A few moments later Paul emerged from his bedroom wearing a shirt and long trousers that made him look like a proper French boy. He was clutching a small suitcase and a satchel crammed with comic books and art supplies. He still looked horribly shaken and if there had been time Mr Clarke would have given him a hug.

‘We’ll get through this, champ,’ Clarke said, tousling his son’s hair, acutely aware that his gesture was inadequate.

Rosie emerged from the kitchen holding the bag of food. ‘I stuffed everyone’s clean clothes into the big case, but it’s too heavy for me to lift down the stairs. I grabbed the photo albums and your camera, too.’

‘Good thinking.’ Mr Clarke smiled, as he waved his children towards the front door before grabbing his briefcase with one hand and the large suitcase with the other.

Trying to avoid the sight of the two bloodied bodies just a metre from his feet, Paul stepped into the corridor outside.

Rosie had lived in apartment sixteen since she was five years old. She felt sad as she pulled closed the door for what was surely the last time.

Paul finally broke his silence as he chased his father and sister down the narrow staircase. ‘Dad, are you a spy or something?’

CHAPTER SEVEN

There were a few knocks, a couple of sprains and one nun with a broken arm beneath the boys piled up on the landing, but the orphanage had survived its brush with annihilation. The stricken German dive bomber had clipped the roof, shattering chimney pots and dislodging a chunk of brickwork. A great pile of rubble had clattered down the chimney, causing clouds of dust and ash to erupt from all the fireplaces on the east side of the house.

In wintertime burning embers would have blown across every floor of the house, but luckily it was summer. The fireplaces were dormant and the only blaze was caused by an oil lamp coming down from its hook and spilling across the floor. The flames were extinguished by two quick-thinking boys, who smothered them with a mattress.

Marc and his tiny companion were amongst the last to get out of the ash and dust. They both coughed as they stepped into a sunset made even more dramatic by towers of flame erupting in two directions on the horizon.

The German Stuka had been one of hundreds zigzagging across the countryside that evening, scouring the roads for convoys of French soldiers and equipment. After passing the orphanage, the stricken aeroplane had torn apart the neighbouring barn, its flaming engine setting fire to the vegetable store and the chicken coops inside. It finally crashed in the field beyond, coming to a halt in a deep furrow before the flames ignited its remaining cargo of bombs, incinerating the pilot and throwing up tonnes of earth as every building within a kilometre shuddered.