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Non-smokers gave their cigarettes away to family members or sold them, but technically your tobacco ration was only for personal use.
    ‘Maybe I should call the Gestapo,’ the German teased. ‘You’re clearly involved in black market tobacco trading.’
    Henderson thought about offering a bribe, or pulling his gun. But both were risky options.
    ‘Fine, I’ll get back in the queue,’ Henderson said, before giving a cheeky Nazi salute. ‘Heil Hitler!’
    ‘I don’t like that smart mouth,’ the German said, as a few of the men in the recruiting line laughed. ‘I’m going to have to ask you a few more questions in my office.’
    *
    Marc and Henderson ended up on a bench in the office of a man who clearly wasn’t a major cog in the Nazi machine. There was a metal shelf unit and a small desk on which sat a vase containing three mini-swastika flags and some tattered silk flowers. Henderson hadn’t been searched, so he had his gun ready when the brown-uniformed officer came back in the room and made a big show of opening his briefcase.
    ‘How long have we got to sit here for?’ Marc asked.
    The German didn’t reply. He just stared over the rims of his octagonal glasses as he took out bread and cheese wrapped in greaseproof paper. His expression said it all: I’m messing with you because I can. When he left, he locked the door again.
    ‘I could pick that cheap lock with my penis,’ Marc said contemptuously. ‘Why are we still sitting here?’
    ‘You need to learn patience,’ Henderson replied. ‘You saw where we are. There’s a guard on the main door. There’s a checkpoint on the station across the street. This isn’t a game, you know. One mistake and we’re big red splats machine-gunned up against a wall in some alleyway.’
    The door opened again, but instead of the German it was a gravel-voiced Frenchwoman. She looked a bit of an old battleaxe, but she closed the door and spoke in a guilty whisper.
    ‘Hortefeux?’
    Henderson nodded and the woman threw over an envelope.
    ‘Had to wait for old shit breath to go out for lunch. You needn’t have panicked at the door. Madame Mercier called ahead; I was all set to deal with you. I get zone passes for all the girls she brings in for her clubs. Everything you need is there, including ration cards. I’ve put your occupation as a waiter, so you should be able to move around the centre of town without too many questions asked.’
    ‘What happens when the beanpole gets back from lunch?’
    The woman laughed. ‘Thinks he’s Hitler’s right-hand man, but he’s a jumped-up doorman. I’ll tell him that we had orders to put everyone on a truck. He’ll stamp his little boots, but he’s too lazy to make a fuss.’
    ‘And the other fellow on the door, the Frenchman,’ Marc asked. ‘Where’s he?’
    ‘I’ve set him straight,’ the woman said. ‘He takes a few francs from Madame Mercier, just like the rest of us. You need to get to Le Chat Botté. Someone will be waiting for you.’
    The woman led them down a corridor towards the back of the building, and opened a door on to a wrought-iron fire escape. ‘Downstairs, go left. The road narrows into an alleyway that reeks of urine. Three minutes’ walk takes you to the entertainment district. You’ll find Le Chat Botté in the basement beneath Café Mercier. It won’t be open until this evening, so you’ll have to rap on the glass.’
    ‘Thank you so much,’ Henderson said.
    The alleyway behind the OT office was desolate. No car would ever get through because rubbish spewed out of overflowing bins. Marc trod carefully through the filth, fearing broken glass or worse. There was an overwhelming muggy heat as they passed behind a laundry, with steam shooting out of vents and the sight of women working through the tiny barred slots above the pavement.
    They backed up to the wall as a Kriegsmarine officer whizzed through on a motorbike, with a girl in polka dots clutching his waist. As they choked on its