Don’t say a word. Keep still.’

‘But, Papa, we’re not going to sleep here!’

‘But we’re hungry, Uncle!’

They beat the locked door with all the strength their little fists could muster. But her father had hurried back down the ladder and they could hear him pulling it away. As soon as they were alone, Ben calmed down.

‘There’s no point in shouting. It’s no use. He’s gone.’

The attic looked out over an indoor courtyard, high and narrow, a deep pit between two large walls. Every now and again, the terrifying noise quietened down; the crowd moved off, and they thought they could hear the sea, risen as if by some miracle into the old street, beating its waves against the house. Sometimes soldiers, tramps, professional looters, hysterical Jews would meet at the entrance to the ghetto, and whatever happened then – Ben and Ada had absolutely no idea what it might be – took place inside the doorways of their own house, on their own doorstep. Then the crowds roared like wild animals. They seemed to hurl themselves like rams against the walls, hitting them, backing off, furiously battering them again to try to knock them down, striking them again and again, in vain.

The children sat on top of the trunk, huddled close together, too stunned even to cry. Little by little, they could make out one or two sounds that rose from the steady din of a thousand voices. Listening attentively, their hands shaking, they eagerly picked out the sounds that frightened them less than the others, because they could recognise them.

‘Hear that? That’s a window being broken. Can you hear the glass shattering? That’s stones being thrown against the walls and the iron shutters of the shop. That’s everyone laughing. And there’s a woman screaming as if her insides are being ripped out. What’s going on? . . . And that, that’s soldiers singing. And that . . .’

They fell silent, trying to understand the deep, rhythmic wave of sound rising towards them.

‘That’s prayers,’ said Ben.

Patriotic hymns, prayers from the Russian Church, bells ringing – they were almost glad to hear such familiar sounds . . .

Hours passed. The children were less afraid, but they were becoming more aware of how uncomfortable they were: they were cold; the corners of the trunk hurt. They were hungry.

Ben had the idea of opening the trunk; it looked as if it was full of old papers and rags. Feeling about in the dark, they spread them out and made a bed in the trunk where they could finally lie down, groaning, arguing, each one pulling the softest bits of cloth to their own side, leaving the other the newspapers that lined the bottom. It all smelled of dust and moth balls. They couldn’t stop sneezing. Finally, they snuggled up to each other. They were safe, they were warm like this, but afraid that the cover might slam shut and suffocate them. They looked at it, straining their eyes in the darkness, and gradually they managed to make out the gleam of the metal fittings.

Outside, the frenzy continued. Suddenly, Ada sat up and shouted in a voice that was unlike her normal voice: it was shriller, deeper, as if someone else was crying out for help through her. ‘I can’t stand it any more! I’ll die if it doesn’t stop.’

‘It won’t stop,’ said Ben angrily, ‘and I’ll tell you something else – you can shout, groan, pray and cry all night long and it won’t make a bit of difference!’

‘I . . . I don’t care,’ Ada stammered, sobbing. ‘I don’t care if I never eat again, if only they would be quiet!’

‘And that won’t make any of them shut up either,’ said Ben.

This seemed so obvious to Ada that she calmed down and suddenly felt quite happy.

‘Come on.