‘And this might help you in the longer term, do you think?’

‘Oh, very much so. I doubt I will be pestered for any more Winterhilfswerk contributions for a while. Beziehungen – friends in high places – that is the watchword in Germany these days. It’s who you know, you see. If you want service at the grocer’s or you want to stop a cop beating you up, you must mention your Beziehungen – and the higher up they are in the Party, the better. Without Beziehungen you are nothing in Hitler’s Germany.’ She dug into her handbag and pulled out an envelope. ‘This is for you,’ she said. ‘Inside, you will find your Ausweis – identity card – and your Aufenthaltserlaubnis or residency permit. Also ration card, which you won’t use – but you will need to show.’

‘And are they genuine?

‘They are very good forgeries. Your embassy knows how to do these things. There is one eventuality which they can’t help with, however. If anything were to happen, if we were to become separated, you would need a travel permit to use public transport – a Polizeiliche Erlaubnis. But you would need to apply for it. So I can’t help you with that – and nor can Jim Vanderberg. Let us make sure this all works first time, as planned.’

*

Romy Dietrich was bound to a chair in the large, dark room that served as the Kalts’ kitchen. A stench of cooking grease and boiled meat hung in the air. Kalt’s wife was feeding her soup from a bowl.

Her hands were tied behind her back and the fingers on her left hand were pulsing with agony where her nails had been drawn out slowly, one by one. Johanna Kalt had not bothered to bathe her wounds, nor bandage her. Nor did she utter a word as she fed her; she was merely following her husband’s orders to the letter – feeding his prisoner cabbage soup.

‘Do you think I might wash a little, Frau Kalt?’ Romy pleaded. ‘You could bring me a bowl of water to the table and leave my feet bound. I couldn’t possibly escape. My wounds, you see . . .’

The large farmwife looked at her with indifference and continued to hold another spoonful in front of her face, waiting for Romy to stop talking and open her mouth.

‘At least give me a little bread. Surely you could spare me a little bread – one human being to another. You are a woman like me – perhaps you are a mother, dear lady. I promise I will not say a word to your husband.’

Johanna Kalt thrust the spoon forward as soon as Romy had finished speaking. The metal banged against her teeth and she quickly opened her mouth to accept the soup. It was not the worst food Romy had tasted in wartime Germany, but she didn’t really want it. A cup of water and bread with its wholesome solidity would have been far more welcome.