She could hear Frau Kalt moving about elsewhere in the house. There was some clattering as though a metal pan had been dropped, then light as the farmwife opened the door and looked in on her captive. Satisfied that all was well, she went out again and the next thing Romy heard was the sound of an outside door opening and closing.

Whether Frau Kalt had gone back to her work in the piggery or had found some other chore, Romy had no idea. But if she was to have any chance of escape, she had to take it now. She summoned all her remaining strength and edged herself towards the door. It was pushed closed, but there was no latch so she was not locked in.

Suppressing the instinct to cry out in pain every time her bloody, throbbing fingers scraped the floor, she turned on her side and managed to ease the door open. Perhaps there was a God after all, something she had come to doubt these past hours.

It was only two metres to the large farmhouse kitchen where she had been fed the soup. Still flat on the ground, she raised her head to get her bearings. There were kitchen tools, knives and other implements, but they were all out of reach. There had to be something. Dear God, any sharp-edged instrument might work. But where could she find such a thing?

Outside, perhaps? Scythes, sickles, shears? But could she even get there? More importantly, could she get outside without being noticed by Frau Kalt. The barn used as a piggery was fifty metres across a slurry-strewn courtyard, but closer to the house she had noted several smaller buildings – most likely workshops, a tack room or stores.

She had nothing to lose by trying it. Perhaps the dim light was on her side. But her first problem was how to get up – and get outside. She had heard the back door shut. She couldn’t reach the handle, could she?

If only there was some way of standing up. Was that possible? So far, it hadn’t seemed so, but then she thought of where she was: the interior kitchen doorway. The pain in her spine, her wrists, her ankles and fingers was getting worse, but she managed to wedge herself sidelong between the jambs so that her back was against one side and her bound feet against the other, giving her leverage. Centimetre by centimetre, fighting against the agony and the ebbing of her strength, she managed to raise herself to her feet. She was breathing heavily, her whole body was screaming in pain, but at last here she was, standing up on bound feet. Now she could hop like a rabbit.

She scanned the kitchen for tools. The best one was a blood-smeared carving knife left on a butcher’s block near the window. No curtains or blackout here in the middle of the countryside, which meant that if she was in front of the window and if the woman came across the yard, she would be seen instantly.