‘Danke,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She handed him the newspaper she’d wrapped it in, took the string bag and stuffed it into the pocket of her skirt. She turned to go but he found her presence alluring, magnetic even.

‘Sit for a minute,’ John said. ‘Have a glass of champagne.’

‘Nein, danke, kein Champagner,’ she said, shaking her head as she pulled out a stool from beneath the table and perched herself on the edge, holding her knees together, tugging her skirt down and tucking it under her thighs.

‘What is your name?’

‘Lieselotte,’ she said.

‘Lieselotte who?’

‘Just Lieselotte. And yours?’

‘John.’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Lieutenant John Harris, and this is Sergeant Arthur Gambol.’ She turned and nodded at Arthur, who shook his head, mouthed, No fraternisation. She was thin, her arms lean, her neck frail. He could see the jut of her collarbone beneath her blouse, the frame of her hand beneath its skin. Her fingernails were broken, the cuticles torn and black. He wanted to ask if she picked stones with the other women. She seemed too fragile for such work.

‘Can I offer you a sandwich?’ John said. ‘A ham roll?’

She hesitated.

‘Nein, danke,’ she said. ‘I must get back.’

‘And where are you from?’

‘Berlin.’

He wasn’t sure she wanted to talk, and yet she had taken a seat. She didn’t have the air of a streetwalker, though John wasn’t sure he’d recognise one anyway. She was, he guessed, about his age, a little younger perhaps. There was a serenity about her that he couldn’t fathom. Was it a calmness? Or numbness? Was she sad, or solemn? She needed food, a good square meal. He had an overwhelming urge to find out about her, how she came to be here, selling her clock, sitting on the stool beside him with her skirt wrapped around her thighs. He wanted to know all about her, to know her.

‘Why don’t you teach me German?’ he said, words crashing out before he’d had time to think them through.

‘You speak German.’

‘Conversational German. I’ll pay you. A hundred marks an hour.’ She breathed in sharp, her dirty hand across her mouth, eyes wide. She neither smiled nor scowled. Arthur drummed his nails on the tabletop, coughed.

‘I have no classroom,’ she said.

‘Who needs a classroom? The summer is here. We can walk and talk.’

‘Just walk and talk?’

‘Yes.’ He put his hand across his heart. ‘Yes. Promise.’

She frowned, thinking. He wondered if she always did that, frowned when she thought. She didn’t answer. Please, he thought. Please. He didn’t want to push her. Say yes. She seemed brittle, as if a decision would crack her in two. He had to see her again, even if it meant buying every clock she sold.

‘Where shall we meet?’ she said at last.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow. Sunday. We could talk all day.’