‘Well there you are,’ Dora said. ‘He wasn’t the only one who was unfaithful in the war.’ And I know that, she thought, more than most. ‘So that must be the end of the question.’ She sat straight up, imagine a string, her physiotherapist had told her once after she’d had some back pain, pulling your spine… ‘Out of curiosity,’ she said, trying to sound casual. ‘What was his house like?’

‘His house?’ Barbara said.

‘Yes,’ Dora said. ‘I’ve always wondered how architects live, since their buildings are often so brutal.’ She smiled, added, ‘It’s a little beef I have, you see.’

Barbara picked up her coffee, sipped. ‘Well, I must disappoint you,’ she said. ‘It was a square box.’ She threw her head back and laughed when the telephone rang, loud and shrill, and Barbara jumped, splashing her coffee into the saucer. Dora pushed herself up from her chair, glad of the interruption and padded into the house.

Jersey: June – December 1943

Dora sat on the edge of the bed, breathless. She tried not to think about what had just happened, but the memory was too large, too overpowering. She could still feel his weight, smell his sweat, his semen. Her heart was racing, her muscles quivering, out of control. She’d never felt so tired, a weariness that drilled to her core. And numb. Numb. She couldn’t think where she was, what she should do. Wash, wash. Rub the filth away. She was contaminated, used. Entered. She heard the lock turn. She jumped.

‘Follow me.’

The nurse led her along the corridor, down two flights of narrow stairs. She opened a door, pushed Dora inside. Slammed it shut, pulled the bolts. It was night outside, and the room was dark save for a shaft of moonlight that filtered through a light well. A cellar. Dora stood while her eyes adjusted. She could smell the unwashed bodies and hear the slow breathing of sleepers. She could make out platforms, stacked in tiers, and on each a huddled form or two. Bunk beds. She walked along the rows but they were all occupied, except for one on the top in the far corner. Dora took off her shoes, heaved herself up and lay down on rough sacking. She was exhausted, but too scared to sleep.

She must have dozed off, for she woke with a start. Someone was hammering on the door. It was twilight outside and the room was shadowy, but Dora saw the bodies stir in the gloom and shuffle in a line.

‘Venez!’ A woman pulled Dora’s ankle. ‘Appell!’

Dora pushed herself down from the bunk and joined the queue. They were all women, dressed in identical, shapeless cotton dresses.

‘What is this?’ Dora said.

‘Do you speak French?’

‘A little,’ she said.

‘The roll call. They count us every morning.’