All Marc’s life the director had been like a god, with the unquestionable power to withhold food and inflict pain. Yet seeing the humble cottage reminded Marc that the director of a rural orphanage was not a president or a general; not even a landowner like Morel, or a respected figure within the local area such as the priest. This realisation of Director Tomas’ insignificance was liberating and Marc felt more confident as he opened the larder cabinet, to be confronted by all manner of food.

His eyes dashed excitedly over things he’d never tasted: sardines and tinned orange segments, goose pâté, olives, a plate of chicken wings and a jar of honey. Marc didn’t want to risk getting caught inside the house so he grabbed a clean cloth from the lower shelf and laid it flat on the draining board before piling it with bread, chicken, a lump of cheese and a dollop of pâté scooped out with his finger. He was desperate to try the oranges, but he’d never opened a tin can and had no idea how to do it.

As Marc picked up the tins to see what might be underneath he came to a slightly rusted tin that had originally contained salt. As he raised it up he heard the unmistakeable jangle of coins. Curious, he unscrewed the lid and saw that amidst the coins was a thick bundle of notes, mostly the fifty- and one-hundred-franc variety.

The sight of money was intoxicating, but if Marc took it – or even some of it – he’d be found out the moment he walked into the village’s only shop waving a fifty-franc note. He replaced the tin, gathered up the food in the cloth and hurried outside.

He walked around to the back of the director’s home and brushed a couple of wood-pigs aside before sitting on the stump of a felled tree. It was a good vantage point from which he could easily take cover if anyone approached the cottage.

After spreading the cloth in his lap, Marc jumped with fright as a distant explosion lit up the scene. Another Stuka rose vertically out of its dive, its tiny silhouette leaving a trail in the purple sky.

Following the fright he bit greedily into the bread and the chicken wings. Then he delved into the pâté, swallowed the sardines – which he found too salty but ate anyway – and lastly gorged on the miniature cheese, which came from a local farm. The tang of its runny centre burst into his mouth when he bit through the rubbery crust.

The food was richer than Marc was used to and its illicit nature, combined with hunger and the moody setting, made it spectacular. It was almost enough to make him forget the pain in his thigh and the stinging welts down his back.