The man finally looked up and saw me. His brooding eyes and tremulous lips, like a rapacious old pervert, made me uncomfortable. I felt like a cornered child. I took a deep breath and adopted the posture of a boy accustomed to terrorising girls in pigtails. I didn’t want to put his back up, the way I had the old man in Uelzen, by asking awkward questions.

‘If you’re Ernest Brucke, aka Jean 92, I’d like to shake your hand and thank you on behalf of my father Hans Schiller.’

The man sat lost in thought for a moment, then, exhausted by the sheer effort, stretched his hand past the bottle and said in a gravelly voice, ‘Schiller? . . . Who’s Schiller? You’re the son?’

‘Too right I’m his son! On his deathbed, my father asked me to come and say goodbye to some old friends, people who helped him when times were . . .’

‘Hold on a minute, I’m not Jean 92 . . .’

‘Then who might you be, monsieur?’

‘I’m Adolph, his son . . . the old man kicked the bucket years ago . . .’

‘Oh . . .’

‘So what did you want with the old man . . . apart from to say thank you?’

‘I just wanted to talk about old times . . .’

‘Really? What for?’

‘I’m, um . . . I’m looking for stories, background stuff, I’m writing a book about my father’s struggle, his fight to save humanity, as far as I know Hitlerism isn’t dead.’

‘Yeah, you look like a writer.’

‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to interview you, for a chapter I’m writing about your father, and about you, obviously . . .’

Bingo. I’d hit the jackpot. This drunken slob could see himself at the top of the bestseller list. He sat up, cleared his throat and looked at me a little more warmly. It hadn’t occurred to me – I’d forgotten that this sickness was still out there, this smug self-righteousness, the overweening pride that goes before a fall. I wasn’t about to let this guy slip through my fingers, the wonderful Jean 92 Junior.

‘Maybe I didn’t mention it, mon cher Adolph, but I’ve already got a publisher, they pay well . . . you’ll get a cut.’

‘How much?’

‘It all depends on the sales, but it could be a nice little earner. Here, here’s a hundred francs, call it an advance.’