On Königstrasse the collectors for the Winter Relief were out in force, shaking their little red collecting-boxes under everyone’s noses, although November was only a few days old. In the early days the Relief had been intended to help overcome the effects of unemployment and the depression, but now, and almost universally, it was regarded as nothing more than financial and psychological blackmail by the Party: the Relief raised funds but, just as importantly, it created an emotional climate in which people were trained to do without for the sake of the Fatherland. Each week the collection was the charge of a different organization, and this week it was the Railwaymen.

The only railwayman I ever liked was my former secretary Dagmarr’s father. I had no sooner bitten my lip and handed over 20 pfennigs to one of them, than farther up the road I was solicited by another. The small glass badge you got for contributing didn’t so much protect you from further harassment as mark you out as a good prospect. Still, it wasn’t that which made me curse the man, fat as only a railwayman can be, and push him out of my way, but the sight of Dagmarr herself disappearing round the sacrificial column that stands outside the Town Hall.

Hearing my hurried footsteps she turned and saw me before I reached her. We stood awkwardly in front of the urn-like monument with its huge white-lettered motto which read ‘Sacrifice for the Winter Relief’.

‘Bernie,’ she said.

‘Hallo,’ I said. ‘I was just thinking about you.’ Feeling rather awkward, I touched her on the arm. ‘I was sorry to hear about Johannes.’ She gave me a brave smile, and drew her brown wool coat closer about her neck.

‘You’ve lost a lot of weight, Bernie. Have you been ill?’

‘It’s a long story. Have you got time for a coffee?’

We went to the Alexanderquelle on Alexanderplatz where we ordered real mocha and real scones with real jam and real butter.

‘They say that Goering’s got a new process that makes butter from coal.’

‘It doesn’t look like he’s eating any of it then.’ I laughed politely. ‘And you can’t buy an onion anywhere in Berlin. Father reckons they’re using them to make poison gas for the Japs to use against the Chinese.’

After a while I asked her if she was able to discuss Johannes. ‘I’m afraid there’s not really much to tell,’ she said.

‘How did it happen?’