Petr could have said: I warned you, a temptation that he avoided, for which Laure was grateful. But he did dissuade her from contacting the British Consul close by in the Thunovská. ‘I know you’re angry, Laure, but it would be best, and kind of you, if you don’t stir up trouble.’

In the circumstances, the word ‘kind’ was odd, but she took it to mean that it would be easier for her, as well as the Kobes, if everything was kept quiet. He stood in the doorway of her bedroom. ‘That’s my advice,’ he said. ‘I’ve sorted things out with the powers that be.’

He had taken a step into the room. Instinctively, Laure brought the sheet up to her chin and he came no further. ‘Eva and I are so sorry and apologize for what has happened to you.’ He was genuinely upset. ‘We can deal with the children and you must spend the day in bed.’ He turned to leave the room. ‘One thing. This time I managed to protect you. The next time I won’t. Do you understand?’

‘Won’t be able to? Or, don’t wish to?’

‘I leave you to work that out.’

Laure stirred in Tomas’s embrace. ‘And where were you in the prison?’

‘Down the corridor. I heard your scream and me and the boys set up such a row, they had to do something. Kobes did the rest and they let us go with the warning that there would be no more concerts and they would be watching.’ He looked down at Laure. Her shock and fright had overpowered her and the tears rolled non-stop down her cheeks. ‘Tell me more.’

‘It’s difficult…’ Every time she opened her mouth, her brain froze.

‘It’s good to talk about it.’ He used his thumb to wipe away a tear. ‘Believe me. I know. It’s the way to survive.’ He was whispering to her, willing the trauma to subside. Or, at least, to become something she could live with.

She closed her eyes. ‘You told me once that to survive is our duty. Remember?’

Her nose was running.

‘Good girl. My loved Laure. Now, tell me and it will leave your chest.’

‘Get it off my chest, you mean.’

It was a small room, furnished with a table and two chairs facing each other.

There is no window in the shot. A black Bakelite phone, the squat old-fashioned type with a cumbersome dial and plaited cording occupies centre table. The cheap plastic chairs are embossed with cigarette burns, and the floor is of rough planking. There are no indications as to where the room might be.

‘He smelt. He hurt me… he really hurt me and I don’t know if I can let anyone touch me again.’