The nurse left, locking the door. Dora ran to the window. The room was on the second floor, faced the sea. It must be ten metres to the ground. High enough to kill her, if she jumped. Dora pulled at the sash, but it would not move. The panes were too small to crawl through. She swallowed. Rushed to the chimney. She’d heard they used to build them with steps for cleaning. She could climb up, wait on the roof, shimmy down when it was dark.

The door unlocked, opened, and a man came in. He wore a greyish uniform, not one Dora had seen before. He took off his cap, placed it on the console table.

‘Pour me a scotch,’ he said, sitting on the sofa, crossing his legs. Dora was shaking. Perhaps he hadn’t locked the door. She could make a run for it.

‘Now.’ The German turned round. ‘I am watching you.’

Dora walked towards the table. His cap had a skull on it, an eagle too, the visor shiny. She eyed him on the sofa, staring at her. He was in his thirties, she guessed, blond hair shorn at the temples. Handsome, in a Germanic way. She’d seen his type in Berlin, bankers, lawyers. Educated men with manicured nails. She pulled out the stopper, poured the scotch. Vati drank scotch, poured it halfway up the glass, No ice, no water. Like a Scot.

‘Half and half,’ the German said. ‘Remember that.’ There was a carafe of water, and Dora filled the glass, walked over to him, hand shaking.

‘That is a lot of scotch,’ he said. ‘Do you want to kill me?’

Dora said nothing. She saw the runes of the SS insignia on his collar and was back in Berlin as Brownshirts poked her father in the chest, pushing him so he toppled. Who are you? Some kind of Bolshevik? A Jewish traitor?

SS Totenkopf. A skull, Dora thought, the death’s head. She hadn’t seen them in Jersey before. Not the SS.

‘I am a busy man,’ he said. ‘Have you washed?’

Chapter Ten: Joe

CHAPTER TEN

JOE

Jersey: June 1985

Two weeks after Barbara Hummel’s visit, Joe wrote three letters, scribbled please forward on the envelopes. He sent one to the PO box number, one to the Hotel de France and one to the editor of the Evening Post, who, he thought, may have her contact details. He’d heard nothing more and regretted sending her away now. Geoffrey looked hurt and puzzled.

‘I don’t have much time left,’ he said.

‘That’s not fighting talk,’ Joe said. ‘You’ve got thirty more good years.’

That had always made Geoffrey laugh, but he didn’t smile now. It would mean the world to him to see Dora one more time. What would they say to each other? Where would they begin?