‘Where is he now, your chauffeur?’

‘Out east, I imagine, killing Slavs and Jews. He was a ghastly Brownshirt, a March martyr. He used to spy on us, but we were wise to him. It was a fine day when he was called up. You will make a wonderful replacement.’

*

Romy Dietrich was lying on the shit-slick floor of the pigsty. Her legs were bound, the mutilated fingers of her left hand were dripping blood. The side of her blood-streaked face and lank hair were lit by the hot white light of a hurricane lamp which stood on the ground a foot from her head. Pieces of straw were scattered in the dirt.

Otto Kalt descended to his haunches and spoke to her quietly.

‘The time has come, Frau Dietrich. Now is the time to talk – to end this. An address will do – that’s all I need – half a dozen little words. My friend Herr Brunner will carry this on for hours if necessary. Let us put an end to his great pleasure, shall we?’

Brunner was standing behind him, his arms folded.

Romy’s eyes were closed. Tears ran in rivulets into the blood on her cheeks. Her breathing came in fast sobs.

Kalt stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.

‘Thus far, I have gone easy with you, dear lady, for I know you to be a good and innocent woman. But I cannot wait for ever. Next come your other fingers, then your bones. My friend Brunner will break them one by one, big bones and small bones. He will break them slowly to increase the pain. And if you still do not talk, he will turn his attention to your fleshy parts – he likes to slice off nipples and, if allowed, the whole of each breast, like a butcher with a slaughtered pig. Except you will still be alive.’

Please, just shoot me. Had she said those words, or just imagined them?

‘Not yet. You know I can’t do that. Not until you tell us where we can find Klara Wolf.’

Romy had always known she would talk. She had prayed she would be able to withstand torture, but she couldn’t. No one could, not this. She had had no idea such pain existed in the world. The things they had already done to her: the pain, the fear, the indignity of her own loss of bladder control. Indignity . . . why in such circumstances should anyone care that they had pissed themselves? And yet she did. Just as she cared that she had vomited on her dress in front of these men.

Her eyes opened and met his grey eyes.

‘Will you kill me then? If I tell you?’

‘No, of course not. I will take you back to your home in Berlin and ensure you have medical attention.’

She knew he was lying, knew he was jesting at her expense. She wanted to say the words. She so wanted to tell them the name of the village, but the words still stuck in her throat. What was the point in waiting longer, when she knew what the end would be: that she would talk, and she would die. Why should she suffer more agony so that another human being lived a few minutes longer? What did she owe the girl anyway? She had brought Klara into the world and had helped her disappear – was that not enough? Surely she did not have to do more for her.