Even that little barrel of a woman, Hoffmann, would have shown signs of pregnancy. Dora had been a midwife, for heaven’s sake, could tell if a woman was pregnant without her having to present a single symptom. And if Barbara was born in February, when Hoffmann disappeared, there was no way they could be mother and child. It must be some other baby that she had.

What if it was February when she gave birth? What if Hoffmann had taken her baby?

But her baby was dead. Dora was sure she’d killed it. It never cried, never made a sound. But it had happened so fast, she’d fainted, Agnes returned, Hoffmann snatched up the infant. What if it hadn’t died? It was a plucky little thing, had clung on in her womb, had bounced back from the pelting Agnes had meted out.

Dora’s waters had broken. Had she been due? Had she mistaken the dates? She hadn’t menstruated the whole time she was in the Hotel Maison Victor Hugo. It was the shock, Dora thought. It did that, closed the body down. They never returned, not even after she’d had the baby. Dora swallowed hard.

Unless. What if the baby had survived and Hoffmann had taken her child? The dates could add up. Hoffmann and List had talked about going to France, entering the programme, as they put it. That would make sense. Take the baby to France, to Lamorlaye. Brought up as a Lebensborn child. List had left about the same time. What had happened to those babies? Perhaps they were fostered out, adopted even. Could Hoffmann have adopted it? Abducted it, even?

They could have taken the baby to Germany. The perfect Nazi child. Father: Maximilian List. Occupation: SS officer. Mother: certificated Aryan.

That baby could be hers. Dora could be the mother. A pneumatic drill started up in the distance, grr-grr-grr, hammered in her head.

She returned to the car, sat inside, holding the steering wheel. She hadn’t thought about those days. It was a long time ago. The events fuzzed and blurred. She shut her eyes, as if that could conjure up her memories, piece them together, put them into an order, one after the other.

List had returned to Germany about that time.

She gave birth.

Hoffmann left.

Dora had been bred, like a cow, or mice. That’s what Agnes told her. She was gripping the wheel, knuckles white through the skin.

If this child was born in February, then Hoffmann could not be the mother. If this child was born in February, List might not be the father. Dora sat still. Two fire engines rushed by. How could she have been so fixated on Maximilian List that she had missed the signs? Who was this person who’d clung to him? She must have been pregnant before she ever met List, before she had been arrested. The baby wasn’t premature. It was full term.