I was still gazing at the Maquisard’s face. Freedom fighters – that is how they have come to be known. The Resistance. Good men. Brave men. But this was no man. He was no older than me. But he had not eaten so well nor enjoyed the comforts of a warm bed or a hot bath. He had lived hard. There was dirt on his face beneath the dried blood. He was already filthy before they started hurting him.

What can I remember? I don’t know the words for it. Confusion, more than anything. Some fear, but not the way you would think. We didn’t know what was going to happen. Nobody did. It was just the noise of the half-track’s treads crunching over the stones – those boots brisk and neat as the men in uniform closed off the streets. Our questions were muted. We asked each other – not the intruders. We whispered in one another’s ears. Did anybody know? Had anybody done anything wrong? Had somebody told lies?

The officer who spoke was dark-haired. Round-faced. He didn’t close his mouth all the way when he wasn’t speaking, as though his jaw had been broken at some point and improperly set. Mother would have told me off for hanging my mouth open like that. Would have called me a panting dog.

He didn’t seem angry. Even looked like he admired the village. Glanced around admiringly, as if he was holidaying and found himself pleased with his choice of destination. He was shiny and clean. The men he led were not. They looked bloodied and exhausted and they looked at us with eyes dark as the treads of the tank.

‘For every one of my men you have killed, we will kill three Maquisards,’ he shouted, in the silence of the square. ‘You will tell me you are not Maquisards. You will tell me there are no Maquisards here. You will feign ignorance and spit on the ground at the mention of their barbarous deeds. And many of you will be telling the truth. But the truthful ones will pay the price for the lies of the others. We will offer no mercy. If we shoot a child, we have stopped them growing into an enemy. If we kill a woman, we have stopped them breeding a new generation of swine. Tell me, now, who are the Maquis among you. Speak up and you will have my thanks and forgiveness. Keep quiet and you will die. We have rope and bullets and my men have lost brothers. They long for blood. It will be yours if you do not speak.’

We did not speak. Not for minutes. Then Mayor Geroux stepped forward. We have no Maquis, he said. Let the women go. Let the men pay the price if blood was what they sought. Let the women and the old men leave. Let the children leave …