‘You got no idea what it’s like’ – Shimmy is still full of self-pity – ‘mein fis not even mein fis!’

(I’m guessing ‘fis’ might be ‘foot’.)

‘Call zis a life?!’ he adds. ‘Nothing ever mein?! Eh? Not mein war! Not mein country, not meine frau, not meine daughter! No!’ he repeats, with emphasis. ‘Not even mein bubbellah! Not even meine Carla, eh? Eh?!’

I say nothing, just hand him a (slightly dirty) dishcloth to dry his face on.

‘Not even meine Carla!’ he sighs, taking the cloth and patting it over his face, then throwing it back at me. It lands across my shoulder. ‘My poor vife fargvaldikn. By ze Russians! So vat’s your excuse, huh? Huh?’

He suddenly laughs, wryly (I take comfort from the fact that my pathetic record with his daughter seems to provide him with some slight cheer).

‘A mentsh tracht und Gott lacht!’ he observes. ‘Huh? A person plans und Gott laughs! He laughs! Ha ha ha! He finds it hil-a-rious! He finds us hil-a-rious! You und I, eh? Hil-a-rious!’

I say nothing.

He nods. ‘Yah. Ve’re ze same – you und I. Like a jelly. Spineless.’

Still, I say nothing.

‘You gonna let an old man like me kick you up ze arse, heap you wiz insults und still, nothing?! Eh? Gornisht?’

‘Maybe you don’t remember,’ I interject, ‘but I’m actually in a perfectly happy eight-year relationship with … with …’

What’s her name again?

Oh yes. Alice.

‘Pah!’

‘And Carla’s moved on, too,’ I continue. ‘She’s been spending a lot of time with Mr Huff lately by all accounts.’

‘If meine grandmother had baitsim … uh … uh … testicles, eh? – she vould be mein grandfather!’ Shimmy chuckles.

(I guess this means he’s taking this information with a hefty pinch of incredulity.)

‘Okay, fine, go ahead, insult me all you like,’ I mutter, scooping handfuls of the iced water over the arch of his foot (‘Oi! A kitsel! It tickles!’ He chuckles), ‘but give yourself a break, at least,’ I continue. ‘You did the decent thing all those years ago with Else and with Carla. It can’t have been easy for you after the war.’

‘Argh. You sink I vas a happy bunny about it?’ Shimmy demands. ‘My fiancée raped in Berlin? Und she vants to keep ze damn byyby? Of course I’m not happy! Not at all! But did I have ze balls to walk away? Nein. No. You call zat bravery? Eh? A pretend life? A pretend family? A pretend happiness? A big kazab? A big sham?’

‘What choice did you have?’ I scowl.

‘Choice?!’ Shimmy snorts. ‘Kein briere iz oich a breire, yah? Not to have a choice iz also a choice. Always remember zis, bubbee.’

He leans forward, ruffles my hair and then hugs me.

This tender moment is orchestrated by Giorgio Moroder and Philip Oakey’s ‘Together in Electric Dreams’. I wince through an especially terrible guitar solo.

‘Bravery is sometimes only cowardice, huh?’ he mutters. ‘I like you, royt-chik. You’re a langer lucksh. Too damn tall, huh? But still, still, I like you.’