‘Or perhaps she didn’t die at all. Perhaps she’s only ill.’

‘Yes, perhaps she’s ill.’

‘Isn’t there a grandmother? Or some other female relation?’

‘Evidently not.’

‘Then why don’t they put him in the municipal crèche? At least they’ve got expert nurses there!’

‘Yes, he’d be better off there than like this.’

‘Who knows? I for one wouldn’t put my baby in the crèche.’

‘But the baby looks well, you must admit. He’s quite healthy.’

‘Yes, there’s nothing wrong with his development.’

‘And he’s a bonny baby too. A sight for sore eyes.’

‘Yes, but poor little worm — he was born under an unlucky star. He hasn’t got much of a chance, and that’s a fact.’

‘It’ll be a miracle if he lasts out the year. In ninety-nine out of a hundred cases they die after a few months. And what’s the wonder, poor motherless mites!’

‘But he seems so nice!’

‘Who?’

‘The father!’

‘Yes, he’s a nice man.’

‘And well educated too. I’ll bet he’s a professor or someone like that. You can tell from his face.’

‘But not very rich, by the looks of things. Otherwise he would have taken a nursemaid. Professors aren’t too well off since the war. Lots of them are starving.’

‘And those who aren’t professors aren’t starving, perhaps? Who isn’t starving today apart from a few crooks and war-profiteers?’

Thus they chatted on a fine early-autumn afternoon, with the mild sunshine spreading over the yellowing grass and the trees, whose branches were now interspersed with large patches of sky, while the city’s roar created a murmuring wall to their right.

One day one of these women was bold enough to address Gurdweill directly. ‘A baby needs a woman to look after it, don’t you think?’

Gurdweill said nothing.

But the young woman was not to be deterred. She began again, this time going straight to the point. ‘Please don’t be offended, sir, but we wondered, because we never see the mother taking him for a walk, poor little mite. I don’t want to interfere in your private affairs, God forbid, but it really breaks a person’s heart to see a child without a mother to look after him!’

‘His mother can’t!’ Gurdweill said shortly.

‘Ah, she can’t. In that case, it’s another matter, of course. I suppose she’s ill, poor soul. What a tragedy!’

‘She isn’t ill, but nevertheless she can’t do it.’

‘Indeed? She isn’t even ill! That, I can’t understand. A mother who’s not ill and who doesn’t take care of her own baby — there are all kinds of mothers in the world, it seems!’