‘Klara? This is very, very important. You will say you are my niece, that we were travelling to the coast with our French chauffeur, Monsieur Sable, when our car caught fire. We need help. That is all. You do not need to say any more than that. If you are offered food, you say yes, please and you say thank you. The same with drink. Tell me you understand all this – repeat it to me.’

‘I am your niece. Tom – Monsieur Sable – is our driver. The car broke down and caught fire. And yes, I would very much like a glass of lemon cordial.’

‘No.’ Wilde had a very bad feeling. ‘No, Sunny, I forbid this. This is insanity.’

‘But, Tom, all we need is some sort of transport. Emmy would do anything for me, I promise you. We were friends even before her marriage to fat Hermann. I know Emmy will help me, so long as I don’t compromise her by telling her what we are doing.’

‘Her husband will have other ideas.’

‘Just stay here and wait. I will go to her and make a judgement. If I am not back in an hour something bad has happened and I will have to leave you to your own devices.’

Wilde’s instinct, as well as his common sense, told him they should run away from this place as fast as they could. But Sunny was right – they needed help. And sometimes the safest place to be was in the eye of the storm.

Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Wilde and Klara sat down beneath a tree close to one of the hundreds of small lakes that dotted that part of northern Germany. He took the last quarter pound of bacon from his pocket, cut a slice and offered it to her. She took it and said ‘Thank you.’ In English.

Well, thought Wilde, that’s a start. At least she has been taught some manners. Not for the first time he wondered about her true parentage. Was this really the daughter of Adolf Hitler? He studied her young face, trying to see something of the dictator in her brow, her eyes, the curve of her mouth. She clearly looked like her mother, Geli – but the question of the father was inconclusive. There could, of course, be a family resemblance to Hitler whether or not he was her father. He was, after all, Geli’s uncle. As it was, Wilde couldn’t see past the moustache and lick of hair across the brow when thinking about Adolf Hitler. Anyway, that was a question for another time. All that mattered that she was a child, and she was in mortal danger.

Almost as if she were reading his thoughts, she said, ‘Pappi and Mutti were not my true father and mother, you know, Tom. I was adopted.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I had heard that.’