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quasi-military organisation. Officers carried pistols and Nazi daggers and wore brown uniforms with swastikas and stripes bearing their ranks. OT workers ranged from Polish and African prisoners treated like slaves, through to skilled and relatively well-paid civilian construction workers.
    The recruitment office smelled of floor polish and cigarette smoke. Men lined up before three counters, where names and details were taken. Beyond that, job applicants were stripped and examined by a doctor. At the far end of the hall was an X-ray machine, where each shirtless worker was checked for tuberculosis.
    Along the walls were blackboards, with available jobs and application details chalked up: Blacksmiths, carpenters, plumbers, translators and electricians are allowed to join the priority queue. Unskilled labourers must be aged between 18 and 55. Boys 13–17 will be taken as apprentices at one-third standard pay. All workers must sign two-year contracts.
    Henderson was alarmed by what he saw, partly because he still had his gun and partly because he’d noticed that workers were being taken outside and loaded straight on to trucks to begin work.
    ‘I think we’ll have to risk doing without the zone passes,’ he whispered to Marc.
    As he turned for the exit a brown uniform blocked his path. By the sound of his voice, he was a native Frenchman.
    ‘May I ask why you’re leaving, sir?’
    ‘I see the men are being shipped out straight away,’ Henderson explained. ‘I’d really like to go to the post office and collect my ration card first.’
    ‘What is your address?’ the man asked.
    Henderson shook his head. ‘I’ve just come in on the train from Rennes to sign up.’
    ‘Then you and your son will be allocated accommodation in the workers’ barracks. Meals will be provided on site, and you’ll receive a ration card for time spent on leave. You can stay in the queue, there’s no reason to go to the post office.’
    ‘I’d also like to make a telephone call,’ Henderson said, though he knew it sounded weaselly.
    ‘Do you already have a Lorient zone pass?’
    Henderson shook his head. ‘I just arrived.’
    ‘You’re not allowed to move freely in the Lorient zone without a Lorient zone pass. If you leave this building without a pass, I’ll be forced to arrest you and hand you over to the Gestapo for questioning.’
    The tense conversation had attracted some attention, including that of a more senior officer. This one was tall and skinny. He was German, but his French was good.
    ‘Step away from the doors!’ the German yelled, pointing his arm towards a dilapidated table. ‘Spread your documents on the table.’
    Marc’s nerves jangled as he followed Henderson up to the desk. The German took Henderson’s ID card and studied it carefully, before starting a round of rapid-fire questions designed to catch out liars.
    ‘What was your job in Rennes?’
    ‘Unemployed,’ Henderson said, giving an answer that he’d meticulously prepared before leaving Britain.
    ‘Your military status?’
    ‘I have army discharge papers,’ Henderson said, pointing to them on the table.
    The lanky German took the pale-blue discharge document. This was vital for any Frenchman under the age of fifty. Unless you could prove that you weren’t in the military at the time France surrendered, you were regarded as a prisoner of war and could be sent to a labour camp in Germany.
    ‘Dishonourable discharge from military duty, 1938,’ the German said suspiciously. ‘What was your sin?’
    ‘Inappropriate firing of a gun in an enclosed space leading to the injury of a fellow soldier,’ Henderson explained.
    The German read the rest of the story from the discharge document. ‘Served four months’ military detention, released 13-04-39. Show me your teeth.’
    Henderson opened his mouth.
    ‘Those aren’t smoker’s teeth. Why have you got a tobacco card?’
    The question was a trap. Everyone in France kept a tobacco card.