‘Thank you.’

‘Delphine arrived in June 1915, soon after me. She had been arrested and held for about nine months in a Jewish camp called Deutsch-Brod just over the border in Bohemia. Perhaps that explains why she had no time to leave a note. She was under suspicion because of the name in her papers. Eventually she must have persuaded them that she posed no threat or that she was not in fact Jewish. So she was moved here, where there were already almost two hundred foreigners in cottages and rooms all round the village. The important thing was that her status changed when she got here. She was no longer interned, merely “confined”. But because of the Jewish question, she was still not allowed to write home and was let out only under supervision.’

Anton found it hard to concentrate. History had taken the shape of a red-haired anchorite. It was as though he had died and the meaning of his life was being explained rather too fast – and not at the gates of eternity, but in the dingy back room of an old vineyard-owner’s house.

Delphine arrested … Dragged from their rooms in Vienna … Held in a camp with Jews from where – Russia? … Telling the commander of the camp who she was … This was the only part he could almost picture – her explanation: Monsieur le commandant, je peux vous assurer que je suis française de souche, d’une famille catholique … He could hear the amused edge to her voice, even in such straits.

‘Most of the foreigners worked on the farms, of which there are many, as you can imagine,’ Claudia Hartung was saying. ‘Some worked in the vineyard here, which was still active, though that was rather seasonal. Delphine came here to work as a cleaner to begin with, but it soon became obvious she had more to offer. The following year she began to give lessons in French and English and to teach the piano. She became attached to us, to the place.’

‘I see. But she was still under supervision.’

‘Yes. Until the summer of 1917, when there was an agreement between the governments that French nationals could go home.’

‘And did she go?’

Fräulein Hartung shook her head silently.

‘What happened?’

‘She had decided to join us here. In the retreat. She had found faith.’

There was a pause.

‘Faith?’

‘Yes.’

Silence filled the room. Anton looked at the floor. ‘She never seemed particularly … religious when I knew her.’

‘I believe faith came slowly. It had begun in the camp. I told you in my letter about our daily meetings here when people are allowed to speak. In these meetings she did talk about her life before the war. She mentioned a husband in Paris and a man called Anton in Vienna. A journalist. She spoke very warmly of you. But she seemed to feel some guilt as well, as though she was responsible for suffering. She spoke of failure. Of the limits of the flesh, as she called it. And the limits of human love. Eventually, she found a greater love in our Lord.’