The long grass tugs at the bottom of my skirt. I lift it high and pick my way, careful to avoid the thistles and stinging nettles hidden in the lush pasture. Kuschi leads the way, like a dolphin beneath the waves, his whereabouts revealed only by the disturbance of the grass-heads and occasional glimpse of his tail.

‘Let’s head for the riverbank, Kuschi Muschi,’ I call to him. ‘It’ll be easier walking up there.’

Reaching the top of the bank, I stop to catch my breath. It’s not yet seven but there is already heat in the sun’s rays, forewarning another sweltering day. We follow the path along the course of the Weisse Elster, as it winds its way through the vast stretch of allotments spread out before us. I walk slowly, past fruit trees and rows of baby cabbages, canes of runner beans and tomato plants. In the far distance, the low roar of a car engine starts up and a distant clanking of machinery floats from somewhere beyond the allotments.

‘Hetty? Good God, is that you?’

I start in surprise.

A young man, of medium height, approaches from behind a plum tree. He has an athletic figure and is well dressed in dark slacks and a cream shirt. He’s carrying a woman’s basket filled with fruit and vegetables. He peers at me from beneath the wide brim of his hat, his face in shadow.

‘Yes… it really is you!’ he exclaims.

Kuschi, who’d been engrossed with an interesting smell some distance, rushes towards him, barking furiously. The man removes his hat revealing a mass of blond curls and looks hurriedly about.

‘Sssh!’ he says to Kuschi, holding out his hat as if it were a shield. ‘Shush, or someone’ll hear you!’

The hair gives it away. He’s changed, but not entirely. A rough sketch that has been painted over to faultless accomplishment, its lines developed with painstaking, intricate brushstrokes.

‘Walter?’

I’m eleven again, watching my brother’s friend with adoring eyes, willing him to notice me.

He steps closer, eyes uncertain, a hint of a smile. It’s been more than three years since we’ve seen each other. Since that day.

‘Quick,’ he says, ‘let’s get out of here. Someone may have heard the dog.’

He covers his basket with his free hand and runs for the gate to leave the allotments.

‘Why?’ I call after him, glancing around. ‘Aren’t dogs allowed in here?’

Walter falters, half turns. ‘Best not wait to find out,’ he retorts over his shoulder, picking up his pace to a run again.

I follow, with Kuschi bounding and snapping at my ankles, excited by this new game of chase. Managing not to trip over him, we scramble through the gate and don’t stop until we reach a line of trees where the ground once more slopes up into a steep bank. The path runs behind it, right next to the river. On the other side of the bank is a little-used lane, and in front of us is an old hump-backed bridge leading to Trachenbergstrasse, which joins Hallische Strasse, and onwards, towards home. We take the path by the river, out of sight now from anyone in the allotments or the lane and Kuschi leaps straight into the water.