‘I learned to keep my counsel,’ Betty said, her eyes fixed on the inscription. ‘Nobody wants to hear from a German. Much less a self-pitying one.’

‘Did you lose anyone else in the war?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But not like the Jews, or the Roma or Sinti. Or the labourers or the prisoners. Or the millions of others who died. We were the lucky ones.’ She paused and he watched as her lips moved, as if she was about to say something more. ‘My mother died. My grandparents too, shortly after. And my father.’ She spoke into the display, as if describing what she saw, an alloy coin with a hole in its centre. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘How so?’

‘I was six when he left. I never saw him again until the war was over. I was twelve, almost thirteen. I was sent to England.’ She turned, faced him. ‘I’d never been out of Germany and I had to meet him in England. Our enemy. Our conqueror. I travelled alone. Can you imagine? I was terrified. I had an envelope with my papers and was put on a RAF plane at Tempelhof. It was full of demobbed airmen.’ She gave a half-smile, shook her head. ‘My father met me at the airport. Croydon, I think it was. Walked across the tarmac. Of course, I’d grown, changed, but when he saw me…’

She sniffed deep and turned away, but he saw the tears welling in her eyes. ‘He didn’t hug me. Didn’t say he’d missed me. Just dragged me by the hand out of sight.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘I’d shamed him, apparently.’ She swallowed. ‘You see, I’d been allowed to pick an outfit for the journey. The Red Cross had these second-hand clothes, donations, I suppose. I’d been living dressed as a boy, but now was my chance.’ He could see her smiling at the memory. ‘There was a party dress, with sequins and a tutu. It looked so pretty. I put it on and the UNRRA nurse gave me some lipstick. I thought I looked like a queen.’ She laughed a little. ‘Now, of course, I see I looked an absolute fright.’ She paused. ‘But I did it for him.’ Betty was facing the cabinet but he could see the tear trail down her cheek. ‘And he turned me away.’

She rummaged in her bag, pulling out a handkerchief, blowing her nose.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I haven’t ever told anyone that. Bottled it up, you know?’ She blew again. ‘I think he expected a nice wholesome child to emerge in a dirndl and plaits, the pride of Germany. Not an urchin in a cabaret dress.’ She blew out, as if the telling had exhausted her breath. ‘I wasn’t the child he thought I should be. I don’t know why I’m telling you this now. It’s not important.’