Ilse had been spared such manual labour. An old friend of hers from the film studios had contacted her, telling her that the studios in Babelsburg were already up and running again.

‘It’s true,’ she had said, sheer delight on her face when she had returned from checking out the information. ‘A man from Poland is shooting his first production there. It’s being financed by the Americans and he nearly fell over himself when I turned up.’ She had twirled around their tiny Waltraudstrasse flat until she’d fallen in a dizzy heap on their shabby sofa. ‘He’s given me a lead part. It’s incredible and unbelievable, but I’m a film star again!’

Neither she, nor Hester, had begrudged her her good fortune.

Working on bombsites in unflattering old clothing, her hair protected by a headscarf grey with rubble dust, her hands calloused, her nails broken, while Ilse set off for Babelsburg each day, her golden hair shining, her hands manicured, hadn’t helped her nervous tension where Max was concerned.

Her fervent hope had been that he would be among the first British officers to enter the city. He hadn’t been. Though the British sector was now up and running, its headquarters staffed to overflowing with intelligence officers, Max was not one of their number. There had been no communication from him. She didn’t even know if he was in Germany.

Still thinking about him, she crossed the Waltraudbrücke to Argentinische Allee, continuing on her way to the American headquarters opposite the Oskar-Helene-Heim U-Bahn station, which was where she was now employed as an interpreter.

Two weeks ago, when the British and Americans had first arrived, she had dressed herself as smartly as possible in a grey flannel dress of Ilse’s and had visited both British and American headquarters. The British officer who had interviewed her had, speaking perfect German, declined to engage her as an interpreter. The Americans had snapped her up as if she were gold.

She’d been assigned to a tall lanky major with a close-cropped head, who came from Kansas. He had an easy, relaxed way about him and in looks and manner reminded her of Paul.

As she approached the grandiose facade of what had once been the District Headquarters of the Luftwaffe and was now officially the Office of the Military Government of the United States, she made a huge mental effort to put to one side her anxieties about Max—and whether, when he returned to Berlin, he would still be in love with her or not.

Her job as Major Chuck Gleeson’s interpreter was a responsible one, and that it required her full concentration was something she was deeply grateful for. She showed her pass to the guard at the entrance, knowing a full day lay ahead of her, planning that she would, at the end of it, visit her uncle, Berthold, who was still living in close companionship with Eva’s elderly mother.

‘Hi,’ Chuck Gleeson said with typical American informality as she walked into his office. ‘Sit down, Lotti. I’ve some news for you that you may, or may not, like.’