Their last safe house had been an apartment near the church of Saint-Bruno in Voiron, within a hundred miles of Geneva. They’d eaten hungrily, devouring the local cheese and home-made bread offered to them, and had been glad of a bath and beds to sleep in. The food packed up for them was a godsend and had sustained them as they’d travelled, heading for a farm near Aix-les-Bains, where they would be picked up and taken to a makeshift airfield used by the RAF to drop supplies to the Resistance army. From there they would be flown to Switzerland in a plane owned by a wealthy businessman, who now used his plane, which had once been an indulgent toy, to help the Resistance. His missions took people to safety or fetched supplies from Switzerland for them. He always flew very low, and they were told that sometimes he had to make his passengers parachute, if the weather was too bad for him to land. He would only take their money in order to help the Resistance, as he did with all that he was paid by those fleeing France. Their arrival in Aix-les-Bains would be radioed through, so that the pilot could make the necessary checks for his next scheduled flight. They all prayed these would prove that a landing was possible.

Now, just a few miles out of Voiron, they had come across a convoy of German soldiers taking a break. Dashing back to this building, which they had passed by, they had taken shelter. Cyrus had thought it the ruin of an old farmhouse, as there was no other explanation for it having a toilet. But it hadn’t looked like a wreck of a home. A square building, it had only one door. The floor was concreted, the walls ran with green water and a thick mildew had formed around the one window, which lay to the right of them.

‘I’ll take a look and see what the soldiers are doing.’

Flors watched Cyrus creep over to the window. He took one look and shot backwards, his face white, beads of sweat forming on his head. Before he had time to speak, the door opened and two soldiers, laughing together, entered. Without looking into the corner where the family were huddled – or at the window by which Cyrus now stood, like a statue pressed up against the wall – and just inches from Flors, the soldiers threw down their cigarette butts and went towards the toilet.