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.

I stare down at the little boy nestled in my arms, sleeping peacefully now. I lie him in the empty drawer, lined with soft blankets and padding. I could leave him a while and join Erna and her parents in the sitting room, but I don’t want him to be all alone.

Instead, I take out Walter’s letter, the one he sent the moment he heard of the birth, and read it for the thousandth time.

My Darling,