‘Regardless?’ He was looking over her shoulder as if someone was expected. She saw desperation, pleading.

‘What’s happened?’ Panic began to scratch and claw at her. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Come,’ he said. ‘Give me your bag.’ He took it from her before she could answer, went upstairs and stopped by the door that led to the attic. ‘Follow me.’

They climbed the narrow stairs to the garret. The room had a small window at one end and three dormer windows, but even so it was dark and dingy. It was barely high enough for them to walk upright, and the eaves were full of old furniture. Dora saw an iron bedpost, picture frames stacked against the wall, a table, a chair with its stuffing hanging out. Things that were too precious to throw away, too old to be of use. The dust made her cough.

‘Watch your step,’ he said, pointing to a broken floorboard through which the joists were visible.

She followed Geoffrey across the room, to a carved wooden screen. Behind it, an old mattress had been lain on the floor and on it an untidy pile of blankets. Breathing.

‘Geoffrey.’ She was unsure what else to say.

‘Can you help him?’

‘Who is he?’ She crouched on the floor, peeled back the blanket, saw a skull with tufts of hair and skin drawn tight across the bone, mouth open, breath sweet and fruity. The veins on his temple stood out, throbbing blue.

‘Bitte,’ the man said. ‘Bitte. Helfen Sie mir.’

Geoffrey was crouching on the floor beside her.

This was no deserter from the Wehrmacht. He was one of the labourers who were building ramparts, hollowing tunnels, whom she’d seen on the road in dusty, weary gangs. This man was too weak to work, too ill. Dora leaned close to him.

‘Do you speak English?’ He looked at her with vacant eyes. Dora didn’t think, just said it. ‘Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’

‘Ja,’ the man said. ‘Ich bin Deutscher.’ He coughed, a thin rasp of pain. ‘Ich bin ein Gefangener. Prisoner.’

He stopped, his face twisted with pain. It hurt to talk, but Dora could see he wanted to.

‘Wir sind Sklaven,’ he went on. ‘Slaves. Nicht genug zu essen. Hungernd.’ He began to cry, sobs rattling his bones like mallets on a xylophone, high and low.

‘Wie heissen Sie?’ Dora said.

‘Alfred,’ the man said.

‘Mein Vater heisst Alfred,’ she said. ‘Es ist ein guter Name.’ Without looking away from him, she said to Geoffrey, ‘Bring me some water. Towels. Sheets. I need to wash him.’

‘He’s wounded,’ Geoffrey said.

‘Where?’ She could feel his eyes on her, curious.

‘His thigh.’