She spread a cloth at one end of the table and put down two plates, placing large bowls on top of them. Dorchin was already sitting down. Theo realised that he was hungry. He had eaten at midday with the commissioner, but since then had had nothing. Micheline ladled out the soup.

‘And Henri,’ Theo said again. ‘Where’s Henri?’

Micheline replaced the saucepan on the stove. ‘Henri’s dead.’

Theo’s oldest ties were to Henri with whom he had baled hay, harvested maize, shot pheasants and gathered chestnuts in his childhood. It was impossible for Henri to be dead. Henri had always been at Bonnemort; he had been like an older brother to him. He was not old, only in his late fifties. He had never had a day’s illness in his life. But Micheline, always a robust woman, now confirmed the passage of time. Her cheeks had sunk and her wavy brown hair was dulled with grey.

Behind him the door opened; Micheline looked over his head. ‘You remember Florence.’

He did indeed remember Florence. She was wearing black, too, and her mourning cast grey reflections on her face, the shadows of misery. The girl he had known, too well, had been so full of energy that he used to say he could hear her hair growing. It was now cut to shoulder length and looked as exhausted as she did. He rose, shook hands, kissed her on both cheeks

‘What happened? When? Micheline, I am so sorry …’

She didn’t wait for his condolences. ‘He was shot three weeks ago, three weeks to the day.’ She was at that stage when it was necessary to be precise about small things, accuracy about dates, meal times, routine duties. If she let them go, the world would fall to pieces.

Dorchin had stopped eating his soup, his respect for the dead triumphing over his hunger. A huge rearrangement was taking place in Theo’s mind, the ivory tower of his home was falling.

‘Three weeks ago,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Only three weeks ago.’

‘They were still here three weeks ago, the Germans. The SS were billeted here for weeks, since the beginning of June. There was an ambush and Henri was caught with Pierre Rouget, you know, the son of the Rougets at Cavialle, the younger one, and Philippe Boysse was shot too, and …’

‘Begin at the beginning. Tell me exactly.’

She pulled out a chair. Her speech fumbled for a moment; she could not really tell him. With four years to account for, she did not know what was significant any more. Clinging to exactitude, she said, ‘It was Wednesday afternoon. They were coming back, the Germans, back to Bonnemort and they were attacked on the track just the other side of the hill. Several Germans were killed. And then they escaped, our people, I mean. But Henri was wounded, so they got him and Pierre Rouget too and some others, and they took them down to the village.’ Her voice was emotionless. ‘They banged on the doors and forced everyone out of their houses. The German officer was mad with rage, they say. They tied Henri up and shot him in front of everyone. Then they strung up the rest of them from the tree. There were seven executed altogether that day. The mayor agreed that they would bury the dead German soldiers in the cemetery. And they all went there and had to dig, everyone, even the baker’s father, eighty-five years old. Then they were allowed to go back to their houses. And the next day they were gone, Germans, Milice, everyone.’