Franklin had decided his trip to Bormann’s apartment in Buenos Aires should include a visit to El Calafate to see Eva Braun for the first time in over a decade. He spoke to his mother by phone about four times a year, mainly out of duty rather than love or genuine concern. After the birth of his son, he had cut her loose. She was now sixty-nine and living under the alias Valentina Suarez. He flew directly to Buenos Aires and, while in transit waiting to board an internal flight to El Calafate, he called to inform her he was on his way. She was totally shocked to hear from him and couldn’t help but wonder what dreadful news he deemed important enough that he felt the need to impart it in person.

Franklin stood outside the property named El Negus and closed his eyes. His memory conjured up crystal-clear images of the house that used to stand on the same plot: the home where he was born and spent the first eighteen years of his life. He visualised Hitler sitting behind his desk in his study listening for hours to his precious Wagner recordings; birthday parties in the sprawling gardens with his school friends, and complex chess games played with Bormann, who taught him the art of strategy. Weirdly, none of his memories featured his mother and he suddenly regretted the impulse that had brought him back to see her.

He was shaken out of his childhood reminiscences by the sound of a familiar voice calling his name. His eyes snapped open and he saw his mother standing outside the front door. At first glance, she looked no different from the last time he’d seen her but then he looked closer and detected a slight frailty in her posture and a distinct look of fear in her blue eyes that didn’t sparkle quite as brightly as they used to. His heart instantly softened and he realised he had made the right decision to come home after all.

They sat opposite each other in two highly patterned silk armchairs with a black marble coffee table lodged between them. Resting on top was a large white plate containing a fruit cake and an elegant porcelain teapot, alongside matching cups, a milk jug and a small sugar bowl. He remembered exactly where the table used to be kept in the living room of the old house. She saw him looking at it and instantly read his mind.

“It’s one of the few mementos I kept from El Blondi. The Führer and I used to take our afternoon tea on it.”