‘What a coward,’ he said. ‘You’d put down a bird with a broken wing, but you can’t put your lover out of her misery.’

‘Trude. Look at me,’ Joe said. ‘Trude.’

Her head stayed bent down, her eyes cast to the floor. She stood motionless next to List, the pistol at her head. He loved her then more than ever. Her strength. Fortitude. Bravery. He would never pull that trigger, even if it cost him his life.

‘Take him,’ Zepernick said.

The Feldpolizisten spun Joe round, marched him out of the door.

Joe heard the shot and the thump of her body on the floor.

‘No.’ He tried to twist free but the Feldpolizisten held him firm, dragging him down the corridor, the thud echoing in his mind. Urine was seeping round his fly and trickling down his leg.

Just the crack of the bow and the drum of the waves as they slammed the side. Joe saw only darkness, heard the pistol smack and the dull thump of her body as it hit the ground, over and over, while the sea moiled and tossed him against the oily ropes and the sharp edges of the cargo crates. He had killed her, as surely as if he had pulled the trigger. He’d led her into danger, because she made him feel grand. A flimsy, fleeting pleasure that had cost her life. Why should he live now? By what right? He clenched his fist and drummed it into the side of the hold.

Sick as dogs and not a drop of water. Forced through the hatch last night, they had slept as best they could before the ship began to move. There must have been at least thirty other men on board, and none spoke English. Joe thought they could be Russian. No knowing where they were going and Joe couldn’t ask.

The engines droned, a steady chug-chug, the fumes from the kerosene clogging the foetid air of the hold. Joe gagged, fought for breath. Maybe they were going to kill them all here, suffocate them, fill the space with noxious gases. It would be right and fitting, Joe thought, an end to his despair.

The men slid in their vomit, its stench clinging to their beards and clothes. The rhythm of the engines changed, softened, and Joe knew they must be coming close to land. The boat bumped as they drew up alongside a harbour, the motors humming and idling.

A blast of light illuminated the hold as the hatch was pulled up. Joe could hear German voices, boots on the deck above, orders bellowed down.

‘Raus! Schnell!’

The men shuffled towards the ladder. Unkempt, unshaven, their baggy striped clothing stiff with filth, they pulled themselves onto the deck. They were surrounded by soldiers who pushed them forward, rifles at the ready. These soldiers wore a different uniform from the ones in Jersey. The prisoners stepped onto the quayside.