Dora lifted the blanket from Alfred’s feet, rolled it up against his body. His trousers were torn below the knee, gaped at the fly from where the buttons had long since gone. His shins were bare, the skin smeared with dust and grease. Geoffrey had cut away the fabric from the wound, wrapped it in a bandage, but blood was soaking through, wet and crimson. The gash was deep, several inches long.

She heard steps echoing on the wooden floor of the attic.

‘How did you do it?’ she spoke in German.

‘I fell,’ he said. ‘On the edge of a shovel.’

‘When?’ she said.

‘Yesterday.’

The injury was old, but still weeping. He must have broken the scab. She’d have to clean it as best she could. Alfred would have to stay here. She’d instruct Geoffrey on how to keep the wound dry and clean.

‘Where?’ she said. ‘Where were you?’

His voice was dry, his throat rasping air. ‘On the beach.’

Sand. Dora was almost relieved. Geoffrey would have to watch for signs of lockjaw, but there wasn’t too much swelling, and the sand would be clean, washed by the sea.

Geoffrey appeared with the water and a flannel, and a storm light which he held as Dora cleaned the wound.

‘Sachte, sachte!’ Gently, gently.

The man screamed as she delved into the depths of the cut. She could hear her father, How many layers does skin have, Doralein? Could see him, Look here. Probing. He’d done this, in his war, all the time. Deep wounds? Leave them. Let the air do the curing.

It would take time to heal. And then what? For what? He couldn’t be returned. He needed food, care. A place to hide. Here? For the duration of the war?

‘Has he had any food?’ Dora asked.

‘A little soup,’ Geoffrey said. ‘That’s all.’

‘Are you hungry?’ Dora said.

Alfred nodded.

‘Fetch him some more soup,’ she said to Geoffrey. ‘Little and often.’

Geoffrey had brought up a sheet and they lifted Alfred, one side, the other, laid the sheet taut and white on the bed, arranged the blanket around him, so the bad leg was exposed. She’d see if Geoffrey could make a cage to support the bedding. The attic was cold and dirty. He needed warmth, a bed, clean surroundings.

‘He should be in a hospital,’ Dora said, as she spooned the soup Geoffrey brought into his mouth, blowing on it to cool it down.

‘Danke,’ the man was saying between mouthfuls. ‘Danke.’

‘Why are you a prisoner?’ Dora said. He looked at her with watery eyes, their irises faded and purple, like an old man’s.

‘Kommunist.’

He was weeping.

The kitchen was warm. Geoffrey had found some fuel and fed the stove. Dora burned the soiled dressings, aware that Geoffrey was watching her, following her movements.