‘I have heard the way he talks to you.’

I frowned at him, and he raised his eyes to the ceiling. Of course: his hours spent peering through the floorboards of Room Three. Aurélien must have heard and seen everything.

‘You can’t deny he likes you. He says “tu”, not “vous” when he talks to you, and you let him.’

‘He is a German Kommandant, Aurélien. I don’t have much say in how he chooses to address me.’

‘They are all talking about you, Sophie. I sit upstairs and I hear the names they call you and I don’t know what to believe.’ His eyes burned with anger and confusion.

I walked over to him and grasped his shoulders. ‘Then believe this. I have done nothing, nothing, to shame myself or my husband. Every day I seek new ways to keep our family well, to keep our neighbours and friends in food, comfort and hope. I have no feelings for the Kommandant. I try to remember that he is a human being, just as we are. But if you think, Aurélien, that I would ever betray my husband, you are a fool. I love Édouard with every part of me. Every day he is gone I feel his absence as if it were an actual pain. At night I lie awake fearing what might befall him. And now I do not ever want to hear you speak like this again. Do you hear me?’

He shook off my hand.

‘Do you hear me?’

He nodded sullenly.

‘Oh,’ I added. Perhaps I should not have said it, but my blood was up. ‘And do not be too swift to condemn Liliane Béthune. You may find you owe her more than you think.’

My brother glared at me, then stalked out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. I stared at the pastry for several minutes before I remembered I was meant to be making a pie.

Later that morning I took a walk across the square. Normally Hélène fetched the bread – Kriegsbrot – but I needed to clear my head, and the atmosphere in the bar had become oppressive. The air was so cold that January that it hurt my lungs, sheathing the bare twigs of the trees in an icy film, and I pulled my bonnet low over my head, my scarf up around my mouth. There were few people on the streets, but even then only one person, old Madame Bonnard, nodded to me. I told myself this was simply because, under so many layers, it was hard to tell who I was.

I walked to rue des Bastides, which had been renamed Schieler Platz (we refused to refer to it as such). The door of the boulangerie was closed and I pushed at it. Inside Madame Louvier and Madame Durant were in animated conversation with Monsieur Armand. They stopped the moment the door closed behind me.

‘Good morning,’ I said, adjusting my pannier under my arm.

The two women, muffled under layers of wool, nodded vaguely in my direction. Monsieur Armand simply stood, his hands on the counter in front of him.

I waited, then turned to the old women. ‘Are you well, Madame Louvier? We have not seen you at Le Coq Rouge for several weeks now. I was afraid you had been taken ill.’ My voice seemed unnaturally loud and high in the little shop.

‘No,’ the old woman said. ‘I prefer to stay at home just now.’ She didn’t meet my eye as she spoke.

‘Did you get the potato I left for you last week?’

‘I did.’ Her gaze slid sideways at Monsieur Armand. ‘I gave it to Madame Grenouille. She is … less particular about the provenance of her food.’

I stood quite still. So this was how it was. The unfairness of it tasted like bitter ashes in my mouth. ‘Then I hope she enjoyed it. Monsieur Armand, I would like some bread, please. My loaf and Hélène’s, if you would be so kind.’ Oh, how I wished for one of his jokes, then. Some bawdy snippet or eye-rolling pun. But the baker just looked at me, his gaze steady and unfriendly. He didn’t walk into the back room, as I’d expected. In fact, he didn’t move. Just as I was about to repeat my request he reached under the counter and placed two loaves of black bread on its surface.

I stared at them.

The temperature in the little boulangerie seemed to drop, but I felt the eyes of the three other people like a burn. The loaves sat on the counter, squat and dark.

I lifted my eyes and swallowed. ‘Actually, I have made a mistake. We are not in need of bread today,’ I said quietly, and placed my purse back in my basket.

‘I don’t suppose you’re in need of much at the moment,’ Madame Durant muttered.

I turned and we stared at each other, the old woman and I. Then, my head high, I left the shop. The shame of it! The injustice! I saw the mocking looks of those two old ladies and realized I had been a fool. How could it have taken me so long to see what was going on under my nose? I strode back towards the hotel, my cheeks flushed, my mind racing. The ringing in my ears was so loud that I didn’t hear the voice at first.

‘Halt!’

I stopped, and glanced around me.

‘Halt!’

A German officer was marching towards me, his hand raised. I waited just under the ruined statue of Monsieur Leclerc, my cheeks still flushed. He walked right up to me. ‘You ignored me!’

‘I apologize, Officer. I did not hear you.’

‘It is an offence to ignore a German officer.’

‘As I said, I did not hear you. My apologies.’

I unwound my scarf a little from my face. And then I saw who it was: the young officer who had drunkenly grabbed at Hélène in the bar, and whose head had been smashed against the wall for his pains. I saw the little scar on his temple, and I also saw he had recognized me too.