It had taken a pounding, John could see, become a furnace hot enough to melt the iron and twist it. The trusses of the bridge lay mangled, sharp diagonals gnarled and bent. The floor had collapsed, the base posts deformed.

‘I don’t like it,’ Arthur said. ‘It’s too lonely. Why did she suggest you meet here?’

Some of the razor wire along the banks had been removed. Lieselotte was right. It might be possible to walk along parts of the canal. A single willow had survived the bombing. Its singed branches hung over the canal in a graceful arc, their tips stroking the surface of the water, new pale green fronds rustling in the summer breeze.

‘To saunter, sergeant.’

‘I suggest we leave, now.’

John checked his watch. Six o’clock. On time. She had been punctual last week. She was probably that kind of a person, thought it selfish to keep people waiting. He had thought about little else but her for a week, talking to her in his head, walking with her in his dreams, kissing her in the dark recesses of his sleep. It wasn’t unusual, he reasoned, for a pupil to have a crush on their teacher. Fall in love.

The workers in the Tiergarten had gone home, leaving their plots and crops. He wasn’t sure which direction to look for her, down Lichtensteinallee or Tiergartenstrasse. Both were empty. Arthur raised an eyebrow. He was wrong to make Arthur hang around with him. He was pulling rank and he knew it, and that was unfair.

‘How long will you give her, sir?’

‘What time is it now?’

‘Ten past.’

He’d wait here all night if necessary, but Arthur would never put up with that.

‘Till half past,’ he said. He crossed his fingers, willing her to come. She must live at home. He wondered what she told her parents. Perhaps they didn’t care, so long as the money came in. He didn’t understand why Arthur was suspicious, although he could understand his fear now. The place was deserted. The war was over, but soldiers were sitting ducks for the trigger-happy in an occupied country.

Lieselotte. Cradling her blue enamel jug as if it was as precious as her clock, dancing, prancing around him, peek-a-boo in the dusty shrubs. Singing in her clear, soft voice. In all the destruction of this city, she was life. She was the single, singed salix along the bank, the baby blackbird in the bush. Perhaps, when he had time, he’d write her a poem in German, give it to her so she would remember him. Perhaps, when this was over, he’d come back to see her. Would it be the same?

Arthur was wandering close to the bridge.

‘Be careful,’ John said. ‘There could still be mines.’

Arthur turned, walked back to John. ‘She’s not coming, sir.’

‘Give her a few more minutes.’