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through the gate and breathed in, saw the acres of green and the glossy manes. So many horses.
    The inmates filed into the yard and the horses stopped, their ears pricked. A dozen of them walked to the paddock fence and, as Alexander walked past, a soft-eyed chestnut put her face forwards. Alexander reached out to stroke her neck. Horses didn’t care if you were a Jew or a German. He ran his hands over her soft skin. As long as you fed them. As long as you’re fair.

Chapter 4
    “
Vorrücken!
” the kapo yelled, brandishing his stick. Alexander pulled his hand from the mare and hurried through the yard. Squinting into the sun, he saw that the paddock was the size of three soccer fields, and beyond it was more green – acres of pasture on which the horses could graze.
    Potatoes! Alexander’s heart drummed against his chest. Just beyond the fenced pasture was a rectangle of tilled ground streaked with flowering shrubs in neat rows: a potato field. Alexander’s mouth watered. Mashed potatoes. His stomach twisted. Fried potatoes, potatoes drenched in sour cream …
    “
Halt! Stillen!
” the kapo yelled and the men stopped next to a small fenced enclosure. Beside the ring was a stable, above the entrance a painted sign which read:
On the back of a horse is paradise on earth
. Alexander stared up at the building. It was nothing like the stable his father had built for their five horses, their goat and his dog, Spitz, but the sight of its slanted tin roof and wide stable doors catapulted Alexander back home to the farm at six Gregor Lane and the garden tucked behind the stable, sewn with corn, potato and beans. Who are you kidding? he thought. The farm was nothing like that by the time you left. The Germans had taken most of the horses, trampled the vegetable patch and dismantled the tractor for spare parts.
    This stable was much larger, big enough to hold thirty horses.
    “
Achtung!
” the kapo yelled and the men stood to attention. A dozen guards stood facing the men, their hands on their guns. The kapo stiffened and looked to the gate. Alexander followed his gaze and, through a cloud of dust, saw first a galloping horse – its white coat gleaming in the sun, its mane slapping its neck – and then its rider. They pounded towards the inmates in huge strides that tore the grass under the horse’s thundering hooves, and came to a stop centimetres from where the men stood. To ride again – Alexander’s breath caught in his throat – to feel the reins biting into your hands and that powerful engine beneath you. Alexander wanted to run his hands over the stallion’s strong flanks. It was an Arabian, deep chested and strong in the quarters, about four years old and fifteen hands high.
    “The Commander of the Horse Platoon!” the kapo announced, straightening his shoulders. “Commander Ziegler.” Alexander looked up at the officer sitting elegantly on his horse, the creases in his uniform razor sharp, his jodhpurs tucked into black riding boots. He had a gun at his side and a whip in his hand. His iron legs gripped the horse, but he didn’t reach down to pat the animal. He slid off the horse and dropped the reins. The kapo shoved one of the new boys to pick the straps up off the ground.
    Alexander looked up into the commander’s face. His eyes were the colour of grey slate, his nose small and straight, his jaw hard. Alexander had watched officers like the commander ride their steeds past his farm. When he was eight, the Hungarian military marched past on their way to the city, to claim it from the Czechs. He remembered his sister’s fascination with the Hungarian uniforms, how she’d admired the curved cockerel feathers pinned to the officers’ tall, pointed hats. Alexander hadn’t cared that the Hungarians were taking Košice; he’d been mesmerised by the cavalry as they galloped by. Six years later, when the German army occupied the country, Alexander barely registered their horses. All he saw were the