The youth looked at them, and studied the photo against Wilde’s face. He nodded in approval and handed them back. Wilde thanked him, gave a Hitler salute and tried once more to take his leave.

‘You forgot your residency permit,’ the youth said.

Wilde had deliberately avoided handing it over, as it gave an address in Potsdam. He would need to explain why he was out here in Brandenburg, many miles from home. Things were becoming complicated. He noted that the rest of the troop was grinning and sniggering. It was a big joke for them – let’s play at tormenting the Frenchman.

The residency permit came out. Once more, the Hitler Youth took an age studying it.

‘This says you are resident in Potsdam,’ he said at last.

‘I was driving my mistress. Auto kaput.’

He was struggling for German now. He couldn’t keep this up much longer.

‘Then we will accompany you,’ the youth said.

‘Nein danke,’ Wilde said, vigorously shaking his head.

‘Yes, it is no problem for us. Where is the car. Perhaps we can fix it. And where is your mistress?’

Wilde could not allow this to happen. He also had to get away from there before any occupant of the house appeared. The day was not warm, but sweat was dripping down the back of his neck and he feared his uneasiness must be visible on his face.

For a few moments, he wondered about taking them on. He was a fully grown man, an amateur boxer and, if all else failed, he had a kitchen carving knife. But there were twelve of these boys, and some of them were over six feet tall. And they had sheathed daggers at their belts. Wilde might get a few punches in, but the end result was inevitable.

‘She is with the car,’ he said.

The Hitler Youth leader was no longer looking at him. Wilde followed his eyes.

In the sky, to the west, an airplane was approaching. It was coming in low, not more than a few hundred feet off the ground, and its markings did not look German. Some sort of twin-engined bomber, with a star on the fuselage and tail fin. One engine was spluttering, and a thin trail of black smoke and oil drifted in its wake. How the hell had a Soviet plane got this far from the front? And why?

It was a mile or two away, losing height. And then something else appeared in the sky. Something dark, falling behind the plane. Of course, a parachute. One of the crew bailing out.

The troop leader looked at his comrades, then grinned at Wilde.

‘Auf wiedersehen, Franzose. Good luck with the car.’

He tossed the residency permit to Wilde and then they all broke into a run. They had found a better game to play: hunt the parachutist.

*

‘Gott in bloody Himmel, Tom – how did you get out of that?’