When her set came to an end she left the dais to enthusiastic applause, so much so, she was sure the manager would have to eat humble pie and ask her to sing there again.

There was more noisy applause from the men at table ten when she joined them.

‘So what is the celebration?’ she asked, accepting a glass of champagne, knowing, as the men were SS officers, that there was every chance it would be good French champagne.

The officer nearest to her grinned and glanced down at his watch. ‘In exactly an hour’s time a group of German pigs planning to assassinate our beloved Führer are due to be arrested. It’s a coup we’ve waited months for.’

Though Lotti’s heart nearly stopped, her response was instantaneous. ‘Wunderbar!’ she said gaily, somehow keeping a smile on her face, somehow managing not to break out in a sweat even though she was certain the German pigs in question were Max and Nicholas and their fellow plotters.

She moved from where she had been seated and sat provocatively on the officer’s lap, sliding her arm around his neck.

‘And will you and your friends get all the glory of making such an arrest?’

‘No.’ He said the word with heavy regret. ‘The Schweinehunde in question are meeting in Grunewald.’

Lotti’s heart began slamming so hard she was amazed the young officer couldn’t feel it through the black gabardine of his service uniform. Grunewald was a huge area. As well as leafy suburbs it encompassed forests and lakes—including Lake Wannsee.

For a hideous moment she wondered if Max’s meeting was taking place at the restaurant they so often went to, then another officer at the table hiccuped drunkenly and, leering at her, said, ‘They’re meeting at the house of that homosexual Jewboy, Peter Wasserman. You never worked for Wasserman before he scooted off to America, did you, Fräulein Lennartz?’

Lotti gave a shudder of horror. ‘No,’ she said truthfully, relief making her feel giddy.

Ilse had worked for him. Before Wasserman left for America, Ilse and Nicholas had attended parties at Wasserman’s secluded home in the Grunewald forest and, on one memorable occasion, she had been invited as well.

Was the telephone number still in her address book? If it wasn’t, Ilse would have it, but would Ilse be at home? And how much time did she have left in which to phone the Wasserman house?

They had said the arrests were due to take place in an hour and the arresting SS unit would surely be in position around the house for twenty or thirty minutes beforehand. Time was running out so fast every second counted.

She moved suddenly, purposely spilling champagne down her dress, springing to her feet immediately she had done so. ‘Now look what I’ve done,’ she said in girlish despair. ‘Will you excuse me while I go and change?’

There were loud demands that she didn’t do so. One of the men offered to lick the champagne off the dripping-wet sequins.