It had always seemed more tactful to remember Friedrich’s birthday than the day of his death. In the first years after the War, Anton had often called to see Ilse and sometimes taken her out to dinner. He brought presents for his godson, young Friedrich, as well. There had even been a time when he thought he might close some circle by marrying his best friend’s widow; she had seemed well disposed towards him. But as the shock of the War receded and he started to confront the loss of Delphine, mourning her in his way, in candlelit maids’ rooms, the idea of Ilse began to seem absurd. And whenever he saw her smile, it brought back the studio portrait –– and the memory of Friedrich’s hand clamped round his wrist to keep it visible.

With a million Austrian men dead, it was not easy, even for charming Ilse, to find a second husband; but eventually she married a man who had been too old to fight. An electrical engineer, previously wedded only to his work, he was delighted to join forces with a younger woman. He had his large apartment in Döbling and money for them all; Ilse was happy to play housekeeper and was flattered by her husband’s daily delight at the unexpected turn his life had taken.

Anton wondered if, while he was doing his yearly duty to Friedrich, he should telephone Gerhard to arrange their annual dinner. Gerhard had been thirty-four when the War broke out and had not been required to enlist at once. Although he had later played his part in treating the wounded from the Eastern Front, he had passed the entire war in Vienna and this had caused a coolness between them. It was unreasonable, Anton knew, and Gerhard had served his country better in the hospital than by trudging into the Russian guns; but Anton found it hard to communicate with someone who had not seen what he had seen.

Back in his own apartment, he lifted the telephone receiver, then let it drop. Gerhard could wait. There was something more urgent. He poured himself a glass of the whisky that had been presented to him when he left the Schloss, grimaced, put his feet up on the desk and looked out of the window over the lights and motor traffic of the Ringstrasse. The taste of the whisky took him back to the hall before dinner. ‘Where on earth is she?’ he heard himself say out loud.

With the trams on strike, Rudolf and Lena were starting to walk – through the middle of town, past the Café Central and the spiky Votive church. Rudolf led the way down Berggasse, where Lena posted her letter to Anton.

As she let the paper slip from her hand and heard it land inside the box, she felt a sense of power. She had thought she might feel relief or anxiety, but not this sense of having taken control. She pictured Anton opening the envelope and his breath coming hard as he read it.