A young woman emerged, balancing on the mounds of scree. She was carrying a jug. He watched as she stepped onto the even ground of the square, heading towards the gate. It was a while before he recognised her. The scarf had been removed and her hair hung loose in chestnut swags. She wore the same skirt and blouse as yesterday, was pulling out the string bag from her pocket, pushing the jug inside it.

She walked through the side arches and saw him. He waved and walked towards her as she began to run.

‘Guten Abend,’ he said. ‘No need to rush.’ He reached out for her bag but she clutched it tight, her face colouring in a blush. John felt awkward, unsure what to say. Such an odd thing, to have a conversation. She didn’t look pleased to meet him.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ he began. ‘Where shall we walk?’

She pointed towards the Tiergarten.

‘What should we talk about?’ John said. The obvious topic was the war, but that was the last thing that could be mentioned. The central boulevard was closed, so they skirted to the left. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arthur follow.

‘Whatever you want,’ he said. ‘Anything.’

They walked on in silence. This, he thought, was not a good idea. He heard her take in breath, as if she was to give a speech.

‘When I was a child,’ she said, ‘I used to come here with my parents. My grandmother lived in Dahlem and she’d take the U-Bahn to Tiergarten. I could run around while the grown-ups sat in in the café with their coffee and cake.’

She stopped and pointed at the landscape.

‘It used to be a beautiful park.’ She sighed, as if to apologise, pointing to the crops that had been planted and the trees that had been felled. ‘But we have to eat, we have to cook and keep warm. Beauty is a luxury we can’t afford.’ He wondered what she thought now, about Hitler and his dream. So many of the scientists he talked to said politicians came and went, what did it matter to them? It was science they valued.

‘Where are your parents now?’ John said.

She looked away. Her shoulder blades were sharp against her blouse, the vertebrae on her neck neat jacks stones in a row. When she looked back, there were tears in her eyes.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I cannot talk about myself, please. Bitte.’

John wondered what they could talk about if not themselves. Apart from the weather, there was nothing that seemed neutral.

‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’ She paused. ‘And a half. And you?’

‘Eighteen. And a half.’

They laughed. Her teeth were uneven and her lips cracked but her smile made creases in her cheeks, the hint of a dimple.

‘When is your birthday?’ she said.

‘February. The nineteenth.’

‘Mine too.’