‘Yes, sir,’ I say and Igor laughs so hard his face turns red and water comes to the surface of his eyes.

‘As for you, woman,’ Petre says, as he moves towards Magda, looming black and large out of his skin. ‘Come straight back, you hear?’

Magda nods.

‘She is to be my wife, remember?’ he says to Igor.

‘Don’t worry. I know she’s out of bounds.’ Igor’s voice and body shrink.

Petre stoops towards Magda and cradles the small of her back with an arm, drawing her in close. They kiss and it looks real – their lips cling to each other and Magda softens beneath him. He hugs her to him and speaks into her hair. ‘Mind yourself, woman, and come back to me soon.’ Then he pushes her off him and nods at Igor.

We go outside and it’s cool and fresh after days and nights in dark, fear-soaked rooms. The waning moon is huge and lemon-yellow – is this a harvest moon, Papa? The sun is just beginning to push through the still star-flecked sky. A big car is waiting, its engine pouring fumes into the clean dawn air. Another man opens the boot and takes our luggage. Magda and I slide into the back seat and I push my nose against the window, but the panes are dark. My whole body aches to see the sun climb and settle in the unfolding blue sky. In the car, the two men talk to each other in that hacking tongue that sounds like the devil’s language.

Magda starts to speak to me urgently. She has papers in her hands and tells me I must listen very closely and repeat after her. If we’re stopped at any time I have to remember what to say.

I have a very good memory and I nod, repeating after her, ‘My name is Natasha Popescu, I am fifteen years old, my country is Romania and these are my parents, Diana and Marius Popescu.’

‘We’re going on holiday to visit your uncle, Dr Popescu. I’ll remember the address. Don’t worry. They won’t expect you to know the address.’

My name is Natasha Popescu from Romania. I am fifteen years old.

‘The village in Romania where you come from is Fântânele.’ Magda falls silent. And then, ‘I wonder why they chose that place.’

Although I don’t ask, I can see this is worrying her. I wonder what kind of a trick they are playing on her. A freezing-cold finger pokes through my stomach even though it’s hot in this car, with the windows tight shut.

From the front, Igor’s voice speaks. ‘Are we excited about our little holiday, my girl?’ Magda pushes her elbow into my ribs.

‘Yes, sir,’ I say.

‘I think Papa would be more appropriate.’

Magda nods at me.

‘Yes, Papa.’