‘There’s noting to tell, Jugend, it’s ancient history. When the war came, we all went our separate ways, we all did our duty, that’s all there is to say.’

‘That’s it?’

‘I didn’t see your father after that. The last time I saw him was in Paris . . . June 1941. We took some leave so we could spend time with our old friends, then we all went back to our units. When I came back here after the war, Uelzen was nothing but rubble. My family and your family and many other families had died in the bombings . . .’

‘Just like Aïn Deb, the village I come from. And the war in Algeria is only just starting.’

‘Hans is buried there?’

‘Yes, with my mother and all our neighbours.’

Silence. A nod. The man was lost in memories of the past, now was the moment to strike.

‘After the Wehrmacht, Papa joined the SS, he was posted to Dachau, Buchenwald, Auschwitz . . . Did you know about that?’

The old man looked at me for a long time, then shrugged what might have been a yes or a no.

I whispered, ‘Were you one of them?’

Silence.

‘Was that part of your duty?’

Silence.

‘Please.’

Silence. A shrug of exasperation.

I don’t know why I did it, but I took Papa’s military record out of my pocket and gave it to him. He didn’t know what to make of the gesture. He hesitated for a moment, then took it, turning it over and over in his hands, then he set it down on his lap, put on his glasses and leafed through it infinitely slowly. His hands were shaking, his lips quivering. I knew it had been a mistake, I knew that he wouldn’t say any more now.

I said again, ‘Please.’

Silence.

‘You were talking about duty . . .’

‘Duty . . . duty is something that must be done, there’s nothing else.’

‘Whatever the circumstances?’

He got up from the table, muttering to himself.

‘It’s time I was going home.’

He looked out at the blue sky, out towards Germania as though looking for some answer, then he looked me in the eye again and said, ‘Your father was a soldier, that’s all there is to say. Never forget that, Jugend.’

And he left, shuffling away like an old man scared of his own shadow. I pitied him, picturing him going home, climbing into his lonely bed and dying of a sudden fever in the night. What had he meant when he invoked duty as the sole justification for the workings of the world? Was he talking about Papa? About himself? Was he talking about me? The word ‘duty’ can be made to hide a multitude of sins, whole peoples can be dragged into it and hurled into the abyss. That’s all there is to it.