The Feldpolizist’s grip on her chin tightened and she cried out. He pressed harder. He could break her jaw. One twist, a struggle, the hinge would snap, like a wishbone. She saw, over his shoulder, that the search party had flushed out the deserter, had tied his arms behind his back and were shoving and dragging him towards the waiting jeeps. Dora was choking, eyes and nose watering.

‘Please.’ Her voice was thin, the words unclear. ‘Let go.’

The party came towards her.

‘What have we here?’ It was a sergeant. He nodded to the Feldpolizist, who released his grip. Dora shuddered, stepped back, her hand soothing the hinges of her jaw.

‘Your girlfriend?’ The sergeant jerked the prisoner forward and back. Dora saw him wince, his arms pulled so far behind him she thought his shoulder could be dislocated.

He looked at Dora, shook his head. ‘Nein.’

The sergeant shoved him so he stumbled. ‘In the jeep.’ Turned to Dora. ‘You should choose your boyfriends more carefully.’

‘I’ve never seen him,’ Dora said. ‘Look,’ she pointed to the flowers in her hat. ‘I was picking flowers. Bluebells.’

‘Papers,’ the sergeant snapped. Papiere!

‘In my basket.’ Dora pointed to her bicycle. The sergeant pulled his revolver, aimed at Dora, watched as she walked to her bicycle and took the card from her bag. She sensed his jumpiness. One false move, turn too fast, rummage too deep, bam. She passed him the paper, studied his face, what can he see?

Holder… Simon, Dora. Residing at… 14 Gloucester Place. Born on the…17th May 1915

At…

Dora held her breath, waited, ready.

‘Stockholm?’ the sergeant said. ‘Sweden?’

Dora nodded.

The sergeant peered at her. ‘You prove it?’

She shrugged, rolled her hands. ‘My papers are in London.’ Be polite, courteous and obedient at all times. If we do not provoke them, they will not provoke us. ‘I didn’t think I would need them.’

‘London?’ the sergeant said. ‘Why London?’ He was a young man, perhaps nineteen years old, blond hair and flushed cheeks, the scratch of manhood just visible on his face.

‘I had moved there.’

‘We need your papers.’

‘I can’t get them,’ Dora said. ‘You’ve cut us off from England.’

His face was blank, hard as a pavement. ‘But not from Sweden, Fräulein. There will be records there.’

Dora swallowed. ‘Of course,’ she said. Of course they would demand that. Lügen haben kurze Beine. Lies have short legs, her father would have said.

He was looking at her, the veins on his forehead pulsing, as if memorising every tuck and blemish in her face, every wave and ripple of her hair.

‘I know you now,’ he said, placing the revolver back in its holster. ‘I will look out for you.’ Walked away, called over his shoulder. ‘I never forget a face.’

She pulled out her bicycle, wobbled away. She’d tell Geoffrey she’d been stopped. Nothing more.

Chapter Six: Joe

CHAPTER SIX

JOE