There was a half-bottle of brandy in the back of the medicine cabinet. She climbed onto a chair, fished on the top shelf and pulled the bottle out. Cradled it like a baby in the crook of her arm, walked away from the Revier. Down the stairs, through the hallway where the light from the landing shone through the motes of dust onto the floor, showing up the balls of fluff that had gathered in the corners.

Dora walked past the mess. The empty glasses were still on the bar, the ashtrays full and unemptied. A game of bridge had been abandoned, the cards faced down in orderly piles on the four sides of the card table. Her roster had been open on the maître d’s lectern. Dora took the page by the corner, ripped it free of the ledger, tore it in half, and half again. Threw the pieces on the floor.

She walked down the stairs, into the dormitory. Some of the women were sitting on the lower bunks, or squatting on the floor. Others had climbed on their beds and peered up through the light well. No one spoke. Too frightened to walk through the open door.

Dora held up the bottle. ‘Pour la libération,’ she said.

There were fifteen women.

‘Bring your tins.’

She poured the brandy. The women’s hands were shaking and Dora had to hold the cups to steady them. The smell of the alcohol wafted up, pure and clean, making her eyes water. Her father had had a bottle of cognac that he’d brought out on special occasions, Martell 1877.

Dora began to cry, sobs of relief, and joy, of remembrance and sadness. Think of the happy times. The others cried too, put the brandy to their lips, sipped it on their empty, starving stomachs. Sometimes, Doralein, we gave them brandy in Verdun. There was nothing more to be done.

They wept, a phalanx of emaciated, ululating women, hiccupping.

La guerre est terminée. The war was over.

Dora went into a corner of the dormitory and sat with her brandy. She had dreamed of this day, how she’d dance in the street, throw balls in the air, sing and scream and jump. She’d imagined running around, hugging and kissing everyone she met, in a joyous frenzy of relief. Now that day was here, she felt weary and uncertain. She wanted to be alone. She looked over at the other women. They would be sent back to France, to their villages and families. She could hear them talking about it now, Forget this war, get back to normal, the brandy slurring their words. Let them get drunk. She thought of Uncle Otto. The last she’d heard, he had been interned, an enemy alien. She had no idea if he was still in prison. He could be dead. She would have no one. Were her aunts still alive in Germany?