Nice girl, Flora. Had long dark hair and a dead father, she did.
She had to watch them as they took him away. She could hear their grating accents and her own racing heart, hiding in the top room of the house, which shook with the thunder of their boots, the wet air of the night, the rough wood underneath feet too poor to be shoed. Hands over ears, the shouts of angry, dark, deep voices and then the crashes and the shots.
Nice girl, Flora. Cried when the Nazis took away her father, she did.