They had entered the main entrance hall. Two more Feldgendarmen were there. The scruffy one yanked her back so she stopped. She saw the man nod. A movement behind her, and a sack tugged down over her head, the strings tied round her neck. No. She tried to scream, no, to breathe. They were going to kill her, string her from a lamppost. They covered heads first, didn’t they, when they did that? Shoot her through the temple. Her breath came in shallow gulps. The hessian stuck to her mouth and nose. Her head spun, her knees buckled. Her stomach cramped again. No, please no. The soldier pushed her forward, clumsy palsied steps. She was crying, her nose running, the hessian rubbing. I don’t want to die.

And Geoffrey? Would they kill him too, the pair of them, together? Lined up and shot, a single bullet to the head. Who first? Would they make her watch him die, as they had when they killed the prisoner? Or would it be the rat-a-tat of the machine gun, and falling together, like skittles, limbs tangled in death? She didn’t want to die. Please.

She was propelled down the stairs, tumbling, dragged. Shoved into a car. She could sense the two Feldgendarmen following, sitting either side of her. She was aware of their arms, the hard metal badge on their chests, aware of them making gestures.

The car was driving fast, tyres squealing as they rounded corners, hitting the kerbstones as they went, throwing Dora against the Feldgendarmen. The car came to a halt, the door opened.

‘Raus.’

They pulled her out. She could smell the sea, hear the breath of waves as they lapped against stone. Gulls screeched above. She was still in town. Perhaps by the harbour, in the square in front of the Pomme d’Or. A Feldgendarm grabbed her arm, marched her up steps. The Pomme d’Or had no stairs. She caught the scent of jasmine through the mouldy hessian of her hood. Jasmine.

She knew where she was. Not in town at all. She knew the place where jasmine climbed the walls and filled the gardens with its fragrance. She was pushed through the doors, into a hall, shoes clattering on the marble floor. She had no idea why they had brought her here. She could picture it, black and white chequered floor, the sweep of the stairs with their polished balustrades, the heavy Victorian furniture, to the left the saloon bar with its gracious chairs, to the right the dining room. She’d known this place too, before the Germans came. A door opened, laughter, the refrains of a song drifting through, Dora knew the words. Lili Marleen. The door shut. These weren’t offices of the Feldkommandantur.