‘It wasn’t like that,’ Joe said. ‘You have it all wrong.’

‘Who did you tell?’

‘I don’t know.’ Joe stumbled. He knew no one by name, could barely see their faces through the dark mesh of the confession box.

‘Spreading enemy propaganda.’

Joe stared at his shiny black trousers, his scuffed shoes. He hadn’t thought he’d ever be caught, hadn’t prepared himself. Now most likely he’d be shot, or sent to prison, if he was lucky. There was nothing he could do but hold his nerve.

‘Tell me about your German sweetheart,’ Zepernick was saying. ‘Your Trude.’

‘She’s not my sweetheart,’ Joe said. But she was, and he loved her. What kind of a Judas was he? ‘I’m a priest. A Catholic priest.’

‘Catholic priests are not supposed to have girlfriends, are they?’ Knackfuss said. ‘You’ll burn in hell, won’t you? Isn’t that what you believe?’

Joe shut his eyes, Lord have mercy. There was nothing he could say. Zepernick drummed his fingers on the table, dum-diddle-dum, dum-diddle-dum.

‘Are you aware,’ he said after a while, ‘that it is forbidden to have sexual relations with any personnel from the German occupying force?’

‘No,’ Joe said. ‘And I’m not.’ Words were jumbling. He didn’t know what to say, which way to point a sentence. ‘I wasn’t.’

‘Defiling the best of our womanhood.’ Knackfuss ignored him. ‘With your sordid desires.’

Joe shook his head, looked at Knackfuss, at Zepernick. ‘I’m Irish,’ he said. Would that make a difference?

‘Irish.’

‘Ireland’s not part of this war,’ Joe was stumbling. ‘It’s neutral.’

‘Neutral?’ Zepernick shouted, the veins on his temple pulsing. ‘Spying on us? Spreading British lies? Corrupting our women? That is not the behaviour of a neutral agent.’ He slammed his fist hard on the desk. ‘Those are the actions of a partisan.’

‘No,’ Joe said. ‘That’s not how I see myself.’ He wasn’t a criminal, wasn’t even a rebel, but war made monsters of everyone.

Zepernick stood up, resting on his fists on the tabletop, the knuckles white. ‘You disgust me,’ he said. ‘With your lies, your self-delusion.’ He walked round the table, stood over Joe. He was a tall man, well-built. Joe had never been easy with big men.

‘What disgusts me most,’ he said, ‘is your perversion.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Zepernick leaned forward and slapped Joe’s face with the back of his hand. ‘Sodomite.’

Joe reeled back. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Pederast.’

‘No,’ Joe said.

‘No?’ Zepernick said.

He had only ever told Trude. She wouldn’t betray him. They must have forced it out of her.

‘Did you enjoy it?’ Zepernick said. ‘Encourage him, with your pretty boy looks?’

No, no. What tortures had Trude endured? ‘What did you do to her?’ Joe said.

‘Degenerate.’ Zepernick spat out the word, small vapours of spit dissolving into the air. ‘Diseased. Polluting our women.’