And when she talked to Him, did she call herself ‘ta Delphine’?

On the more level ground, there were newer headstones, not yet worn down by rain and wind. Anton began to walk among them, his boots sinking into the wet grass. There were many family names repeated, going back hundreds of years; all that was missing was the names of those who’d been buried where they fell on the Eastern Front.

At last he came to a row of about thirty crosses whose inscribed dates were all in a cluster. The smallest and the simplest were of an Italian man and a French woman, exiles with plain graves. The latter read: ‘Delphine Jacob, 1876–1918. Daughter of God.’ Beneath the dates was an addition, made by a different mason: ‘Née Fourmentier.’

Anton rested his hand on top of the headstone, then knelt and leaned his cheek against it. The pimpled surface was hard against the skin. He ran his fingers into the letters of her name. Then he stood up and went blindly down the hill.

There was a note in his room asking him if he would like to go and speak to Fräulein Hartung again in the evening as she had ‘something to show’ him.

At the same time as before, he went down the panelled corridor.

‘Come in. Please sit down. I understand it was a shock to you last night. I’m very sorry for your loss. And for our loss, too. If it’s any consolation to you, Delphine was loved here. By all of us, I think.’

‘Thank you. I saw her grave today.’

‘I’m glad. Is it in good repair? One of the women goes to St Ulrich’s to put flowers on the graves of all of our people once a month.’

‘Yes. It was … all right. It was legible. I’m glad someone put her real name on it.’

‘That was her sister.’

‘Her sister?’

‘Yes. She came about two years after the war. With her husband, an Englishman. She was a charming lady. She had lost two sisters, she said, to the outbreak. They left some money and instructions for the mason.’

‘An Englishman? I would never have …’

‘Yes. He was … Polite. But strange. I felt he was wounded. Perhaps the war.’

Anton nodded. ‘Could you show me which room she lived in? I’d like to see it.’

‘You already have. You slept in it last night. It was hers for a year.’

‘Good God.’ Anton was determined not to lose control in front of this strange woman.

‘She loved the sound of the horses in the meadow. Different horses then.’

‘And did she … die in it?’

‘No, no. She was taken to the hospital. It was a room of happiness, of peace. I would not have put you in it otherwise.’

‘You said there was something for me.’

Claudia Hartung opened her desk drawer. ‘Yes. It’s her diary. There are not many entries, I’m afraid. She was very busy here. And everyone makes their confessions in church or at our evening meetings. So perhaps there was not much left to confide to the diary. But I thought you’d like to see it.’