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her face, which was probably still smeared with soot. She couldn’t say a word, just stood gazing at him while her
heart threatened to burst out of her chest. If only he’d put down that gun in his hand.
    ‘It is you, Alix, isn’t it?’
    She forced her head to move in an approximation of a nod.
    ‘Hang on.’ He reached his spare hand into a pocket and pulled out a torch, which he shone onto her face. She tried not to flinch. ‘You still have those extraordinary-coloured
eyes. My God. I dared not hope . . .’ He broke off. ‘Let’s get inside to the kitchen before we both freeze. I’ve only just got here myself, I came on ahead.’
    He’d taken a risk. For all he knew, the house could have been booby-trapped by the SS. Or have concealed a couple of Heimwehr soldiers threatened with hanging if they didn’t defend
every inch of German soil. Alix still couldn’t utter a word. Her legs still wanted to take her out of this room and into the snow. He had a gun . . . This could be a bluff, couldn’t it?
The Russians were skilled at intelligence. Perhaps they’d sent someone here pretending to be Gregor to fool her into doing or saying something incriminatory. She eyed him again. That long
narrow nose and the questioning eyes certainly looked like Gregor’s. But that uniform, that feared, dreaded, abhorred uniform . . . It seemed impossible that someone like Gregor would ever
wear a uniform like that. But then again, he’d been driven out of the country. Forced into exile. If this young man was Gregor he must surely hate all Germans. He must surely wish for
revenge.
    She was a von Matke. She would try to be brave. Perhaps this person-who-might-be-Gregor would shoot her quickly and have done with it. Alix squared her shoulders and kicked off her remaining
boot. She nodded at the door, indicating the way to the kitchen. He walked behind her. She tried not to think about the gun.
    Inside the kitchen she lit the lamps on the dresser and the candles on the table, then turned to the stove. That was always the first consideration in this house in winter – keeping the
stove alight. It still burned. Noting how her own mind attempted to distract her from the soldier’s presence, she riddled the stove and opened the valves for a few seconds to allow more
oxygen to fuel the fire. ‘This will need topping up shortly.’ How squeaky her voice sounded, like a schoolgirl’s or one of those silly creatures in the League of German
Maidens.
    He drew back, removing his coat and cap, perhaps trying to look less threatening. ‘Why don’t we sit.’ He frowned. ‘Is there anything to eat here?’
    Naturally. It was all his now, all theirs. Their house, their food. The Russians were entitled to everything.
    ‘You look so cold,’ he said. ‘Have you soup? Bread? Let’s see if we can warm ourselves up.’ She was watching him all the time. He limped slightly, but his movements
were still those of the old Gregor: quick and neat. Like an otter’s, her mother had once said, with approval, an otter hunting fish. But this grown-up Gregor couldn’t be the same as the
old Gregor she remembered, even if he had Gregor’s eyes and Gregor’s way of moving. War must have changed him. It changed everyone, some for better, some for worse.
    ‘What about your . . . comrades?’ Her voice came back to her at last but her words sounded squeaky.
    He blushed. ‘I don’t think they’ll be here this evening.’
    In Lena’s pantry she found brandy, a jug of milk, a basin of soup, sausage and bread. None of it touched. Gregor whistled. Now it was her turn to colour. Mami’d saved all this in
case, by some miracle, Papi was released or escaped and came back here after they’d left. Papi would be starving, Mami’d said, he’d need to build himself up. She didn’t know
if Gregor would understand.
    But he simply smiled. ‘A feast!’ He stroked the tins as though they were kittens and pulled out a couple for her to open.
    She