Sarah waited while sitting near the window with her legs pulled toward her chest. The church bell rang in the distance, and the sky outside was growing darker. That morning, her mother had departed wearing a scarf over her head and carrying a basket.

“If I’m not back before night,” her mom whispered, “take the small bag under the bed and wait for Marie.”

That was her only response.

There was silence in the streets as the sun went down. Sarah stood up and took out the small cloth bag from beneath the bed. It had a small loaf of bread, some cents, and a folded piece of paper with the name "Claire" written on it that she didn't recognize.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

It was the bread vendor down the street, Marie. She mustered a grin despite her anxious face.

“Come, little one. We have to go now.”

They only moved at night as they made their way through side streets and alleys. Sarah's hand remained in Marie's hand. They stayed in basements, barns, and even a church cellar at one point.

Sarah was given warm soup by an elderly man at one stop. A little girl once surrendered her shoes.

Their eyes all had the same silent expression. Kind yet exhausted. “Why are you helping me?” Sarah asked once.

Marie looked away. “Because someone helped me once. That’s all.”

They arrived at a little farm close to the woodland one evening. Pierre, a man, was standing there. He had potatoes and hay in a wooden wagon.

Under the hay, Sarah lay flat after climbing onto the cart. Pretending to be merely a traveler, Marie and Pierre sat up front.

Sarah held her breath as they went by the German checkpoint. Boots on gravel, she could hear the soldiers conversing. Pierre simply chuckled and waved when one of them yelled something.

The cart then continued to roll.

They stood near a row of trees that evening.

“Just past these woods is Switzerland,” Pierre said. “You’ll crawl under the fence. Someone will meet you.”

Marie knelt next to Sarah. “You’re brave. Braver than you think.”

Sarah remained silent. She was too afraid. She did, however, nod.

Her heart thumping, she dashed through the trees. There was moisture on the grass. Her nose stung from the cold air. She fell to her knees and crawled upon seeing the fence.

She was pulled up and held tightly by a woman wearing a coat on the opposite side.

"You made it," she said.

At the end of the war, Sarah remained in Switzerland. She didn't see her mother again. She had no idea what had happened to Pierre or Marie.

Despite growing up and moving far away, she lit a tiny candle on her windowsill on the same night each year.

For Marie. For Pierre. For those who offered assistance when it wasn't required.