He pushed his plate away, scraped clean. Suzie understood that he had answered his comrade’s pleas and that this action on his part and that of the wounded man was meant to illustrate their common heroism.

The major had taken no part in the recital, but he listened approvingly, nodding at the last anecdote. Then he rose to his feet.

‘We shall expect you whenever we dine here. Not tomorrow, as we shall be engaged, but the day after, perhaps.’

Chapter Eighteen

Suzie was alone, crouched in her favourite refuge, Lou Moussou’s sty, in a rare respite from Sabine, who had been given some extra homework by Madame Ariane, to be supervised by the aunts; Suzie had been allowed to leave. The punishment lay not just in the task of the extra work, but Suzie’s freedom from it. She had made a deprecating face behind the back of Madame de Cazalle and run thankfully away. She would receive the full force of Sabine’s bad temper when the work was over, but she could not be blamed for her release.

She had gone immediately to Lou Moussou’s house, slipping through the farmyard as quietly as possible in the hope that Micheline would not see her and find her a chore to occupy her solitary hour. She crawled into the musty straw that pleasantly irritated her nose with the beginnings of a sneeze, and curled up, facing the door so that she would be immediately alerted if anyone approached. This place had been her retreat since Sabine had shown it to her on the day of her arrival. Here, she was enclosed in a dark space that seemed to fit around her protectively. At first Lou Moussou was there, as a friend and comforter. Mostly he took no notice of her, after nosing at her on her arrival to see whether she had brought him something edible, taking it gently from her fingers. He then just got on with his piggy life, which seemed to consist of eating, rootling around in his bedding to see if he had dropped something to eat, and lying contentedly waiting to eat. He let her scratch his back companionably. It seemed an ideal existence.

It was still her hiding place. She had often thought in recent weeks, now that the Germans were living at Bonnemort, that when the worst came to the worst and they decided to shoot them all, or burn down the house, she would run in here where they would never find her. She would sit here in the darkness and wait until the war ended, not moving, not speaking, in suspended animation, just watching, until one day the door would open wide and Papa would be standing there with Maman and Lou Moussou himself, saying, ‘You can come out now. It’s all over.’

After the first few days the German presence had become normality. The terrifying clamour of their arrival had subsided to a background hum of dull fear and Suzie could now distinguish personalities and routines in the newcomers. The two officers, SS Sturmbannfuhrer Knecht and SS Obersturmfuhrer Hartenstein – she knew their names now, occupied the house. The rest of the men camped in the field, using the caves as living quarters and, according to Henri, had made themselves very snug there. A faint smell of woodsmoke and frying floated appetisingly up from their field kitchen, which was evidently kept well supplied. This German zone – house, courtyard, field, stables – was meticulously ordered. Suzie could see from her window the precise rows of motorcycles and the staff car, drawn up near the front door. Then a new car was added: Madame Ariane’s Hispano-Suiza. The major liked to be driven in it, and often took it in preference to his own. In the field armoured trucks were parked in a neat row beside two half-tracks with guns mounted on them. Guards always patrolled the house and camp, even when the men and their vehicles were out.