“That’ll be Ellen now,” said Mrs. Campbell, and stepped back to wait for her to come in.

The engine stopped. There was a long pause. Then a van door slammed. Another slam followed a second later—like gunshots, the two slams cracking whiplash quick on top of each other. I knew it must be two people getting out at the same time, one on each side of the van. So Ellen had brought someone home.

She came in slowly, tall and graceful as a goddess in her khaki ATS trousers and tunic. Her hair was still coiled in its neat bun below her peaked cap, but I could see it gleaming like a copper whisky still as she turned to hold open the inner door for her guest. He walked in past her, and Ellen closed the door.

She’d brought home a young man! I wondered for a moment if she did it often, and what old Nancy Campbell had to say about that.

Then I saw that Ellen’s face was as pale as a dead fish’s belly. She hugged her ribs as if her body would fly into pieces if she let go, and suddenly I no longer envied her.

She was very, very scared.

The man who came in with her seemed perfectly ordinary. He wasn’t in uniform; he wore a scarf and a sweater, like a seaman. He carried a wooden case under one arm, with the other hand hidden deep in the pocket of his heavy coat.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Campbell,” Ellen choked out. “He needs a room.”

“A room,” the man repeated, striding to the bar.

He was strongly built and much taller than me. He gazed up curiously at the coins in the oak beam over the bar for a few seconds. But he didn’t touch them.

“A room,” he repeated. “And”—he hesitated—“drink.” He put his wooden case on the brass counter and mimed drinking, with his cupped hand going to his mouth.

He didn’t speak much English. I held my breath, guessing what that must mean.

“He’s flown from Norway,” Ellen whispered.

“Norwegian?” asked Mrs. Campbell, frowning. She seemed to distrust all foreigners, but Norwegians probably ought to be made welcome. They would be refugees, escaping the iron rule of the Nazis in their invaded country.

“He’s not Norwegian,” Ellen whispered. “I think he’s German.”

She raised her voice and asked me, “You remember the plane we saw this afternoon? You said…”

She trailed off.

“It was a German plane?” I asked.

Ellen nodded.

I stared at the stranger in alarm. If this was a German pilot, this wasn’t someone who’d chosen to live in England for decades, like Jane. This was a military man, fighting for Hitler, like the German soldiers who killed my parents. This was the enemy, the real enemy, right here in the room with me.