‘They are in Dachau, Fräulein Dresner,’ one of the men, young and extremely good-looking, said. ‘Where you soon will be.’

His use of her maiden name told her immediately she could hope for no help from the British Embassy. Though married to a British citizen, the fact was not going to be acknowledged.

Even though he was not in uniform, the silver death’s-head insignia of the Gestapo seemed to shimmer in front of her eyes. Whatever had happened to her parents was her fault. The knowledge was something she was going to have to live with—and perhaps very soon die with. She thought of her darling Hugo walking into their London flat and finding the note she had left. He would come after her without even drawing breath—and he wouldn’t find her. When the Gestapo took people away, as they were about to take her away, they didn’t reappear.

As they moved towards her, her thoughts were all of Hugo, who loved her so very, very much, as she loved him. In losing her, his heart would be broken and she knew he would never find comfort.

‘I’m sorry, my love,’ she said in a whisper in English as her arms were wrenched cruelly high behind her back. ‘Oh, God, my love! I’m so terribly, terribly sorry.’

She was bundled out of the apartment block with her feet scarcely touching the stone stairs.

Outside in the street was a large black car.

She was aware of people standing huddled in doorways, silently watching. There were no protests. How could there be? To protest would be to instantly share the same fate.

And then came protest.

A small expensive car hurtled into the narrow street and skidded to halt only yards behind the car she was being led to. With its engine still running, Ilse tumbled out of it, the golden plaits circling her head and her tailored cream suit incongruously elegant in the dusk-laden, dingy street.

‘Stop!’ she shouted, running pell-mell in high heels towards them. ‘Frau Remer is a British subject. She has a British passport!’

With strength enough to break her neck, an iron hand thrust Hester’s head down, forcing her into the car. Simultaneously, the Gestapo agent who had appeared behind Hester in the apartment sprinted towards Ilse, delivering a blow that knocked her reeling over the cobbles, stumbling and falling to her knees.

‘Ilse! Ilse!’ As she screamed Ilse’s name, the powerful car surged away from the kerb. Certain Ilse was about to be shot, like a wild thing she fought the two men holding her. Briefly, through the rear window, she saw the Gestapo agent deliver a vicious kick to Ilse’s stomach that sent her off her knees and sprawling backwards, and then the car zoomed round a corner and she knew with a sick lurch of terror where she was being taken. She was being taken to Gestapo headquarters at 8 Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, the most feared address in Germany.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Yorkshire, Berlin and Munich, August 1939