I step out onto a desolate island. Almost desolate that is. I see a small low hut surrounded by a huge wire face being patrolled by stern-looking guards.

As I come closer they place their hands on their pistols and glare at me threateningly. Gulp. But I haven’t done anything wrong have I? At least I didn’t mean to …

“Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici?” one of the soldiers barks at me.

“Uh sorry … I don’t know what you mean.”

“What … what you do here?”

I give him a broad smile. “Just got lost. Heading home. But what are you doing here?”

“I guard ze prisoner Alfred Dreyfus. He not permitted vizitors at all. No one. All alone.”

Through the barriers I catch sight of a thin sickly looking man with stooped shoulders and a book under his arm. He’s staring into the distance as if trying to catch sight of his home and family.

“What did he do?”

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