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.

The troop came to a halt in front of him. As one, they stood to attention, clicked their heels and threw out their arms with a crisp ‘Heil Hitler’, Wilde fervently returned the salute while with his other arm he desperately tried to thrust the stolen clothes in the waistband of his trousers under his jacket.

One of the youths, with epaulettes of rank, stepped forward.

‘Who are you?’ He spoke in German.

Wilde understood the question readily enough.

‘Je suis Francais. Je m’appelle Monsieur Sable.’

‘What is wrong with your left arm? What are you hiding?’

The German had continued to talk in his own language. Wilde breathed out; if the boy had replied in French, he would have been lost. The skirt and blouse were tucked away now and he brought his left arm to the front and held up his hand to show it contained nothing.

‘Entschuldigung, aber ich nicht verstehen Sie. Ich bin Gastarbeiter.’

I’m sorry, I don’t understand you – I am a guest worker.

He made a motion with his hands as though holding a steering wheel.

‘Ich bin Chauffeur.’

‘Franzose, huh?’

‘Oui, je suis Français.’

‘And what were you doing in Frau Spitzweg’s house?’

‘Ich wollte Milch kaufen.’ I wanted to buy milk.

The boy, who had the correct Aryan attributes of a fair complexion and strong, lean body, turned to his equally healthy looking friends and laughed. He made an obscene gesture, ringing the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and thrusting his right forefinger in and out of the hole.

‘Milk! He wanted milk from Frau Spitzweg!’ The troop fell about laughing. He turned back to Wilde. ‘And Katharina, too – do you ask her for milk?’

Once again, the boys laughed loudly. Wilde laughed with them. Clearly the disreputable Spitzweg mother and daughter were a source of local amusement. He gave the young men a lingering, conspiratorial smile, then touched the peak of his chauffeur’s cap and edged sideways to take his leave.

‘Papiere,’ the troop leader said, stepping in front of Wilde to block his way. ‘Show me your papers.’

‘Ah, natürlich,’ Wilde said.

He dug into his inside pocket and produced his identity card and ration card.