It had been two years since I had seen so many people in one place. The station, which comprised two platforms, was a teeming mass, mostly soldiers and prisoners as far as I could see. Their armbands and striped, grubby clothing marked out the prisoners. They kept their heads down. I found myself scanning their faces, as I was thrust through them, looking for Édouard, but I was pushed too quickly and they became a blur.

‘Hier! Hier!’ A door slid sideways and I was shoved into a freight carriage, its boarded sides revealing a shadowy mass of bodies inside. I fought to keep hold of my bag and heard the door slam behind me as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Inside there were two narrow wooden benches along each side, nearly every inch covered with bodies. More occupied the floor. At the edges some lay, their heads resting on small bundles of what might have been clothing. Everything was so filthy it was hard to tell. The air was thick with the foul smells of those who had not been able to wash, or worse, for some time.

‘Français?’ I said, into the silence. Several faces looked blankly at me. I tried again.

‘Ici,’ said a voice near the back. I began to make my way carefully down the length of the carriage, trying not to disturb those who were sleeping. I heard a voice that might have been Russian. I trod on someone’s hair, and was cursed. Finally I reached the rear of the carriage. A shaven-headed man was looking at me. His face was scarred, as if with some recent pox, and his cheekbones jutted from his face like those of a skull.

‘Français?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘What is this? Where are we going?’

‘Where are we going?’ He regarded me with astonishment, and then, when he grasped that my question was serious, laughed mirthlessly.

‘Tours, Amiens, Lille. How would I know? They keep us on some endless cross-country chase so that none of us knows where we are.’

I was about to speak again when I saw the shape on the floor. A black coat so familiar that at first I dared not look closer. I stepped forward, past the man, and knelt down. ‘Liliane?’ I could see her face, still bruised, under what remained of her hair. She opened one eye, as if she did not trust her ears. ‘Liliane! It’s Sophie.’

She gazed at me. ‘Sophie,’ she whispered. Then she lifted a hand and touched mine. ‘Édith?’ Even in her frail state I could hear the fear in her voice.

‘She is with Hélène. She is safe.’

The eye closed.

‘Are you sick?’ It was then I saw the blood, dried, around her skirt. Her deathly pallor.

‘Has she been like this for long?’

The Frenchman shrugged, as if he had seen too many bodies like Liliane’s to feel anything as distinct as compassion now. ‘She was here some hours ago when we came aboard.’

Her lips were chapped, her eyes sunken. ‘Does anyone have water?’ I called. A few faces turned to me.

The Frenchman said pityingly, ‘You think this is a buffet car?’

I tried again, my voice lifting. ‘Does anyone have a sip of water?’ I could see faces turning to each other.

‘This woman risked her life to bring information to our town. If anyone has water, please, just a few drops.’ A murmur went through the carriage. ‘Please! For the love of God!’ And then, astonishingly, minutes later, an enamel bowl was passed along. It had a half-inch of what might have been rainwater in the bottom. I called out my thanks and lifted Liliane’s head gently, tipping the precious drops into her mouth.

The Frenchman seemed briefly animated. ‘We should hold cups, bowls, anything out of the carriage if possible, while it rains. We do not know when we will next receive food or water.’

Liliane swallowed painfully. I positioned myself on the floor so that she could rest against me. With a squeal and the harsh grinding of metal on rails, the train moved off into the countryside.

I could not tell you how long we stayed on that train. It moved slowly, stopping frequently and without obvious reason. I stared out through the gap in the splintered boards, watching the endless movement of troops, prisoners and civilians through my battered country, holding the dozing Liliane in my arms. The rain grew heavier, and there were murmurs of satisfaction as the occupants passed round water they had gleaned. I was cold, but glad of the rain and the low temperature: I could not imagine how hellish this carriage might become in the heat when the odours would worsen.

As the hours stretched, the Frenchman and I talked. I asked about the number-plate on his cap, the red stripe on his jacket, and he told me he had come from the ZAB – the Zivilarbeiter Battalione, prisoners who were used for the very worst of jobs, shipped to the front, exposed to Allied fire. He told me of the trains he saw each week, packed with boys, women and young girls, criss-crossing the country to the Somme, to Escaut and Ardennes, to work as slave labour for the Germans. Tonight, he said, we would lodge in ruined barracks, factories or schools in evacuated villages. He did not know whether we would be taken to a prison camp or a work battalion.

‘They keep us weak through lack of food, so that we will not try to escape. Most are now grateful merely to stay alive.’ He asked if I had food in my bag and was disappointed when I had to say no. I gave him a handkerchief that Hélène had packed, feeling obliged to give him something. He looked at its laundered cotton freshness as if he were holding spun silk. Then he handed it back. ‘Keep it,’ he said, and his face closed. ‘Use it for your friend. What did she do?’