‘My mother? No!’ Zoë chuckles, picturing dark, exotic-looking Katina Valavani. But then she stops. That isn’t who we’re talking about, is it, she thinks. ‘It’s …’ She sighs. ‘Too much of a story.’

‘You said you lived in Smyrna. That was twenty years ago. I’m surprised you haven’t forgotten your English.’

‘Nineteen.’

‘Nineteen. Still, you must have been very young.’

‘My mother didn’t let me. She spoke it as well, you see.’

‘Really?’

‘You don’t understand about Smyrna, Lieutenant,’ she says, feeling a sort of anger rising in her chest. ‘It wasn’t like this miserable slum. It was like the Garden of Eden compared to here. Everyone spoke a different language. My mother had a dress shop in the best part of the city. She sold clothes from Paris and she spoke French, and perfect English, and Turkish of course. Her customers were women from London, even New York! So yes, she made certain I didn’t forget. She used to find me English books to read, and I would steal English newspapers from the rubbish bins outside the Hotel Grand Bretagne …’ She stops herself. ‘We came to Greece, all of us, with nothing except what we had in here,’ she says, more calmly, touching the side of her head. ‘The only treasure God left us with. That is what my mother would say. I wouldn’t dare waste it.’

‘Because of God?’

‘What?’ She can’t keep the scorn out of her voice. ‘No, because of my mother! She sewed dresses out of scraps until her fingers bled, and she sang songs, Smyrna songs, in too many cafes so that her lungs went bad. She had lived in a mansion, and died in a tiny paper house in Kokkinia. That’s why I won’t let it go to waste!’ She notices that he is trying not to smile. ‘What now? Is it so funny, listening to a Greek person speaking? Why did you come here anyway, you English? Just to leave us to the Germans?’

‘I apologise on behalf of W Force,’ says the officer, licking his fingers. He has just eaten the salt cod. ‘If it’s any consolation, I wish I was somewhere else too. I didn’t want to come to Greece, Miss Valavani. I’d much rather have stayed at home in London and gone on painting pictures. But instead …’ She watches his long fingers break off a piece of cheese and a piece of the bread, knead them unconsciously together. ‘Instead, I’m in the artillery. You should be in a mansion and I should be in an artist’s studio. This cheese, by the way, is delicious.’

‘Oh. Good.’ She glares at him, but his nicely shaped eyebrows are arching up behind his black fringe and he is looking at her with those large, intent eyes. Her anger dissolves. ‘Don’t call me Miss Valavani. It makes me sound like a teacher. I am Zoë.’