taught you how to behave, and I know you are not foolish enough to attempt anything."

"Vater!" His son was always so convincing, and in the past, he knew he'd allowed the boy to get out of trouble very easily and had probably indulged him a little too much.

Staying firm, he shooks his head. "It was accept this, Peter, or to send you to a faraway boarding school. Colonel Harris has been more than generous. He did not need to arrange for your schooling at all."

"But it is a girl's school," Peter whined, "Vater, I cannot attend a girl's school."

"You will," he told his son, "you will stay with this woman, Frau Benedict, and you will go to school, and," he paused, "you will have a life. You cannot stay in prison! You cannot be a prisoner this young, and I want you to take this opportunity, Peter."

"But we will not be together!"

"We will see each other," he reminded his son, "and you will have a normal life. Grow the way a child should, without the bars of a prison." Peter subsided and picked at the edge of the blanket. "These are your school uniforms," he handed over the bundle. "And Colonel Harris has told me that on Wednesday you will meet with Frau Benedict and she will arrange the rest of your clothes."

"I don't want to go!" Peter exclaimed, clinging to his sleeve, "what if they are horrible! I am their enemy, they would."

"You are a child," he sighed, "and I want you to behave."

"I will behave, Father," Peter still had the same mulish look on his face that his mother often got when they argued. "But I will not like it."

#$#$#

By the time the lunch bell rang, Peter's head felt like an over wrung sponge, and he was just beginning to get the feeling that his tutors and teachers had been far more relaxed than some of these nuns.

"Peter," he paused, reaching for the lunch that Mrs. Benedict had packed for him. Edith Manor was back, and she was holding a lunch pail in one hand a stack of books with the other. "Eat with us, we're out on the grass."

"You eat outside?" He wondered, and the girl tilted her head.

"Yes."

"I thought the nuns would be too strict," he said and followed her through the school.

"Eddie!" Mary Toms bounded up, cheerfully holding her own lunch pail and the hands of a much younger girl. "What did your mother pack?"

"Food," Edith replied, and Peter stared at the younger girl until Mary introduced her.

"This is Helen, my younger sister! She's just starting here."

"Hallo," he bit his lip, looking to Edith for guidance. She sat down beside one of the larger trees, leaning against the bark.

"What's wrong with your voice?" Helen wondered, and Mary blushed.

"Helen!"

"What? His voice is funny!"

"It's my voice," he responded, not sure what else to say.

"Why is he here? He's a boy."

"We heart it at assembly this morning," her older sister told her, "weren't you listening?"

"I was too nervous," Helen shrugged.

"He's German," Edith reminded the other girl. "That's all, eat your lunch."

"Oh," Helen stared at him and accepted the food from her sister. "But why are you here?"

"They thought the boys would beat him up," the oldest girl shrugged when Peter shot her a glare. "I don't know why they thought we wouldn't do it."

"We could," Helen nodded vigorously with her sister.

"I would fight back," he told them, "and Frau Benedict would not be happy."

"Frau?"

"It means Missus."

"You're staying with Mrs. Benedict?" Three pairs of eyes turned to him, and Peter nodded.

"She's Father Benedict's mother," Edith tilted her head to the side. "What's it like living with her?"

"She is very nice," he confessed, probably nicer than she had reason to be.

#$#$#

Frau Benedict was an aged, tall, slightly round woman with impeccable dress and household, with a soft face with deep laugh lines. She hadn't bothered with waiting inside for the knock on the door, she was sitting on a beautiful front porch in a white rocking chair. The house itself was easily three stories, with a round tower on one corner. A sprawling garden consumed most of the front yard, sporting flowers, and vegetables.

She lived a good distance from the town, and there was a great deal more land attached to the house than he'd anticipated. From the front porch, he could see a small pond, a grove of trees sporting a white swing, and a sprawling lawn in all directions from the house.

"Nice," one of the guards whistled, eyeing the house. "Lucky kid."

"It's nice," Captain Rose agreed, turning to Peter. "This woman is formidable, Mr. Ziedner. Be on your best behavior."

"Ja," he agreed, but a lot less frightened than he had been. It was a beautiful home, he hadn't known that Americans could have homes like this. Nothing like the villa in Algeria, but it was full of green and life and the air was fresh and sweet. It really looked like something out of an old storybook. "Hauptmann Rose."

Captain Rose was a tall, narrow man with a speculative look that thankfully transferred to Mrs. Benedict as they walked up the steps of the porch.

"Morning, ma'am. I'm Captain Rose."

"Good morning, Captain," she was much taller than Peter, with soft green eyes and dark hair that was pulled into delicate curls. "Boys," shifting to look at Peter, she raised a thin eyebrow. "And you must be Peter."

"Ja, Gnädige frau," he bowed slightly, wondering if he ought to use German manners or French.

"Oh, come in, come in. We have a lot of work to do."

