They turned to me, their clock, and stared at me in silence for a long time, then they spread out a little. They bent down and touched the ground. Some of them picked up stones to reveal dry, grey soil, for the rain hadn’t soaked through. Annabel moistened her index finger with saliva and held it up to see which way the wind was blowing.

‘The clouds are light. It must be the middle of the day, you can see the sun is high. If it is going in the usual direction, the wind is coming from the west.’

‘Of course, because it’s raining. Westerlies always bring rain.’ ‘In your country, maybe, but we’re not in your country.’ ‘Oh no! There’d be hills and forests!’

That made them laugh. They needed to relieve the tension.

‘It’s odd, there aren’t any birds. Do the birds shelter when it rains?’ asked Greta who’d only ever lived in the city.

‘But where would they shelter? There isn’t a single tree in sight, only a few shrubs.’

‘And stones,’ said Dorothy. ‘You couldn’t grow anything here. I’ve never seen such poor soil.’

‘Anyway, we haven’t got anything to grow.’

That short phrase hung in the air for a second, as if minds were grasping it, probing it and then setting it aside for later. But it left an echo:

‘We must prepare some food,’ said Greta. ‘It’s time to eat, and I’m hungry. It’s funny, because down there, I never felt hungry.’

The food was in the bunker, on the trolley. A shudder rippled through the women at the thought that we’d have to go back down if we wanted to eat.

‘How are we going to cook it? I don’t see how we can cook!’ ‘What does it matter? We must eat, even if the meat is raw!’ ‘I won’t go down there. I’d rather die of hunger,’ announced Annabel.

Once again, they drew together, shoulder to shoulder, seeking comfort in the contact, I suppose. Someone had to go, and, of course, it was me. Probably because I remembered no other world than that of the prison, I was the least afraid. When they huddled together, I didn’t join in, and so I was standing apart from the group, and their eyes turned to me. I understood, and smiled at them:

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I’ll go.’

I lost no time, and made my way immediately towards the cabin. They followed a few metres behind, as if to give me their support in doing what they would have been so afraid to do, and I was glad because I baulked when I reached the staircase. Supposing the guards returned? Would the women be able to fight? For a moment I pictured an appalling massacre, imagining myself coming back up to find a heap of corpses and the sniggering guards waiting for me, brandishing their weapons. I braced myself, because I didn’t want to be a coward, and set off down the stairs. Since then, I’ve been back down hundreds of times—that is one of the few things I haven’t counted—and each time it is just as unpleasant, as if I were walking into a trap that could close any minute. When I was alone, I got into the habit of blocking the door of the cabin with a few stones: it was ludicrous, the locks were rusty and the bolts were jammed, and the wind was never strong enough to move the heavy wooden door, but I felt easier.