On the first evening at the holiday camp they came across a middle-aged man called Berthold, sitting outside his tent, holding forth to half a dozen young people drinking beer from cans. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he said in a voice that was confidential but carrying. “The whole thing is a trap set by the Stasi. It’s their new way of catching subversives.”

A young man sitting on the ground, smoking a cigarette, seemed skeptical. “How does that work, then?”

“As soon as you cross the border, you’re arrested by the Austrians. They hand you over to the Hungarian police, who send you back to East Germany in handcuffs. Then you go straight to the interrogation rooms in Stasi headquarters in Lichtenberg.”

A girl standing nearby said: “How would you know a thing like that?”

“My cousin tried to cross the border here,” said Berthold. “Last thing he said to me was: ‘I’ll send you a postcard from Vienna.’ Now he’s in a prison camp near Dresden, working in a uranium mine. It’s the only way our government can get people to work in those mines, no one else will do it—the radiation gives you lung cancer.”

The family discussed Berthold’s theory in low voices before going to bed. Alice said scornfully: “Berthold is one of those men who know it all. How would he find out that his cousin is working in a uranium mine? The government doesn’t admit to using prisoners that way.”

But Helmut was worried. “He may be an idiot, but what if his story is true? The border could be a trap.”

Alice said: “Why would the Austrians send escapers back? They have no love of Communism.”

“They may not want the trouble and expense of dealing with them. Why should the Austrians care about East Germans?”

They argued for an hour and came to no conclusion. Lili lay awake for a long time, worrying.

Next morning in the communal dining room Lili spotted Berthold regaling a different group of young people with his theories, a large plate of ham and cheese in front of him. Was he genuine, or a Stasi faker? She felt she had to know. He looked as if he would be there some time. On impulse, she decided to search his tent. She left the room.

Tents were not secured: holidaymakers were simply advised not to leave money or valuables behind. All the same, Berthold’s entrance was tightly laced.

Lili began to untie the strings, trying to appear relaxed, as if she had every right to do it. Her heart was like a drumbeat in her chest. She made an effort not to glance guiltily at people walking by. She was used to sneaking around—the gigs she played with Karolin were always semi-illegal—but she had never done anything quite like this. If Berthold should for some reason abandon his breakfast early and come back sooner than she expected, what would she say? “Oops, wrong tent, sorry!” The tents were all alike. He might not believe her—but what would he do, go to the police?