"We do have a few things to discuss, Mrs. Benedict." Captain Rose agreed as he followed her into the house. Peter and the guards followed.

The inside of the house was just as beautiful, art and framed portraits hung on the walls, and while it was well-worn everything was clearly well-loved. She took a seat in the sitting room, and Captain Rose took a seat on the couch while the guards took up positions by one of the doors.

"Do you want to take a look around?" Mrs. Benedict asked, and he blinked a few times.

"Look around?" He turned to Captain Rose for guidance.

"If you're going to be staying here, then you ought to see the house." Mrs. Benedict waved a hand. "Go take a look, and we'll call you when we need you. I only ask that you don't enter the room on the second floor with the green door."

"I."

"Go on," the captain nodded, and Peter eyed the other door nervously. "Don't break anything.'

"I hardly think he's going to break anything." The woman sighed, and Peter retreated into the nearby room. It was a large dining room, a china cabinet was filled with beautiful dishes and highly polished silverware. He turned to the sitting room where the Americans were deep in conversation and decided that he should get to see where he was going to live, but he also needed to know what the Americans were saying.

3$#$#

Captain Rose was a little jealous that Peter would be spending the war in such a nice place, it was certainly an upgrade from the prison, and the kid had damn well appreciate how much work had gone into getting him into this house.

"Mrs. Benedict," he started, "I know this is highly unusual, and we appreciate your assistance in the matter."

"Oh, it's nothing, I don't mind helping out. Leaving the poor boy in prison really isn't an option."

"No, not much of one, but you do understand that he is technically under supervision, and his father is a prisoner of war."

"Loose lips sink ships," she agreed sagely, "that shouldn't be too much trouble, but I'll take it under advisement."

"And you should be advised that alternate plans have been made if he becomes unmanageable or misbehaves to such an extreme that you feel you can't handle him."

"Oh?"

"Yes, ma'am, he knows that this is technically a probationary run."

"Captain," the woman interrupted him firmly, "this was all explained to me when I was asked to take Peter in. Unless you're repeating it for Peter's sake, I do not appreciate being patronized. I have already accepted what you consider risks, and I have no intention of turning the young man out."

"Peter's sake?" Rose turned, they were the only ones in the room.

"It's alright, Peter," the woman raised her voice, "come on out. I don't bite." To the captain's astonishment, Peter's blond hair and one blue eye emerged from behind the wall separating the sitting and dining room. Instead of looking annoyed, Mrs. Benedict looked smug and vindicated. "Well?"

Peter straightened, "I am not sorry."

Captain Rose rubbed at his forehead, wondering if the old woman and the headstrong teenager would manage for an entire war.

"I didn't think you would be," she tilted her head, "go look around. I have to fit you for some clothes when the captain and I are done talking." Peter hesitated, only obeying when she urged him on with a wave. When he heard nervous footsteps on the stairs, only did Captain Rose relax.

"You knew he was eavesdropping?"

"Of course," she blinked at him, shielding bright green eyes against the dark. "What else could he do?"

"Hmmm," he considered the woman, "your son said that you were amenable, but this isn't going to be like raising your children."

"I'm aware, Captain Rose." She was older but having raised seven children mostly on her own, she probably wasn't a pushover. Father Benedict was a good priest and from the reports, an excellent teacher and counselor. "I'm old, not dead."

"Well, we'd like for you to lay out your rules for him. We've already given him ours. The official story is that he's a refugee, and telling people that his father is a prisoner of war isn't allowed."

"Of course not, it might get him in trouble."

"Well, we're trying to keep it quiet. He already knows better than to mention it. Since he's going to be going to the girl's school, they already know to keep an eye on him there, but if anything happens."

"Anything I can't handle, I'll let the army handle," she assured him. "But this is a quiet town, at least until the army built that prison camp. If he has refugee status, then I am sure he will be fine."

#$#$#$

The bus was big, yellow, and packed with students, and still, Peter had his own seat. He held his bag close to his chest, listening to the students and kids on the bus.

"Hey," he turned his head to see one of the girls in a slightly rumpled uniform sitting next to him. "I'm Jan." she pointed at a boy who leaned over the seat in front of him. "That's Dan. Mom said we had to keep you from getting beat up."

"I'm...okay," that was an American thing to say, right? O.K?

"Mom said we had to help." The twins watched him, and then the other students. "Mrs. Benedict asked."

"Oh." He liked Mrs. Benedict, even if he really had no idea what to think of her yet. She was nice, almost too nice. "Thank you."

"Sure," Jan turned to her book, and Dan sat back down in his seat. The ride passed slowly, the noise of bickering, chatting students somehow drowned out by the thudding of Peter's heart. His first day back among civilization, with people and no guards and soldiers, and he was both along and with tentative allies. "Hey," the bus jerked to a halt, "this is our stop."

"Come on," Dan ordered, and the three dismounted the bus, as it trundled off into the distance, he turned to his escorts.

"Thank you."

