It was evening before they moved. Some were sent east. Joe and the others, west. Past the wharves and the customs house, the yellow beaches criss-crossed with razor wire. The esplanade looked strange to Joe now, as if he no longer belonged. He knew every paving stone and brick, but he felt disorientated, anxious, each step a churn in his gut that made him light-headed and disconnected. Homesick, for the home he’d come back to.

They were turning right into Pierson Road. Right into St Aubin’s Road. Oh, Joe knew the way. Ahead of them, a large building with white stucco and curly Dutch gables. West Park Pavilion. Joe’d been there for the Christmas bazaar and Pierre said they held grand dances, before the war. It was not so far from the hospital and the little park. Perhaps they’d stay here. Perhaps the war was over. Over. Joe felt hope for the first time, a fierce buoyancy that lifted his chin.

They were marched up the steps and into the main hall. Joe recognised the SS guards from Sylt, but there were others too, from the OT or the Wehrmacht. The prisoners had to stand in line, file past as a scrawny wretch doled out watery soup in tin cans. They were given orders to sleep on the floor. No room to turn. They’d be shipped out in the morning.

Joe lay awake all night. The war hadn’t ended. This was his only chance to get away. Now he was back in Jersey, it made another day, another moment, in captivity, unbearable. He had to escape. Two seconds. That’s all he’d need. Slip free of the guards. He knew the town. He’d find his way out. Didn’t Pierre have a sister who lived nearby? Change of clothes, and he’d be on his way. He’d apologise for the lice, advise her to burn the garments. Go to the convent? No, he couldn’t put the nuns in danger again. Improvise. He’d think of something. Head out to the country. Speed. That was of the essence. He’d leave the cook’s shoes behind. He couldn’t run in too-big shoes.

Up at first light. Appell. Always Appell. This would be the last Appell if it killed him. The SS guards from Sylt lined them up, marched them out. Two led the prisoners at the front, two at the rear, rifles at the ready. Two others, with shaggy Alsatians that pulled at their leashes, kept watch. Six guards for fifty prisoners. Not so many. Joe wondered where the rest had gone. He pulled back, a step at a time, out of the line of vision of the dogs and their handlers, worked his way, little by little, to the nearside ranks, checking with each move that none of the guards had noticed. Links, links. Singen. Sing, bastards. How about this? Hitler has only got one ball.