Meanwhile, Niko has gone into the tiny, rudimentary kitchen, nothing more than an alcove beside the bar with a couple of gas rings, a hearth or bread oven set into the wall, a brass tap jutting out beside it. He comes back a few seconds later with a large triangle of brownish pastry on a plate. ‘Tyrópita. Cheese pie. Eat.’ He steps away, comes back with a copper jug and refills Tom’s glass. ‘Drink.’

Tom looks around him. Everyone – the two old communists have come over to join them – is quite silent and they are all staring. He nods and smiles and gets no response, so he raises his glass to them. ‘Cheers,’ he says, politely, and drinks.

‘Ελα, μανγεσ!’ Niko turns to the company and holds up his hands, palms inward. ‘Our brave guest!’ He grabs another five glasses from the bar, splashes some wine into them and hands them round to the others.

‘Yiassou!’ he says ‘Kalos orises!’

The other men toast loudly. Zoë is watching, amused, from beneath lowered eyelids.

‘They welcome you,’ says Niko. ‘Good. Of course. Now eat.’

The edge is off Tom’s hunger and the cheese pie is more pie than cheese but the pastry is wonderfully greasy and in a few bites it is gone and he is brushing pastry flakes off his coat with buttery fingers. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘It’s nothing.’ Niko refills his glass and sits down next to him. Zoë and Apostoli sit down as well. The two communists sidle back to their own table. ‘Brave man,’ says Niko, pinching Tom’s cheek again. ‘Our Greek Army surrender to the Germans but the English, they fight.’

‘You did beat the Italians,’ says Tom, licking his fingers.

‘The Italians!’ the man bursts out, scornfully. He slams his fist into the crook of his arm. ‘Fuck the Italians! But now the Germans are here, it’s going to be hard for us.’

‘We’ll beat them,’ Tom says. I don’t sound very certain, he is thinking.

‘Of course! Churchill! Winston Churchill will send the Germans to hell. But for now …’

‘I know,’ says Tom, and rubs his face with his hands. He feels like crying. It’s all been so useless.

‘That’s enough, Niko,’ Zoë says. ‘He’s exhausted. He needs to sleep. Where can we put him?’ Tom smiles. He is, suddenly, completely finished and he feels a rush of gratitude to the singer for having noticed. Niko is conferring with the singer and Apostoli. Then Zoë taps the table with a red fingernail.

‘Tonight you sleep up in the roof. It’s OK, comfortable. Someone lives there already.’

‘Are they here?’ says Tom, worried. He doesn’t want to turf anyone out. He’d quite happily lie down under this table. Niko says something in Greek and Zoë shrugs.