‘Just a minute,’ the woman said, annoyance in her voice. ‘I’m dealing with someone.’

Unfazed, Nancy continued looking around her with interest. Behind a screen she caught sight of a woman being examined as she sat in an obstetric-looking chair with stirrups.

Though habitually insensitive, Nancy was never stupid. ‘This is a rape clinic, isn’t it?’ she said suddenly, realization dawning.

‘Yes, it is,’ a voice said from behind her.

Nancy turned around. ‘Hello. I’m from the British press,’ she said, and flashed her press pass again.

The woman she was facing was about her own age. Though delicately boned, with a lovely heart-shaped face and sea-green eyes, there was something about her that indicated great inner toughness.

‘I came in because of the sign,’ she said, liking the cut of the other woman’s jib. ‘We’re in the British sector and it’s written in Cyrillic. I wondered why.’

‘It was put up before the British—or the Americans and the French—arrived. It ensured Russian soldiers gave us a wide berth. It isn’t necessary now, but I’ve never had the time to take it down.’

It was a red-hot human-interest story. Nancy said swiftly, ‘Will you tell me about it? Most of what has so far been written in the British press is rumour. A first-hand account from someone running a clinic such as this will have great impact.’

The mesmerizing sea-green eyes held hers. ‘Are you wanting a first-hand account of the setting up and running of the clinic?’ she asked. ‘Or of the way that around ninety per cent of rape victims who became pregnant came here desperate for abortions? Or are you wanting me to give you a first-hand account of my own experience of rape?’

It wasn’t often Nancy was thrown off track, but the idea of the woman in front of her having endured the same experience as the wretched women she was offering treatment to, threw her completely.

Well aware that she’d finally penetrated the other woman’s thoughtless bumptiousness, Eva said conciliatingly, ‘Let’s go outside to talk. I’d like British women to know what the women of Berlin have suffered. Do you smoke?’

Nancy nodded. ‘But don’t share your cigarettes with me,’ she said as they walked outside. ‘They must have been hard to come by. I’ve got a full pack of Lucky Strikes, a gift from the American who gave me a lift here.’

The street was busy, the traffic heavy with British army vehicles.

With a look towards them, Eva said, ‘We were so grateful to see them, there’s hardly any animosity towards British troops.’ She accepted the cigarette Nancy proffered. ‘Most Berliners regard them more as liberators than conquerors.’

It was the feeling Nancy had already gained and she knew she would do another story from that angle. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, offering Eva a light.

‘Ketzler. Eva Ketzler.’

Nancy had been in the act of lighting her own cigarette. Now her hand froze. Her eyes widened.

Eva quirked an eyebrow. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, realizing that the woman she was with couldn’t have hidden anything she was feeling, even if paid to do so. ‘It isn’t an unusual name.’