He picked up his clothes from the floor and walked towards the bathroom. Dora listened as he splashed the water, heard as he sang the opening lines of Liebchen, ade. Darling, goodbye. It had been one of her favourite songs, a big hit just after her father died, the year she left Berlin, so it had a special memory for her. He had a good singing voice, a powerful baritone. She hated him singing this song, as if he was wrenching it from her, gouging it out of her memory. But he was giving it back to her too, reminding her that beyond this room with its flock wallpaper and Persian rug, there could be a man who sang a love song to his sweetheart.

He arrived promptly at six the next night.

‘You know how I like my scotch,’ he said. ‘You know my tastes.’

Routines, too, Dora thought. This is not a man who likes surprises. She poured the scotch.

‘Take off your clothes.’

Dora breathed hard, clenched her teeth, yanked the dress down over her thighs. She was already raw and chapped from the ersatz soap they had to use and the rayon dress caught on her rough skin as it fell, a thousand needles pricking. She winced, glanced up. He was looking at her, studying her. He put down the glass and walked towards the bed.

They lay together after. Dora tried to think of the word. After he had expended himself, as they had the night before and the night before that.

‘And you?’ he said. ‘What did you do before the war?’

Why should she converse with him? She was his prisoner, his plaything. He wasn’t interested in her. Talking would give him the wrong impression. She was under duress. He had to know that.

‘I asked you a question,’ he said. ‘I expect to be answered.’

Let him wait for an answer. She wasn’t one of his subordinates.

‘We can do this two ways,’ he said. ‘I can tell you’re not a professional prostitute.’

Dora watched him from the corner of her eye, his mouth stern. The muscles in his jaw twitched once, twice.

‘But make no mistake. I can treat you like one if you choose.’

She heard the threat behind his words. Collette had told hair-raising stories of men with quirky, brutal needs. List had been straightforward in his desires. Now she saw his menace, the lust for power and pain.

‘Or we stay civilised,’ he went on. ‘Whichever you prefer.’

Dora felt a lump in her throat, and her eyes stung. His voice was cold, contemptuous. He’d been well-mannered so far. Why rouse his anger? Why make things worse?

‘I was a nurse,’ she said. ‘A midwife.’