‘Thank you.’ I perch on the edge of a narrow green sofa pushed against the back wall of the room. A threadbare rug covers the floor in front of the blackened fireplace and a draught floats in from the open back door. There is a clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen and the warbling voice of the singer crackles from the wireless. Presumably Lena has a husband too. Where is he? She looks too young to be married, or even to have a child. Until now, she’d just been a girl, a person to pass messages. But like so many other ordinary folk, she must be full of fear for her son, for her mother toiling away in the kitchen. Perhaps I should tell Lena what I know? I owe her at least that for sending her son out onto the streets for me. Will he be in danger too? I chastise myself for my own paranoia. How ridiculous. Nobody would want to hurt a child, would they?

A news bulletin comes on after the song. I can’t make out the words above the sizzling and clanking. The voice drones. I study a broken nail on my thumb; cross and recross my legs.

There is a rush of cold air and the boy is back, breathing heavily as though he has been running. I stand up, expecting Walter, but the boy shakes his head.

The old lady appears in the doorway, a wooden spoon in her hand, strands of grey hair drifting loose from her bun. The boy whispers into her ear. She nods and places a hand on his shoulder.

‘He says Walter wasn’t home. He went into town earlier this evening with his uncle and father. There has been some trouble – Jewish shops targeted by youths – and they went to help friends defend their property.’ She shakes her head and purses her lips.

I stand up. ‘I think worse might be to come. Take care, all of you. Perhaps its best you go home soon.’ It’s the most I dare to say.

*

My stomach somersaults as I take a tram towards the city centre. The clock is ticking. I must have wasted twenty minutes. The dark pavements outside the brightly lit tram seem strangely quiet.

Please, God, if you are there, let me find him, unharmed and safe.

The tram winds its way around the outskirts of the old town. There are more people here. Shouts and cries in the distance. Has it already started? Four workmen jump on and stand near my seat. They talk in low, gruff voices.

‘What’s goin’ on then, Wilhelm? What d’ya hear?’

‘Riots.’ The man sniffs and shrugs.

Another man says something I don’t hear, but the others laugh. I catch the word, Jew, and my skin contracts. The tram screeches around a bend and I can’t hear any more. It stops at the top of the Brühl. Should I get off here? He could be anywhere in the city. I decide to wait. The workmen leave and the tram moves off towards Dittrichring.