‘What difference did it make, that she’s Jewish?’ he asked. ‘She was a nice little girl. You liked her. She was your friend.’

‘No, she wasn’t. She didn’t like Lou Moussou.’

‘Lou?’

‘The pig, the pig, Papa. There must have been Lou Moussou when you were a little boy. There’s always Lou Moussou here. Lou Moussou was a secret pig, hidden from the Requisition, and when we had to kill him, she was pleased. I cried and cried. Jews don’t like pigs.’

Theo did not know how to reason with this sort of thing.

‘You must remember that not everyone is as besotted about animals as you are,’ he said impatiently.

It had begun to rain as they loaded the last split logs onto the barrow and retreated to the house. In the library with the aunts, Sabine brought out a large board supporting a skeleton jigsaw. She dumped the aunts’ atlas on the floor and placed it on the table.

‘Will you help me?’ she asked her father. Theo would rather have sat watching the flames, doing nothing, but he was playing his paternal role today, so he sat down beside her. The border was complete and a section on the right had been built to show a pattern of leaves and tendrils.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t there a picture?’

‘There is.’ Sabine was already bending over the board, moving pieces with the tips of her fingers. ‘But you’re not allowed to look.’

‘Hmh. I always use a picture. I can’t even guess what this is.’

‘It makes it more interesting.’

That night after dinner Theo stayed by the fire to drink his brandy when the women had gone to bed. A tap on the door interrupted his thoughts. Florence entered.

‘I came to see if you needed more logs.’

‘No, you didn’t. Come here.’

She stood in front of the fire; he took her hand. ‘So you are to be married. Who is this Claude?’

‘His parents have a farm in Quercy; it’s called Les Lunes Hautes.’

‘And how did you meet?’

‘He came here to the Maquis.’

‘Running from the compulsory labour service?’

‘No, he’s older than that. He’d got into a fight with the Milice, so he just left home.’

‘Sit down. Tell me, you knew what your father was doing?’ She sat opposite him, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, her face highlighted by the fire. ‘Not at first. Not until two years ago when Georges was arrested and Roger went into the Maquis.’

‘He was enormously brave, your father. Your mother, too.’

‘Mum never thought of the risks. She just did whatever was necessary for Dad. And she can’t help helping people. When the Germans were here, she’d dress a cut or a blister for them, just as if they were the Resistance.’

‘Tell me about Henri’s group.’

‘It was called group Rainbow, that was Madame Ariane’s name for them. Last year there were about forty young ones escaping from compulsory labour service and then another dozen or so older men who had gone underground for one reason or another. Mr Nikola, the Russian, gave them training with guns. He’d been a soldier fighting against the Bolsheviks. Not that we could practise, because we had hardly any ammunition, but at least we could handle them.’