Paul shrugged. ‘I didn’t say it would be easy, but I know Dad would have wanted us to try.’

‘No,’ Rosie said, shaking her head. ‘Dad was off his head when he said that. He was bleeding to death. And besides, what about Mum? I know for a fact that she would have wanted us to stay here, where it’s safe.’

Paul’s silence was as close as he’d get to admitting that Rosie was probably right.

‘I’m hungry,’ Hugo said, grabbing Rosie’s wrist and giving it a tug.

‘I’m going back to the cottage,’ Rosie said, as she looked down at Hugo. ‘Yvette should have lunch ready soon. Are you coming with us?’

‘I suppose,’ Paul said reluctantly, snapping the wooden box of ink and drawing pens shut and clambering out of the grass.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Marc had got used to the sight of French troops. Unshaven, underfed and frequently drunk; their uniforms didn’t fit and their horse-drawn artillery seemed like a relic from a different age. Germany was only a few hundred kilometres away, but their army seemed to come from another world.

The first columns entering Paris were led by motorcycles and sidecars, followed by senior staff sitting in open-topped Kübelwagens4 with swastika flags draped across the bonnet. A soothing French voice came out of a megaphone, urging citizens of Paris to stay calm and stand clear of the troops.

Then came infantry. Marching in step, immaculately dressed – from green helmets down to polished boots. Marc stood close enough to the kerb to get a whiff of the superbly groomed horses. Tank tracks left their mark in sunbaked tarmac and polluted the air with a haze of diesel fumes.

The German forces seemed to sweat raw power. It was the most impressive thing Marc had ever seen and he was completely awed. He’d often dreamed of running away to fight for France, but now France was on its knees, and he wanted to swap sides.

Marc could imagine himself in the smart Nazi uniform, commanding his own tank as it smashed buildings and slaughtered anyone stupid enough to defy him. He’d been on the losing end his whole life and this brazen display of strength intoxicated him.

He turned to face the café owner, but instead found himself staring at his daughter Livia.

‘Some of them are so good looking,’ Livia said enthusiastically. ‘That uniform … oooh là-là!’

It was the first time Livia had ever shown Marc anything other than a sneer, and her attraction to German soldiers made him even keener to join up.

‘Do you think they’ll let French boys join?’ he asked. ‘When I’m older, obviously.’

A wiry man who often sat in the Café Roma smoking a cigar and drinking Espresso shocked Marc by cracking him around the back of the head.