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columns of foot soldiers passing in front of his gate and the tanks and canons barrelling after them.
    By then, Alexander knew that the SS were tearing through Europe, burning down synagogues and looting shops. They’d emptied whole cities of Jews, sending them away by train or forcing them into ghettos. His mother had begged him to escape before the Hungarian police came to take him, but he’d refused. With his father gone he was the man of the house. His mother and Lili needed him. He wouldn’t desert them – or the horses.
    The commander’s horse had imperious grey eyes like its master. It was a purebred and Alexander would have bet the commander had chosen him for his fine breeding, refined head and arched neck. He would have checked that the horse’s feet were sound and his bones strong. He would have been pleased by the stallion’s perfect white coat.
    The Arabian stamped its feet and shook its mane, demanding attention.
    “Take Serafin inside and strip his tack,” the commander ordered the boy who had taken the reins. He turned to face the inmates. “I want all the horses rubbed down, fed and watered. Now get moving.” He cracked his whip against the side of his boot. The snapping sound made Alexander jump. He’d handled lots of riding crops, but none as long or mean as the commander’s. The whip had a wooden handle and a single thick black leather strap, and Alexander wondered whether the commander used it to tame animals or men.
    The stablehands collected their horses from the paddock and followed the commander into the stable, leaving Alexander, Isidor and the other new stablehand standing outside.
    “
Mach Schnell!
” the kapo yelled, pointing at the stable. “Don’t keep the commander waiting.”
    Alexander hurried into the barn.
    “You!” The commander pointed to the man on Alexander’s right. “Take that horse. The black filly.” He pointed to a stall. “And you.” He brought his whip down next to Isidor’s feet, sending dust flurrying around the boy’s ankles. “You get the last horse, the Hungarian thoroughbred over there.”
    “How old are you?” The commander took a step towards Alexander.
    “Sixteen,” Alexander said. It was a lie, but a lie that would keep him alive and besides, he felt older than fourteen. Much older. The war – and this place – had aged him.
    “Follow me.” The commander led Alexander to the stall next to Isidor’s. “You claim you have experience with horses, tell me about this one.” The commander slid the bolt from the stall door and swung it open to reveal a miniature pony. It looked just like Lili’s pony, Strudel, a Hucul with a reddish brown coat.
    “It’s a pony,” Alexander began, and the commander folded his arms against his chest and waited. “A Hucul. They’re hardy animals, used to working in rugged terrain, but they’re gentle so they’re good with children.” He wondered if the animal had a name. He scratched the pony behind her ears and smoothed its nose. He had only one chance to make a good impression.
    “I’m not interested in the breed. Tell me about this particular pony.” The commander stepped back and invited Alexander to examine the animal.
    “Well …” Alexander began, not sure what the commander wanted to hear. “She’s a chestnut so she has black skin under her coppery coat.” The commander nodded. “She’s about thirteen-hands high and her feet look sound. Strong hooves,” Alexander continued, lifting each of the pony’s legs, before opening her mouth to examine her teeth. “I’d guess she’s three years old.” The commander remained silent. “Her ribs are well sprung.” Alexander ran his hand over the pony’s coat and tried to still his shaking hands. Horses sensed if you were tense and it made them anxious.
    “Let’s see if you know what to do with her.” The commander’s smile was ugly. He pointed to a row of shelves on the back wall and Alexander hurried from the stall to collect a