‘I’m Danish… I’m a prisoner. I’ve escaped, I need your help, please… I…’ He was aware he was babbling as the two sailors stared down at him seemingly uncomprehending. Prince wondered whether they were Danish after all.

Then both glanced back at the quayside, peering as it faded in the distance.

‘I don’t think anyone saw him,’ one of them said.

‘In that case, we’d better take him to the captain,’ the other replied.

Both spoke in Danish, and Prince felt warm tears stream down his face.

The captain looked at him as if he was a problem he could really do without. He fired questions at him.

How do I know you’re Danish?

How did you escape?

How do I know this isn’t a trap?

Prince told him there was little he could do to convince him other than begging him to believe he was telling the truth. He was a prisoner, he’d been in a concentration camp, he’d escaped…

Another officer had joined the captain now, an older man and altogether more sympathetic. He introduced himself as Otto and spoke with a Copenhagen accent. He sounded like Prince’s grandfather. ‘He doesn’t look well, sir.’

‘I was caught up in the bombing.’

‘Obviously, but you look like you have a fever or something. You say you were in a camp?’

Prince nodded. He felt dizzy now, and for the life of him couldn’t remember what to say if they asked for details of his Danish identity.

‘Come on, we’d better get you into the sick bay. You can stay there until we get to Copenhagen. I’m afraid you’re on your own after that.’

‘When do we dock there?’

‘Early tomorrow morning, with luck. Depends…’

‘Depends on what?’

‘On the bloody Germans.’

The voyage was straightforward, although he began to feel increasingly unwell during it. He was sure Otto was right, that he was developing a fever, and the rash that had appeared a few days earlier on his stomach was now spreading down his legs. They brought him blankets and food along with a change of clothing and told him they’d now cleared Lübeck Bay and that sea conditions were good for the time of year.

At six in the morning, Otto came into the sick bay with a mug of hot coffee. The Strand Stjerne was going to dock in Copenhagen within the hour, he said.

‘We’re going to have to hide you in the hold until we’ve been inspected and have unloaded. When it’s over, I’ll come and tell you. Wait five minutes, then go up to the deck and disappear. I don’t know where you’re going and I don’t want to know, but we’re docking in Holmen, near the city centre. Make sure you leave the docks through the south gates and you should be fine. Do you have money?’