I examine every centimetre of his body, over and over. I never imagined I was capable of producing anything so perfect. His hand wraps itself firmly around my finger and he grips with surprising strength, but he doesn’t yet know how to let go. When I lift him, his legs scrunch up and his back curls over as though he doesn’t realise he has all the space in the world to stretch out. And when I feed him, his fingers reach and grab at my skin, just as a tiny kitten would knead its mother as it suckles.

He is a thing of extraordinary wonder.

And more precious to me than anything in the universe.

I can hardly bear to sleep, because when I do, I’m not conscious of his presence. Time moves too fast and each night that falls, each day that dawns, brings the dreaded parting closer. I kiss his forehead and gently wipe away the wet of my tears which land on the soft down of his head.

Under the sloping eaves I imagine this is a safe and cosy nest. That the steady marching boots which tramp outside through the streets of Leipzig, Berlin and all the other towns and cities of Germany, cannot get to us. If only we could hide up here forever…

We need to come up with a name for this tiny human. Time is running out to register his birth before the inevitable day of our separation.

George. Henry. William. Edward. The names of English kings. You can’t get more English than that.

No. I want something simple. A name so he will fit, that other English children might have. I need to get this right because I shall play no other part in his life, for how long, who knows? All I can give him is a name, so it had better be a good one.

A distant memory of being with Mutti and Vati in Berlin a long, long time ago. I must have been around seven or eight years old. A hot day and I was dangling my hands under a refreshing stream of water falling from the mouth of a strange mythical stone creature at the top of a fountain. Nearby, a street café with tables and chairs outside on the pavement. A little boy, younger than me, kept climbing down from his seat and running towards the fountain, his mother in pursuit. Vati tut-tutted at the lack of discipline the English have over their children. Stanley, the mother had called after him repeatedly. Stanley. The lady spoke fast and firmly to the little boy, but I could only pick out a few words as it was all in English. I understood ‘sit’ and ‘father’ and ‘now’ but the rest was lost on me. To my amazement, the little boy ignored his mother and laughed. That’s why I remember, because in my young life I had never witnessed any child so openly disobeying. He ran around and around that fountain and laughed and laughed as if everything in his life were pure, sweet joy.