The old woman sat swaddled in a mothy wool blanket. There were no curtains in her small room, which was filled entirely by the chair and bed and wardrobe. The window glass was slabbed with dark blue paint and tape because of the blackout, so that German bombers wouldn’t see a light on the ground at night. The window was open to let in daylight, and the air inside was as cold and damp as outside.

Johanna von Arnim stared at the Friends volunteer with cool, pale blue eyes. Then she turned those eyes on me, and they widened in surprise.

I held my breath, ridiculously expecting her to say something in German.

Instead, she sang an English singing game.

“‘Who shall we send to take her away?’”

Her voice was amazing. It was a rich, fruity mezzo-soprano, perhaps a little quavery with age, but not at all weak or thin. The song filled the room. When she stopped singing, the air seemed to hum with the memory of it.

I used to play “Nuts in May” too, outside my primary school in Jamaica, holding hands with my friends in a circle beneath the Bombay mango tree. So I sang to her in reply.

“‘You’ll have Miss to take you away!’”

My own voice embarrassed me. It sounded like a tin whistle following a golden flute.

The old woman’s parchment skin crinkled around those pale blue eyes into a silent laugh.

“Here I am,” I said. I held out my hand for her to shake.

“Which corner of the British Empire do you come from, my dusky maid?” she asked, shaking hands politely.

“Jamaica. I grew up in Kingston,” I said. “My mother was English.”

I waited for her to compliment my English or ask me if I was cold, but she surprised me.

“Is that a flute you’re carrying?” she asked. “Do you play?”

I’d left my cases at the camp headquarters, but I had the flute on its strap over my shoulder. “A bit,” I said cautiously.

Mummy would have told her I didn’t like to practice. I didn’t want to admit this right away to a professional opera singer. Or to the only person who’d started out by showing as much interest in my flute as in the color of my skin.

“Frau von Arnim, this is Louisa Adair.” The woman from the camp office introduced us. “Louisa can help you pack.”

“I don’t want help packing,” said Frau von Arnim. “My things are my own business. But I shall need assistance to get to the bank to collect my furs.”

“Your furs are at the bank?” I echoed.