The men crash about the warehouse. Their boots click, their voices harsh and ringing. There are thuds and bangs. Torchlight flashes. The boots come closer, but somehow, miraculously – thank you God, if you really are there, I won’t forget this – they don’t find the gap between the mountain of rabbit skins and the wall.

They leave as suddenly as they arrived. The lights are switched off and a key turns in the lock; a deep blanket of silence descends. Shakily, we inch our way out.

Walter begins to sob. I put my arms around his shoulders. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘But what shall I do?’ he asks quietly. ‘They’re after me.’

He cannot go home, that’s clear. He must disappear for a while.

And I know just the place I can hide him.

*

The darkness is thick, like treacle, as I stand, ears straining, on the landing. The evening passed at an agonising pace as time stretched over dinner and coffee and silent pauses between the few words passed between Vati, Oma and I earlier in the evening. Around me, the house heaves and creaks, breathes and watches. I’m still for a long time, listening, checking for light beneath doors. All is quiet.

Working in slow and silent motion, I gather blankets and then supplies from the kitchen. I close the back door behind me and take it all to the treehouse.

‘Walter?’ I call softly from the base of the tree.

‘Up here.’

My heart swoops with relief.

The treehouse is in surprisingly good shape after all these years. Watertight and solid, if rather dusty and neglected, a nest hidden from the predators prowling below. Walter sits with his knees to his chest while I spread the bedding on the floor to make him comfortable. He shivers now and then and says nothing. He refuses food, but it will keep for tomorrow.

‘Come,’ I say at last. ‘You need to get some sleep.’

‘How can I sleep? I have no idea what’s happening to my father or uncle, nor my poor mother. She’ll be wild with fear. Besides, what if they should find me, Hetty?’

‘They would never think of looking here. It’s the safest place to lie low for a couple of days, trust me.’

‘I do. But,’ through the darkness, he reaches for my hand, ‘I can’t stay here long.’ He squeezes my fingers. ‘Do you think you should go back to the house?’

‘Not yet. I intend to make the most of every moment I have with you. I’ll go back before it’s light. I don’t want to leave you here on your own. Not yet.’

He says no more and we lie together on a soft eiderdown, beneath the blankets. Slowly, his trembling lessens and finally ceases altogether. We press together for warmth and comfort and the wind tosses the branches of the giant tree, twigs scratching and scraping at the wooden sides of the treehouse, as if trying to enter and tear us apart.