'And there's a present for you on the table, Obergefreiter,' Irma said over her shoulder.

Ernst looked. It was a book, a paperback, printed on cheap, pulpy paper. He read the title. Pied Piper by Nevil Shute.

'It was in our last parcel from the family in London,' Irma said. 'Story of an old man who has to flee the German invasion of England. He saved some children on the way. You might like the detail. Good story, too. Just a little something for you-' Her hand flew to her mouth. 'Oh – I didn't check if it is on the verboten list.'

'I will enjoy it,' Ernst said quickly. 'Perhaps it will improve my English also.'

Relieved, she turned back to the gravy.

Ernst sat beside Fred as he carved. With Claudine's letter upstairs he felt bright, lively, eager for some conversation. 'So, Fred, how are you this evening? Where is the new wireless?'

Fred's farmer's hands were huge; the knife looked small in his fingers as he sliced through the steaming meat. 'I told you. Gave it to old Joe down the road, so he can bugger it to pick up the BBC.'

Ernst tut-tutted like a mother. 'You'll get it confiscated, you reckless fellow.'

'You'll have to find the bloody thing first, won't you?'

'Any news of Jack?'

Irma turned, ladling her gravy. 'Alfie and I went down to Hastings. They're talking about releasing more cadres. Great War veterans. Postmen. The sons of doctors.'

Fred grunted. 'The sons of bloody doctors. It's always who you know in this country, even under the Nazis. I was a POW in the last lot. I'd give up my liberty again if I could swap places with Jack, I'd do it in a second, I'll tell you that.'

'I'm sure you would,' Ernst said.

Fred stared at him. Then he stood back from the joint and looked at the knife in his hand. 'Sometimes I can't believe what I'm doing. I got my kneecap shot off at the Somme. Now here I am not thirty years later carving a bit of lamb for the benefit of the bloody Wehrmacht, while some black-hearted Nar-zee arse in Kent or France is working out whether my son, my son, is to be allowed to come home again.'

'He doesn't mean anything,' Irma said to Ernst, her eyes hollow. 'You know how he is.'

Ernst did not react to Fred's words. He was in authority over these people, even to the matter of life and death, within the military law. And yet he did not feel any such authority.

Viv came bustling in, followed by Alfie. 'Here I am!' She had changed into a more sober black dress, run up from blackout curtain. She wore a yellow star on her breast. She looked at them, crowded around the table. 'Have I missed anything?'

Alfie said, 'Can't we just bloody eat?'

'Language,' Irma murmured automatically.

Fred limped to a seat and sat down. 'God save the bloody King.' He reached for a corkscrew from a drawer, and began to open the wine.

Ernst said, 'I will finish the carving.' He stood and took Fred's place at the head of the table. Hot fat splashed his bare skin, and the smell of the meat rose up, a cosy, family smell. But his own family were very far away, he was reminded.

Alfie sneered at Viv. 'I bet you didn't wear that yellow star in front of the SS officer.'

'Well, that would have been very bad taste, wouldn't it? But besides, I know they say you can arrest a Jew for not wearing a star, but what are you supposed to do about a Gentile who is wearing one?'

'This is a foolish gesture,' Ernst said uneasily.

'There's a girl at school, Jane Mathie, who went up to London on a week's pass to see her grandmother who was dying, and she said they're all wearing them up there. Quite the fashion. It's funny how things turn out, isn't it, Ernst? Who would ever have thought I would end up wearing yellow? It just isn't my colour.'

'Oh, Viv,' said Irma tiredly.

Fred got the cork out of the wine bottle and took a slug, straight from the neck.

'Do you think I'm being provocative, Obergefreiter?' Viv came closer to Ernst. He flinched away, trying to keep smiling, but now she took a bit of hair at the nape of his neck and pulled it gently.

'Enough!' Fred lashed out from where he was sitting. His big fist caught Viv in the belly, and she went flying back.

Irma screamed, 'Fred!' She ran to her daughter, and Alfie pushed his chair back and hurried over. Viv was trying to sit up, gasping. She was a crumple of blackout cloth, her legs splayed.

Ernst, stunned, found himself still holding the carving knife in one hand, a serving fork in another. He turned to Fred. 'What have you done?'

'I won't have my daughter turn into a Jerrybag. I won't, do you hear?' He made to stand up.

'Sit still,' Ernst commanded him.

Fred subsided. He took another mouthful of the wine. 'Like being back in the stalag,' he said.

'Ow!' Irma, kneeling beside her daughter, doubled over, her hands around her belly. 'Oh, God!'

Alfie scrambled backwards. 'There's water on the floor. Urgh.'

Ernst put down the knife and hurried over. 'Let me see, Alfie, it's all right. Irma?' He held her shoulders, and tried to look into her face. 'The baby?'

She nodded jerkily. 'I think so.'

'Yuk!' Alfie said.

'The water is normal,' said Ernst, thinking fast. 'There is no telephone here. This is what I will do. I will go to your neighbour, Joe, who has a phone-'

'No. Not you.' Irma grabbed his arm in a claw-like hand; she held him hard enough to hurt. 'Stay here.'

Bewildered, he said, 'Very well. Then Fred must phone.' He turned to Fred, who sat staring at the wine. 'Fred, call an ambulance. Tell them about your wife. And see if he, Joe, can offer any help before they come.'

He turned back to Irma, not looking to see if Fred complied. But then he heard the chair scrape back, Fred's heavy, uneven step as he made for the door.

Viv was weeping openly now, seeming much younger than her fifteen years, but she didn't appear to be hurt save for a winding. Alfie put an arm around her.

Ernst asked Irma, 'What is it, Frau Miller? What are you afraid of?'

Irma was convulsed by another contraction, and gasped. But she leaned closer to Ernst so the children could not hear. 'My husband, Obergefreiter. I'm afraid of what he might do.'

'About the baby?'

'We've hardly talked about it. I don't know what he'll do – I'm frightened.'

Ernst thought he was beginning to understand. 'The baby is not his.'

'I wasn't unfaithful to him, Obergefreiter.'

'Your relationships are your business.'

'But that's the point. It wasn't a relationship at all. Not like that. It was during the invasion.'

And then he saw it. 'Oh. This was not, um, not your consent.'

She bowed her head, shamed. 'I've told nobody. Not even Fred. But he knows, deep down. I thought if I fought them off, the soldiers, they would take Viv – we had been hiding, you see-'

'What unit were they? Did you learn that, do you remember? Wehrmacht or SS? If you can tell me precisely when this was, I could probably identify them. The Wehrmacht is strict on these matters, Frau Miller.'

'Not the Germans. It was before the Germans even got here, before I'd seen a single wretched German. They were British. British soldiers, retreating. They came to the house and just took what they wanted. Food, drink… Fred knows, inside, I'm sure of it. But I don't know what he'll do about it, Obergefreiter, truly I don't. I'm frightened, ever so.' Her grip closed around his arm again. 'Stay. Please stay!'

V

In Hastings, because of the various royal birthday events, it was gone nine by the time George got home.

There was a pearl-white glow coming from the living room, and a murmur of German voices, the dull thump of martial music. He kicked off his boots, left his helmet on the occasional table by the door, hung up his jacket, and walked into the living room. Julia Fiveash sat on the sofa, her feet up on a pile of George's books. She wore her black uniform jacket, unbuttoned, but her long legs were bare, looking as if they were carved from marble in the television's cold light. She had a glass of whisky in one hand and a fag in the other, with a heaped ashtray on the arm of the sofa.