She studied the approaching figure of Sabine. She might be wrong, her memories and emotion roused at a false alarm. There must be more than one Sabine de Cazalle in the world and this one could be a Sabine married to a Cazalle. That was much more likely. She felt a loosening in her chest, as if her not being the Sabine de Cazalle somehow changed things.

The woman sat down beside her and she held out the passport and boarding card.

‘You dropped these,’ she said.

Sabine de Cazalle took them with a quick word of thanks. Her English was heavily accented, but automatic, her reply formal. She was clearly not someone who fell into conversation with fellow travellers. As she began to study her magazine, her attention firmly focused, her companion said, ‘I’m sorry, I have to ask you this. I saw your name and I wondered if you were Sabine de Cazalle of Bonnemort.’

The look of astonishment was confirmation enough. ‘Yes, I am, or at least I was.’

‘My name is Rachel Oppenheim. It won’t mean anything to you, but if I say I was known as Suzie as a girl, you will know who I am.’

Sabine de Cazalle’s expression was distant, her magazine remained half-open. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t think the name means anything to me.’

Rachel Oppenheim was not going to be put off by European reserve. ‘I lived with you during the war at Bonnemort. I was called Suzie Ollivier then.’

‘You lived with us?’ Sabine was genuinely puzzled. ‘I think there must be some mistake. I don’t recall …’

Rachel turned towards her, speaking feverishly. ‘I’m Jewish, of course, and I was taken in by your stepmother, Madame Ariane. I lived with you there for two years and then another two years in Paris.’

Sabine now understood that she could not brush away this encounter. She looked at the well-preserved American face under its smooth cap of white hair knotted in a chignon. She saw a stranger gazing at her with an almost hysterical intensity, someone she had never met before in her life.

‘My stepmother was made a Companion of the Resistance for what she did during the war. I know we sheltered a number of people at Bonnemort during those years, but I wasn’t involved. I was only a child. I had the impression that the fugitives stayed for a matter of days, not more than a week or so.’

‘ Your stepmother should be named a Righteous Gentile. She saved my life,’ Rachel said passionately. ‘Both my parents died in the Shoah. My grandparents, great-uncles and great-aunts, cousins, every member of my family in Europe, except me, was murdered by the Nazis.’ She opened her large Hermes bag, fumbled for a handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘I’m sorry. I never talk about these things normally. I never think of the past; it’s necessary to forget. It was the sight of your name that brought it all back to me.’