But he’d known that from the start and he reckoned he’d done OK so far. Marc realised, as he approached it, that the city centre would bring no great revelation and would probably be more crowded and intimidating than the outlying districts. He decided to make a go of finding some food and a place to stay in the next decent neighbourhood he came to.

It happened to be a small shopping street two kilometres north of the city centre. One of hundreds throughout the city where locals bought food, newspapers, had their clothes laundered and gossiped in a café.

Marc stopped by the grand frontage of a cinema with posters for an American movie in colour. But it was early, and the metal grilles were pulled down over the front. At the orphanage the nuns would rig up a projector and let the boys watch silent comedies every Christmas, but Marc had never been to a proper cinema and the prospect excited him. At the side of the cinema was a sizeable but largely empty café. After a second’s hesitation he stepped inside. The miserable-looking waitress took one glance and decided that she didn’t like him.

‘Refugee?’ she snorted.

Marc nodded. There was no point denying it – he was filthy after getting bounced around inside the army truck and any children still living in Paris would be at school.

‘Do you have money?’ she asked, blocking Marc’s path before he could get near a table.

He pulled a small bundle of notes from a trouser pocket – Sabine had advised him to divide the money between his pigskin bag and several pockets so that he couldn’t lose all of it at once.

The woman crinkled her nose and dragged a chair out from a table. ‘It’s too early for lunch, but I can fix you a plate.’

Marc nodded. ‘Would you mind filling my bottle of water?’

The waitress looked like this was a great imposition, but eventually snatched the empty bottle. The only other customers sat three tables across. Much to Marc’s relief the miserable waitress sat herself at a distant table and lit a cigarette. His food and refilled water bottle were brought out by a great barrel of a man. It comprised a bowl of soup with stringy meat in it, along with chunks of bread and slices of cheese.

‘Whereabouts are you from?’ the man asked, as he ran his fat hand through a beard.

Marc felt uneasy. The only men he’d ever dealt with were Director Tomas and a pair of schoolmasters who rivalled him in ferocity. ‘Near Beauvais, sir,’ he said politely, as he dipped a spoon into his soup. Then he shuddered and wondered if he should have told a lie.

‘Beauvais, eh?’ the man said, clearly intrigued. ‘How long ago? What’s the situation up there?’

‘I left early this morning. There are quite a lot of planes, regular bombing and stuff.’