Dora wanted to say, At this time? But the door had been opened and the women were filing out, along the corridor and out through the back door into a small courtyard behind the kitchens. Three soldiers guarded the space, rifles at the ready. The women lined up in rows, about ten in a row. Stood. Dora shifted her weight from left to right, right to left. The dawn air was cool and her flimsy evening frock gave no warmth.

The sun rose and illuminated the sky and Dora could hear, in the distance, a clock chiming the hour. Five. Five o’clock. A man came out in the grey uniform of the Wehrmacht. Next to him was a woman wearing the same shapeless frock as the others, except she wore a green armband on her left arm. They walked along the rows.

‘Nummer?’ the Wehrmacht officer said. He ticked a form, stopped at Dora. ’Nummer?’

‘I don’t know,’ Dora said. What for?

‘Name?’

‘Dora Simon.’

‘Your clothes?’

‘This is all I have,’ Dora said. The officer threw his head back and studied Dora through slits of eyes. He curled his lip, nodded to the woman with the green armband.

‘Kommen,’ the woman said, adding in French as they left the parade ground. ‘I’m Agnes Moreau. I’m the Kapo here.’

‘Kapo?’ Dora said.

‘The boss. I run the place.’ She tossed her head towards the officer. ‘They haven’t a clue.’

She led Dora into a small room stacked with folded dresses. Took one from the shelf, handed it to Dora, lifted a pair of shoes from another shelf and threw them down on the floor. ‘Change.’ She pointed to Dora’s dress. ‘That is for the evening.’

‘I have no underwear,’ Dora said.

Agnes blew through her lips, shrugged.

‘You don’t understand,’ Dora said. ‘I need knickers.’ I want underwear. It was privacy, security. Comfort. She was bruised.

‘Puh,’ Agnes said. ‘Dress.’ She spoke in French. Dora slipped out of her red frock, threaded her arms through the cotton garment and tugged it down. It was rough and coarse, cheap cotton, shapeless. Agnes handed Dora a metal bowl and spoon.

‘Keep hold of this,’ she said. ‘Your number is two hundred and seventy-one.’

‘What’s the number for?’

‘For? To keep count. You’re the two hundredth and seventy-first woman to pass through. The Germans like their records.’ She laughed, and Dora caught her breath, foul as a bat’s cave. ‘Alors, sors!’

Dora followed her out. The other women were still standing in line and Dora took her place. The soldier began the roll call again, from the beginning.

‘Nummer? Nummer?’