With a sigh, Mama reached up for her case. I helped her get it down before grabbing mine and following her to the door. The guards were still checking documents for the other passengers. Each one took just a few seconds and documents were returned with smiles and nods.

‘Where do we go?’ Mama asked.

‘Last carriage,’ one of the guards muttered. He didn’t even turn around.

‘Hurry,’ said the other one. ‘Train leaves in two minutes. And we don’t wait for Jews.’

We scurried off the train and quickly made our way down the platform.

The last carriage had a sign on it. Dogs, Jews and Gypsies.

Mama looked at me. Her cheeks were flushed with shame.

Just then a whistle blew.

‘Mama, please, let’s get inside. At least we’re still on the train,’ I said.

She pulled a door open and we glanced inside.

A man and woman were huddled together in a corner on the floor. The woman was wearing a long purple skirt and a loose white shirt with a yellow scarf wrapped around her head. She was holding a small bundle in her arms. A baby.

The man wore brown trousers and a white shirt with a waistcoat. His face was dark with stubble and he lifted his black beret and nodded as we opened the door. I clambered aboard. The man was on his feet and beside me in seconds.

‘Let me help,’ he said, reaching out to take Mama’s bags and help her aboard.

A second later, the door slammed behind us and we were in total darkness.

‘Here, follow me,’ the man said and we felt our way along the walls to sit beside him and his wife.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see that along one side of the carriage were rows of crates. Most were empty. The one nearest to us had a Labrador inside it who whined like a crying child. There were no seats anywhere.

‘You are Jewish?’ the woman asked as she spread her blanket for Mama to sit beside her on the floor.

Mama’s face tightened, readying herself for the attack that usually followed us being identified as Jews. ‘Why?’ she asked.

The woman put a hand on Mama’s arm. ‘We are your friends,’ she said softly. ‘We are Roma. The ones the Nazis call “Gypsies”.’ She gestured around us at the cages and the bare, cold carriage. ‘We are told our place, just like you. I am Kizzy, and this is my husband, Mairik.’

Mama talked quietly with Kizzy and Mairik as the train chugged along. They were heading to Holland, like us. They were planning to join friends in the Roma community who had managed to sponsor them for visas.