Knackfuss had stepped forward, face close to hers so she saw the bristles in his nose and his crooked teeth. She smelled his sour breath. What did Geoffrey know?

‘Sind Sie eine Jüdin?’

Are you a Jew? She’d looked up, caught off her guard. He’d said it in German, and she’d responded. And he’d come straight out with it. She’d given herself away. It didn’t take much. One look.

‘Antworten Sie mir auf Deutsch.’ Answer me in German.

‘You see,’ Zepernick said. ‘We know you are a Jew.’

Who had told them? The Jurat? He had no proof.

‘And you speak German.’

‘No,’ Dora said, shaking her head. ‘No.’

Nein, nein, nein.

Geoffrey was the only one who knew. Had he told them? Turned her in to save his skin?

‘Warum geben Sie es nicht zu?’

‘I don’t understand,’ Dora said.

Zepernick slammed his fist into her jaw, and her head jolted to one side. ‘Why don’t you admit it?’

Her hands were still tied behind her. She could do nothing to soothe her jaw. They’re bluffing, she told herself. They have no evidence. Did they need evidence? These weren’t rational, civilised people.

‘What do you know?’ Knackfuss said.

‘Nothing.’ Her voice was hoarse. ‘I know nothing.’

‘Put her away,’ Zepernick said. One of the Feldpolizisten yanked her by the arm. It was numb, dead, tied too tight. She cried out, her shoulders wrenched and sore. He pulled her towards the door.

‘Oh, Miss Simon,’ Colonel Knackfuss said. ‘One more thing before you go.’ He walked towards her. ‘I am a fair man, you will find. A reasonable man.’ He signalled to the Feldpolizist to release her handcuffs. The blood came rushing back, the nerve ends in her shoulders and elbows stinging, her fingertips a mass of vicious pins and needles. ‘Allow me to share a few ideas with you.’

There was a table in the room and he sauntered over to it, perched himself on the edge, swung his leg. ‘You are guilty of a very serious crime,’ he said. ‘Aiding escaped prisoners. Consorting with the resistance, with the enemy. I could shoot you. I should shoot you.’ He drummed his fingers against his chin. ‘At Charing Cross, perhaps, or the parade ground. Somewhere public, as an example. You are a respected woman, after all. A respectable woman. Do you speak French, Miss Simon?’

Dora stared at the brown and black floor tiles, at the dust that had gathered in balls by the skirting.

‘I asked you a question,’ Knackfuss said, slapping his hand on the tabletop. ‘Answer me. Do you speak French?’

‘A little,’ Dora said. ‘I speak a little.’

‘Then you will understand my thinking here,’ he said. ‘Pour encourager les autres. Or–’

He paused and Dora could feel the pressure of his gaze. She dared not look up, meet him in the eye.