But suddenly everything in the attic room seemed to be vibrating and there was an increasingly loud droning sound outside. As curious boys rushed towards the window, Lanier was distracted. Marc brought up both knees and managed to free an arm.

A burst of machine-gun fire ripped across the front of the orphanage and was followed by a huge explosion out on the road.

‘Stuka dive bomber!’ someone shouted.

The building shook as Marc and Lanier rolled uneasily away from each other. The other boys were all crowded around the window looking out back.

‘It’s on fire,’ someone shouted. ‘Coming right for us!’

Marc was startled as stricken boys raced over, under and between the bunks towards the staircase, which was already crowded with kids from the other attic bedroom who’d acted faster. As the orphanage roof continued to shudder, dust wafted down from creaking joists above Marc’s head.

There were screams on the overcrowded staircase and the oil lamps in the hallway swung violently as the wooden frame of the orphanage lurched half a metre, tilting several frightened boys down the staircase.

After a few seconds in complete darkness, Marc looked down and saw that he was the last boy in the bedroom, apart from a tearful three year old who’d wandered from the next room in a state of panic.

‘Come on, mate,’ Marc said, scooping the toddler into his aching arms and edging painfully through the darkness towards the chaos on the staircase. Boys had fallen on top of one another when the building had shaken and the tangle of arms and legs on the landing was worsened by desperate boys trying to escape by scrabbling over them.

The building lurched once again and this time several windows shattered. The cracking of glass was instantly followed by a colossal bang and a wave of heat and light that sucked all the moisture out of the air. The toddler’s fingers dug into the welts on Marc’s back as the oil lamps dimmed, whilst desperate screams and a grey haze rose up the stairwell.

CHAPTER SIX

Paul nodded obediently as he moved his hands into a surrender position.

‘Good boy,’ the German said, smiling coldly. He was a slim man with small black eyes and he reeked of the tonic he used to slick down his hair. ‘How many are in the house?’

‘Three,’ Paul mumbled.

‘Who are the others?’

‘My dad and my sister.’

‘And your father is Digby Clarke?’

Paul nodded as the German let him up off the bed, but kept the gun in his face.

‘Call your father in here. Try anything and I’ll stick a bullet in your head.’

‘Dad!’

The shout didn’t appear to have any effect and the German narrowed his eyes. ‘Again.’

‘Dad!’ Paul shouted, close to tears. ‘I need you right now.’

But Rosie came in first. ‘Dad’s busy. What’s the matter, squirt?’