Had he survived? She hoped so, though goodness knows what he must have gone through. She couldn’t see him again. Not now. How could a man understand? She could tell no one, least of all him. The shame was too much. She couldn’t love him, not anymore, not in the way they used to. She had betrayed him, been unfaithful to him. Had she loved List? He haunted her imaginings. She had lost him. It was the ones you lost who lingered the most. Had he loved her? Had he abandoned her? Used her? She had to bury this past, build a new life. If anyone asked, she’d say she spent the war in Jersey. No more. No less. Her secret. Her silence. Who would understand what she had to say? Who would not judge her?

Leave and never return.

She heard some men running behind her.

‘Oi, you.’

She stopped, looked around, but she was the only person. Me?

‘That’s her.’

These were not men she knew. Dora understood, at that instant, that she had to get out of the way. She started to run, stepped out into the road, the Hotel Maison Victor Hugo in view. Not far. Run. Her sandals hurt and her legs were brittle. Move. The men were coming close. She could hear their breath, their shoes as they pounded the tarmac. She tried to scream, Help! but her voice stuck in her throat. She pushed her legs, one before the other, but they wobbled, weak, slow. She couldn’t run, not a step.

One of the men grabbed her, spun her round, pushed her arms behind her and held them in a tight lock.

‘Let me go,’ Dora said. She kicked, caught his shin. He squeezed her tighter.

‘Bitch. You’re the nurse.’

Dora could see more people running towards them.

‘Fucking Jerrybag.’

‘No,’ Dora said. ‘Let me go.’ She struggled, but the man held her tight. Five or six men closed in on her. One tugged at the shoulder of her dress, pulling it over her arm, bursting the buttons.

‘No.’ Dora was screaming. The gang was thickening. Men and women. Three or four deep. She couldn’t see past them. Couldn’t see through them. Peeling her dress off, tearing it. Screaming and shouting. Dora’s knees began to buckle. She must not fall. She’d be pulled apart, limb from limb.

Someone grabbed her hair, yanked it back. She could hear the scissors crunch as the blades closed round her hair, feel their jagged points as they dug into her scalp.

‘Please, please.’ She couldn’t move. She was held tight, jammed fast. Crushed. Trampled. Her chest was heavy. No breath. She was going to die.

‘Jerrybag. Nazi whore.’

She could hear their jeers, feel their hands as they pulled and pushed her, ripping her dress and tearing it off her. She shook her head, struggled to break free.

‘Call the gardaí. Let her go.’