‘Every night she goes to the Fourrier farm. Every night. You see her cross the town, scuttling like a thief.’

‘She has two new coats,’ Madame Louvier said. ‘The other one is green. A brand new green wool coat. From Paris.’

‘And shoes. Of kid leather. Of course she dare not wear them out in the day. She knows she would get lynched.’

‘She won’t, that one. Not with the Germans looking out for her.’

‘Still, when they leave, it’ll be another story, eh?’

‘I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes, kid leather or not.’

‘I do hate to see her strutting about, rubbing her good fortune in everybody’s faces. Who does she think she is?’

Monsieur Armand watched the young woman crossing the square. Suddenly he smiled. ‘I wouldn’t worry, ladies. Not everything goes her way.’

We looked at him.

‘Can you keep a secret?’

I don’t know why he bothered asking. Those two old women could barely stay silent for ten seconds at a time.

‘What?’

‘Let’s just say some of us make sure Miss Fancy Pants gets special treatment she wasn’t expecting.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Her loaves live under the counter by themselves. They contain some special ingredients. Ingredients that I promise you go into none of my other loaves.’

The old women’s eyes widened. I dared not ask what the baker meant, but the glint in his eye suggested several possibilities, none of which I wanted to dwell upon.

‘Non!’

‘Monsieur Armand!’ They were scandalized, but they began to cackle.

I felt sick then. I didn’t like Liliane Béthune, or what she was doing, but this revolted me. ‘I’ve – I’ve got to go. Hélène needs … ’ I reached for my bread. Their laughter still ringing in my ears, I ran for the relative safety of the hotel.

The food came the following Friday. First the eggs, two dozen, delivered by a young German corporal, who brought them in covered with a white sheet, as if he were delivering contraband. Then bread, white and fresh, in three baskets. I had gone off bread a little since that day in the boulangerie, but to hold fresh loaves, crusty and warm, left me almost drunk with desire. I had to send Aurélien upstairs, I was so afraid he would be unable to resist the temptation to break off a mouthful.

Next, six hens, their feathers still on, and a crate containing cabbage, onions, carrots and wild garlic. After this came jars of preserved tomatoes, rice and apples. Milk, coffee, three fat pats of butter, flour, sugar. Bottles and bottles of wine from the south. Hélène and I accepted each delivery in silence. The Germans handed us forms, upon which each amount had been carefully noted. There would be no easy stealing: a form requested that we note the exact amounts used for each recipe. They also asked that we place any scraps in a pail for collection to feed livestock. When I saw that I wanted to spit.

‘We are doing this for tonight?’ I asked the last corporal.

He shrugged. I pointed at the clock. ‘Today?’ I gestured at the food. ‘Kuchen?’

‘Ja,’ he said, nodding enthusiastically. ‘Sie kommen. Acht Uhr.’

‘Eight o’clock,’ Hélène said, from behind me. ‘They want to eat at eight o’clock.’

Our own supper had been a slice of black bread, spread thinly with jam and accompanied by some boiled beetroot. To have to roast chickens, to fill our kitchen with the scents of garlic and tomato, with apple tart, felt like a form of torture. I was afraid, that first evening, even to lick my fingers, although the sight of them, dripping with tomato juice or sticky with apple, was sorely tempting. There were several times, as I rolled pastry, or peeled apples, that I almost fainted with longing. We had to shoo Mimi, Aurélien and little Jean upstairs, from where we heard occasional howls of protest.

I did not want to cook the Germans a fine meal. But I was too afraid not to. At some point, I told myself, as I pulled the roasting chickens from the oven, basting them with sizzling juice, perhaps I might enjoy the sight of this food. Perhaps I might relish the chance to see it again, to smell it. But that night I could not. By the time the doorbell rang, notifying us of the officers’ arrival, my stomach clawed and my skin sweated with hunger. I hated the Germans with an intensity I have never felt before or since.

‘Madame.’ The Kommandant was the first to enter. He removed his rain-spattered cap and motioned to his officers to do the same.

I stood, wiping my hands on my apron, unsure how to react. ‘Herr Kommandant.’ My face was expressionless.

The room was warm: the Germans had sent three baskets of logs so that we might make up a fire. The men were divesting themselves of scarves and hats, sniffing the air, already grinning with anticipation. The scent of the chicken, roasted in a garlic and tomato sauce, had thoroughly infused the air. ‘I think we will eat immediately,’ he said, glancing towards the kitchen.

‘As you wish,’ I said. ‘I will fetch the wine.’

Aurélien had opened several bottles in the kitchen. He came out scowling now, two in his hands. The torture this evening had inflicted on us had upset him in particular. I was afraid, given the recent beating, his youth and impulsive nature, that he would get himself into trouble. I swept the bottles from his hands. ‘Go and tell Hélène she must serve the dinner.’

‘But –’