There was a sign fixed to the fence, neatly lettered. Ernst squinted to make it out:

'Shit,' said Unteroffizier Fischer. 'We're going to have to pass this back up the line. Even Guderian can't declare war on America on his own initiative. Churchill. That wily bastard must have something to do with this. Shit, shit.'

The American soldier grinned. In English he called, 'Can I help you guys?'

23 June 1941

The family were all at breakfast that Monday morning, Fred, Irma, Alfie, Viv, the four of them in the farmhouse kitchen working their way silently through toast and powdered egg, when Ernst walked in with his gift. He placed it on the table, an anonymous cardboard box stamped with swastikas.

'Good morning, Obergefreiter,' said Irma. She pushed her way out of her chair, leaning on the wooden table for support. 'The usual? A bit of toast?' In her forties, she was heavily pregnant, her eyes shadowed, her face drawn of blood. 'The tea might be stewed.'

Alfie's eyes were on the gift. He chewed on rubbery toast, his legs swinging so that his whole body jerked about. He was fourteen but he looked younger, Ernst thought, skinny, always hungry-looking. 'What's in the box, Ernst?'

'Let the poor man get his breakfast, Alfie.' Irma went to the range.

'I'll get the tea,' said Vivien, getting up brightly. She ran to the sink and rinsed out a tin mug. She was a year older than her brother. She wore a blouse and skirt for school today, with thick dark stockings and clumpy shoes. Her mother was a fair seamstress, but you could see the panels of parachute silk where she had let out the blouse as Viv had grown.

Viv came over to Ernst with the tin mug. The drink was fairly repulsive, made from repeatedly stewed leaves and with lumps floating on the surface from the powdered milk. She leaned close enough to Ernst for a few strands of her strawberry blonde hair to brush against his face.

'Thank you.'

She said, in German, 'It's my pleasure.'

Alfie laughed. 'You're a right tart, our Viv, you really are.'

'Oh, leave her alone,' Irma said tiredly, and she set a plate with a bit of toast and a heap of runny powdered egg before Ernst. 'Is that enough, Obergefreiter?'

'Yes, thank you, Mrs Miller.' He made a show of cutting off some toast and tucking it into his mouth. He turned to Viv. 'But, you know, you need not have prepared for school. There will be no school today.'

Fred glared. 'How so?'

'A holiday has been declared. It is the King's birthday!' Ernst smiled.

Fred folded his arms. 'Not my bloody king. I'm a subject of King George, not of his Nazi-loving ninny of a brother who should have stayed abdicated.' He pronounced 'Nazi' the way Churchill always had, 'Nar-zee'. The father of the family was a squat man, his farmer's arms muscular, but his lower body was weaker, his wounded right leg withered, so that he had a rather unbalanced look. His greying hair was slicked back with Brylcreem, making his face angular, hawk-like. He wore his work coat, an old suit jacket from which the pockets had long been removed, leaving ghostly outlines of stitches.

Irma sighed. 'Oh, come on, Fred, have a bit of spirit. Edward's not so bad. He's got his job to do like everybody else. Binding the wounds, as they say. Although I hadn't heard about the holiday, Obergefreiter.'

'Well, we wouldn't,' Alfie said. 'Dad won't buy a newspaper. "Hoare and his bloody collaborators' rag.'

'Language, Alfie,' said Irma sharply. 'Mind you, we argue about that, Herr Obergefreiter. I mean, I can't see what harm a bit of news does. And I do so miss my stars.'

'Well, you are hearing about it now,' Ernst said, keeping up his smile. 'A day off for the whole of the protectorate, except for essential services.'

'I'll go and tell my cows I'm having a day off bloody milking them, shall I?' Fred said.

Irma looked concerned. 'I'd been hoping to get into Hastings today to see if there's any news about Jack and the prisoner release programme.'

'There will be emergency cover at the town hall,' Ernst assured her. He worked there himself, one of a number of soldiers with the necessary skills who had been seconded to supplement the civil servants brought across from Germany to run the protectorate. 'I'm sure that if there is any news you will receive it.'

'Don't know how you'll get down there, mind,' Fred said. 'Buses on holiday too, are they, Corporal?'

'Well, somebody's got to go,' Irma said. 'Viv, maybe you could come with me.'

Viv's anger flared up again. 'Why me? What kind of a holiday is that?'

'I'll come, Mum,' Alfie said.

'You're a good boy,' Irma said.

Fred grunted. 'Good at getting out of his chores around the farm, little bleeder.'

Ernst tapped his forefinger on his cardboard box. 'You still don't know what it is, this present I have brought for you.'

'Let me open it,' Alfie said.

But Viv was too quick. 'I don't think so.' She grabbed the box. She wore her nails long for a farmer's daughter, and she used one forefinger nail to slice through the thick packing tape. Inside was a brick of Bakelite, with a speaker grill and a heavy tuning dial. Viv pulled it out eagerly, scattering bits of wrapping paper on the table.

'Cor,' Alfie said. 'A wireless! Can we plug it in, Dad?'

'Actually it runs off batteries,' Ernst said. 'They must be recharged, periodically.'

'"Periodically.' Viv giggled. 'You do make me laugh, the way you talk.'

Fred was dismissive. 'It isn't as good as my old wireless set that they took away with my fowling piece. That's the trouble with you Nazis. Whatever you take away you always give something worse back.'

'Oh, don't be so sour, Fred.' Irma inspected the wireless and quickly found the 'on' switch. Music wafted from the wireless, a bit tinny.

Viv squealed, 'Music!' She got up and started dancing around the room, arms wrapped around her body, making big sweeping steps.

'I know that,' Irma said. 'What was it called, Fred? It was big just before the Germans came.'

Fred said reluctantly, '"The World is Waiting for the Sunrise.'

Irma said, 'Gosh, we haven't heard music for ever so long, not proper music, apart from Doreen on the piano in the church hall, the soldiers' choir singing carols at Christmas.' She began to sing softly: 'Stille nacht, heilige nacht…'

Alfie was trying to turn the tuning knob. 'It won't turn. It's stuck.' He looked at Ernst. 'Is it broken?'

'No, no.' Ernst felt faintly embarrassed. 'It's meant to be that way; the tuning is fixed.'

The music ended, and a male voice with the stilted plumminess of the British upper classes intoned, 'This is the Free Albion Broadcasting Service, coming to you twelve hours per day from the Ministry of Information in Canterbury. And now, at eight thirty a.m. precisely, the news…'

'Free bloody Albion,' Fred said, and he laughed. 'I bet old Joe could bugger it so it picks up the BBC.'

'Language,' Irma said automatically.

'That would be forbidden,' Ernst said. 'Regretfully.'

'You won't, you know,' Viv said to her father. 'I've heard of this, the Promi wireless. One of the girls at school has it at home.'