My heart lurched in fear. When that passed, it lurched again, in fascination.

He was also a pilot. A real pilot.

The enemy pilot swept his curious glance around the room. He paused to look at Jane. Then he looked at me, standing beside her.

My cheeks began burning again. What did Nazis think of West Indians? Not much, I imagined. They wanted everybody to be just like them. They didn’t like Jews, or Gypsies, or jazz.

The stranger patted the brass bar and pointed to the glasses.

Jane spoke up.

“Come now, the young man would like a drink,” she said from her seat by the now-dead fire. “Perhaps he’s come to Scotland for the whisky.”

Ellen let out a nervous squeak of a laugh.

“He’d be better off in America, then, where there’s no rationing,” said Mrs. Campbell, putting on a defiant brave face like a Londoner in the Blitz.

The German pilot pulled his left hand from his pocket, and the hand was closed around a sleek and sturdy black pistol.

He’d been holding it all the time, a nasty secret.

I didn’t dare to move.

Jane and Mrs. Campbell froze too.

But Ellen’s expression didn’t change. She’d known all along. She drove him here from the aerodrome, knowing that if she didn’t do as he told her, he’d shoot her.

The pilot beckoned Ellen, using the pistol. She crossed the room like a whipped dog. He pointed to the beer with the gun.

“I don’t ken how to draw the ale,” Ellen whimpered. “Mrs. Campbell, please get him a drink.”

Nancy Campbell shook herself to life and quietly let herself in behind the bar. She’d already covered the taps for the night, but she lifted the towel, screwed a nozzle back on, and picked up a clean glass. As she filled it, she made a fierce offer through clenched teeth: “Would you like a sandwich?”

The German pilot didn’t understand. He rested both elbows on the counter, making his hold on the gun seem terrifyingly casual.

“What does he want?” Mrs. Campbell hissed. “I don’t mean the room. He can have the room. Ellen! What else does he want?”

Ellen shook her head. A wisp of fiery hair escaped her bun, like a flame flicking her cheek. She hissed back, “How do I know? His English isn’t very good, and I don’t speak Jerry myself!”

Mrs. Campbell said helplessly, “Aunt Jane?”

The old woman stared at her niece with blank, pale blue eyes. She said stiffly, “I don’t speak Norwegian.”

“You know he’s not Norwegian,” Mrs. Campbell said through still-gritted teeth.

She handed the full glass to the grim young man. He took it, held it up in a salute, and drank half the pint in one gulp.

“Please, Aunt Jane,” begged Mrs. Campbell.

“What do you want to know?”