"Sure," Jan tilted her head to the side, and pointed down a dusty path, said, "that's our way. Do you know how to get home?"

Home? The villa in Algeria, the yellow stone, the warm sun, his mother, and his friends all around him. "Yes," he replied, "thank you." He gave them a wave and moved down the path to his new home. It was a decent walk, Mrs. Benedict had a large chunk of land and as he approached the house, he caught sight of the woman kneeling among the rows of vegetables that had taken over the side garden.

Unsure if he should venture into the house or speak to her, he settled waiting beside a bucket of garden scraps. "Frau Benedict!"

"Peter," she leaped to her feet, scurrying out of the garden, seized him in a brief hug. "How was your first day of school? Did anyone give you any trouble?"

"It was fine," he wondered at her obvious concern. "I am….well. No one bothered me."

"Good," she nodded firmly, "come inside. I was so excited I made an after-school snack for you. Come on inside, did you see Bernard?"

"No, he was busy at the boy's school today."

"Oh, well. You'll see him soon enough." In the kitchen, he found a plate of biscuits sitting at the table, next to a jar of strawberry jelly. Peter brightened considerably, what he'd found the first-day visit Mrs. Benedict, was that she took her gardening seriously. There was an entire storeroom of canned and jarred goods of all different kinds pulled from her garden. Rows of jams, jellies, and marmalades, pie fillings, and pre-mixed jars of cakes and cookies that would eventually be prepared as she saw fit. Entire rows of canned potatoes, sitting next to crates of potatoes she'd harvested. Beans, tomatoes, carrots, and everything in between that she could stuff into a jar to preserve. Strings of onions and garlic, and an abundance of food that would keep Mrs. Benedict well-fed until the end of the war, and possibly the next. Despite overproducing for one woman, she was generous with her jars and cans and had sent Captain Rose back to camp with a jar of peach jelly that had promptly made him the envy of every single man in camp. Anything made before America joining the war had real sugar in it.

"Thank you, Mrs. Benedict," the biscuits were delicious, and he had to force himself to not eat as quickly as possible.

"Well, when you've eaten and changed, I'm going to need help getting one of those stubborn weeds out. So meet in the garden when you're finished." Taking a biscuit with a smear of jam for herself, Mrs. Benedict bustled out of the kitchen and back into the garden. Peter sighed, slumping against the table as he chewed dolefully on the snack, hoping his father was alright.

#$#$#$3

"Well?" His father met him as soon as they returned to camp, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Frau Benedict is very nice," Peter reported unhappily, he'd gotten to eat what the Americans called a 'casserole'. As far as he could tell it was a bunch of ingredients thrown together, but it had been delicious in the way rationed food was not. "Her house is very large, she has a lot of land." He settled onto his cot, thinking back to the bedroom he'd been given. It was large, with a reading window, that overlooked a sprawling backyard. "She makes good food."

"That's good!" His father nodded, "that is very good. Do you think you will be happy there?"

"You aren't there," his shoulders slumped, and his father sat beside him.

"I will not always be there, Peter. I was gone for the war."

"I had Mother," he scrubbed away tears. "We were together, and now even if we are together, we are going to be apart."

"Son, I know this isn't easy for you, but if you can escape across the desert to find me, then you can attend school to help me."

"Help you?"

"I would not worry half as much if you are happy and healthy, and even if you are not here with me. Peter, I want you to try and be happy with Mrs. Benedict, and to not cause any trouble."

"I won't cause trouble," Peter snapped, "but I don't...I don't want to leave you here."

"I am a soldier," he laughed, "where would I go?"

"I," he sank his head against his father's shoulder, breathing in the scent of American detergent and sweat. "I don't know, Father."

"If she is as good as you say, you should have no trouble." He made no move to release his son, and Peter clung to the hug as long as he could.

##$#$#$#

Gardening was harder than he expected. It was hot, and dirt seemed to get everywhere, but it was nice to be out in the garden, and the weather was decent enough. Mrs. Benedict was good company so far, but it had only been his first day living here.

"Peter?" He looked up from the clump of weeds. "You're being awfully quiet? Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," he answered, adding the clump of weeds to the bucket. They had gone over his list of chores when he'd come to visit. There was no staff to wait on him, and he had nearly an insurmountable amount of chores. Helping to keep the garden weeded, his room clean, he'd be expected to help wash up the house, assist with his own laundry, and any manner of other chores that didn't get done. On top of that, he had his homework from school. But, according to Captain Rose, they were a natural part of the arrangement, and he would be gathering reports to hear if Peter had been lazy.

His father too had ordered Peter to be a good guest and to help maintain the house he'd be living in. Giving him a rare threat of a spanking if he behaved poorly, telling Peter that he'd given Mrs. Benedict permission to discipline as necessary. That was embarrassing.

Yanking another weed out of the dirt, he glared at the entire mess in front of him.

He'd behave but he wouldn't like it.