He stood for a few moments looking about him, half-expecting to be discovered. But there was no one there. He looked across to Sunny and Klara, standing at the edge of the leafless woodland. The child looked strong, but she must be getting hungry and thirsty. They had already trekked some distance and there was likely to be a great deal further to go. Wilde walked a few paces to the kitchen window. Crouching down, he slowly rose until he had a view inside. No one was there. Surely they must have some food. He could leave a little more money.

The door was open. For a second he wondered whether he should call out, but thought better of it, and slipped straight into the little kitchen. A side of bacon was hanging from a ceiling hook. By the range he saw a selection of knives. He took a carver and cut a good half-pound slice off the bacon and thrust it in his pocket. He also cut a doorstop from a black loaf, which just about fitted in his other jacket pocket, then looked about for some bottle or flask in which to carry some water, but there was nothing but cups and glasses. He took another five Reichsmarks from his wallet and placed the money by the knife. He was about to leave when he had a rethink, and picked up the knife, too.

At the back door, something made him stop and he decided to look further into the house, not sure what he was hoping to find – a firearm, perhaps, or a flask. He peered around the door to the front parlour and instantly cursed himself for his idiocy. Someone was there – an old man. No, an ancient man, sitting in a stiff-backed chair by the fireplace.

Wilde froze.

The old man looked at him through watery eyes.

Wilde found himself putting up a hand in an inane greeting.

‘Guten tag,’ he said.

The old man nodded, then closed his eyes.

‘Shit,’ Wilde said to himself under his breath. Hopefully the old man would dismiss the encounter as a dream.

Outside, Wilde breathed again. Damn it, that was close. He gazed across to Sunny. She was gesticulating to him frantically as though saying ‘Hurry up, for God’s sake.’ He waved back at her and made clear he was coming now. But she was beating the air, as though he should drop down or take cover.

It was as he emerged from the gate that he realised what she had been warning him about. A troop of a dozen or so Hitler Youth was marching across the meadow, all in their warm winter uniforms of dark, belted woollen blousons and trousers, with caps similar to the army’s, and the ubiquitous swastika armbands.

They were approaching him. The boys were all about fifteen or sixteen years old. It was possible he might be able to outrun them, but where would he go? And running was a bad idea because only fugitives ran – and he couldn’t afford to look like a fugitive. He tried to hide the skirt and blouse behind his back.