There was a Christmas tree in the centre of the hallway, a lanky pine that reached to the ceiling and shed needles that worked their way into the women’s feet. They always had a tree, she and her father, in that comfortable flat in Charlottenburg. The housekeeper, Anni, insisted on buying it each year, decorating it with candles. So what, Doralein, he’d say. Let her have it. We’re Germans, after all. Now, it was mocking home with its remembrance, its scents.

She’d only known Collette a few months, but she felt her death as keenly as she had her father’s. It was ten years since he had died. December, 1933. Six months since her capture. It felt like time had reversed, that her father was alive yesterday, that this prison had enclosed her for a decade.

That evening, Maximilian List called for her. There was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. He poured her a glass.

‘I have been thinking,’ he said, handing her the glass. ‘I was too hard on you.’

Was this a trick? Would the nurse burst into the room, see her with the drink, charge her with impertinence, or theft?

‘At another time,’ he went on, ‘you would be my mistress.’

Was he lulling her again, or wooing her?

‘Drink,’ he said. ‘It’s good. Moët and Chandon. A vintage year.’ He lifted his glass. ‘To victory,’ he said and linked his arm through hers as they sipped and the bubbles burst on their open mouths, sharp and close to.

‘Victory,’ she repeated. But for the Allies, not for you. Was she being disloyal? What would happen if the Allies won? Would she try and save him?

‘I’ve been thinking too,’ he went on, taking her hand and leading her to the sofa. There was a fire burning in the grate, homely logs that cast a warm, flickering light across his face. He placed his hand on her stomach, laid his head against her breasts. ‘Perhaps I should take you to Alderney.’

‘Alderney? Away from here?’

He nodded. ‘Have you for myself. Would you like that?’ He cupped her chin in his hand, searching her eyes for an answer.

‘Yes,’ she said. To be free of here, of its stench and pain, of the daily toil.

‘I designed the residence myself.’

Was he planning on making her his housekeeper? Das Dora Haus. Why else would he tell her that? She’d learn to trust him again. She’d like that. Sitting together in the evening light. And when the baby was born, the three of them, together. She’d learn to love this baby.

‘I forget the war when I am with you,’ he was saying. ‘You give me strength. If you were by my side every night, I could achieve so much. Are you enjoying this?’ He nodded towards the champagne, reaching for a small package from the table. He gave it to her. ‘Open it.’