‘Dear Birgit, thanks for writing! I’m glad you came to the seminar, and it’s good of you to think of me as we approach Christmas. I get the sense that Christmas is brighter and colder in Berlin than in other cities in Europe. But thankfully it’s less cold than I thought it would be. It’s generous of you to offer to introduce me to parts of the city I may not have seen. I’m happy to be in your charge.’

•

‘I’m happy to be in your charge’! After clicking on the irrevocable ‘send’, I felt queasy.

•

An email arrived in twenty minutes.

‘Should we meet at 20.00 hrs on Friday at Hackescher Markt? You will need to change at Wittenbergplatz and take the U2 to Zoologischer Garten. From there the U9 will bring you straight to Hackescher Markt.’

•

I didn’t ask her why she wanted me to make this journey. I’d told her I was in her charge.

At the platform, a woman came up to me, a scarf tied round her head. I thought for a second she was a refugee.

‘You look like a Muslim woman. I mean you could be Arab or Pakistani.’

‘Ah, that happens to me at times. A Turkish man will stop and ask for directions. In his language.’ She shook her head. ‘I wear it for the cold.’

We’d been walking. Introductions weren’t necessary. I’m mesmerised by headscarves. In the arcade in the station, a woman was selling Russian dolls. When she saw me looking, she smiled and pulled apart the large doll to reveal the smaller one. I know these dolls, but I looked at her because I wondered if she was Russian. This gave the doll new meaning. When I related this to an English friend, he said he’d visited Hackescher Markt before the wall fell. There were no vendors. ‘So much life springs up with trade!’ he said. ‘Capitalism, huh?’

•

We went down a long lane. Birgit was a bit in front of me. She was quite tall – as tall as I am.

Couples went in the opposite direction; trailed off. No one belonged; there was a tentativeness in their movements, like they were trespassing. Or as if they were being given access without reason.

I was beginning to tire. ‘Here it is!’

A building, with an empty area in the front. As we went nearer, we heard swing music. From the doorway, you could see figures: waiters; but also people dancing. ‘It used to be a dance hall,’ said Birgit. ‘It’s a restaurant now, but there is still dancing. Tonight’s swing night, I think.’

I’d said I was in her charge; she was used to navigating. She gesticulated to a waiter, then spoke into his ear. He nodded, as if receiving orders, and took us to a corner table near the stage. It had a candle and a menu card. We sat down like people who’ve been expecting good fortune. The stage was full of musical instruments; there was no band. The music was so lifelike I looked twice to check if there was a band on the stage.