After the confrontation, Wilde had returned to the kitchen and simply waited. Other than stealing a car and making a dash for it, he could see no alternative; he’d never get past the guard post and nor could he leave without the child.

Eventually, some other servants and estate workers arrived in the kitchen and they were all served a supper of soup and dumplings. He managed a few words of German with them and they accepted him at face value as a migrant worker.

Then Guillaume came back in and made it his business to sit beside Wilde. He spoke very deliberate German to him with a smirk that said ‘I know your secret’. The other workers seemed to stay as far away as possible from the Frenchman and Wilde deduced he was not popular. He was not surprised.

Later, Wilde had been shown to a room with a comfortable bed on the first floor of the main house, and was told that it was a great honour to be sleeping in the room belonging to Göring’s valet while he was away with his master. It was at the personal insistence of Frau Göring.

Now here he was, lying fully dressed on this comfortable bed, in this comfortable room, but feeling anything but comfortable, knowing he was in such close proximity to the rooms of Frau Göring and various officers and guards of the Third Reich, any one of whom could effect his immediate arrest. What if Anton Offenbach were to see him? The game would most certainly be up then. And what was bloody Offenbach doing here anyway?

But his most immediate concern was Guillaume. If he hadn’t satisfied his demands by morning, the worst he could imagine would shortly follow.

From somewhere in the depths of the enormous building he heard the distant strains of a song he recognised, ‘Der Wind hat mir ein Lied erzählt.’ Zarah Leander, what a voice. He imagined Sunny in the ballroom with Emmy Göring and others, perhaps dancing to the gramophone and drinking champagne. He felt empty, isolated and helpless, sensations he was not used to.

Half an hour later there was a soft knock at the door. Wilde opened it and breathed deeply with relief. Sunny was standing there.

‘Thank God you’re here. Come in, we need to talk.’

‘Everything’s fine,’ she said, stepping into his room.

‘Where’s Klara?’

‘In bed. She’s in Edda’s room. They are getting on famously. Klara may be a Narzisse, but she will make a very good mother.’

‘Edda’s the Görings’ daughter?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is bad,’ Wilde said quietly. ‘Very bad.’