‘Go black-marketeering,’ she said, as she paused at the apartment’s door. ‘Get bread, no matter how many hours you have to queue for it, and get the crisis rations that have been issued. Word is there’s dried sausage and dried peas in them. Once you’ve got as much as you can, pack it all in a suitcase. That way, no matter what happens, we’ll have food with us.’

She closed the door behind her. Cycling to Spandau was not going to be easy, for barricades and fortifications were being hastily erected at the end of nearly every street, but any form of public transport had long since been too unreliable for her to want to risk using it.

Two months ago, she had requested a release from her street-car war work in order to work at the Charité. Once there, Eva had appropriated her as a nursing assistant on her ward. Working with Eva had brought a measure of sanity back into her life. On their far too infrequent breaks, Eva would talk to her about Paul and the life he intended for the two of them when the war was over.

‘Do you think I will like living in the Yorkshire Dales, Lotti?’ she had asked, her lovely sea-green eyes earnest. ‘Will I like Shuttleworth Hall? Will Paul’s aunt Vicky like me?’

‘Of course you will like living in Yorkshire,’ she had said. ‘Little Ridding is the prettiest village imaginable and the River Ure, where it flows past Shuttleworth Hall, is the most beautiful river in the world. As for Aunt Vicky…’

Her eyes had misted with emotion. ‘Aunt Vicky will love you instantly and you will love her. It’s impossible not to. Paul is like a son to her, not a nephew. In many ways she is far closer to him than to Max and Hugo, because they have the same interests. Aunt Vicky was attempting to breed roses at Shuttleworth Hall years before Paul was old enough to begin doing so. It’s a passion they have always shared.’ Amusement had crept back into her voice. ‘And it’s certainly not one Max shares with her. His interest in horticulture is nil.’

As she mounted her bike and began cycling off in the direction of the Tiergarten, she reflected on the deep comfort she had gained from talking about Shuttleworth Hall with Eva. For both of them, whenever she had done so, misery and fear had been blotted out. She had described Shuttleworth Hall in winter, under snow, when the rolling lawns and surrounding meadows glistened bone-white and shards of ice glinted on the Ure.

‘And Aunt Vicky always has a huge log fire going in the drawing room and there is a great comforting Aga that keeps the kitchen warm as toast,’ she had said, almost able to smell the delicious aroma of Vicky’s home-baked bread and Yorkshire teacakes and curd tarts. ‘It’s a vast kitchen, the heart of the house, and it’s where everyone eats unless it’s a grand occasion, such as a birthday or an anniversary celebration or Christmas.’