‘And the truth would have helped you how?’ he said. ‘No one can be a hero against the tides of history. You can only swim with it and hope it doesn’t drown you.’

‘But I did it to save my own skin.’

‘I ran away and left my sisters to die. Now, there’s guilt for you.’

Why should Barbara feel guilt? Her war was nothing other than history. Still, Dora thought, what kind of a shock would it be to discover these sorts of things? To entertain the possibility that Maximilian List was your father? List was in the SS- Totenkopfverbände, Death’s Head units, ran a concentration camp. Dora had heard nothing about what went on in Alderney, but a camp was a camp and Lager Sylt had been a satellite of Neuengamme, and there had been plenty about that camp in the trials after the war.

She heard Barbara climb the steps up to the kitchen and enter, her heels click-clacking on the wooden floor.

‘Thank you for the coffee,’ she said.

Dora smiled. ‘You’re welcome. I never really got used to tea, not in the afternoon.’

‘I should leave you,’ she said.

But Barbara made no move to go and Dora sensed she wanted to talk some more.

‘What’s the time?’

Barbara checked her watch. ‘It’s six o’clock. I’ve stayed too long. You have things to do.’

‘Well,’ Dora said, ‘I can miss one night of bridge. It’s not too early to have a glass of wine. It’s not often I have visitors. Perhaps you would join me?’

She had a bottle of Riesling in the fridge. It had been on special offer. Not that Dora was poor, but she was careful with her money. Perhaps all refugees were careful with money.

‘Thank you,’ Barbara said. ‘I have no plans for this evening. That would be nice.’

‘Well, make yourself useful,’ Dora said. ‘There are olives in the fridge. Please will you take them out, put them in that dish.’ She pointed towards a brightly painted bowl that she’d bought in Spain one year.

It was strange having another woman in the kitchen. Dora had always thought she’d resent it, but Barbara didn’t seem to crowd the space. This is what it must be like to have a daughter, taking charge, knowing where the cutlery lived, or where the breakfast cereal was kept. Perhaps when she was older and she needed care, she’d allow a nurse in to prepare her meals. Could she afford that? Better than meals-on-wheels, cooked in some institution and delivered at ten o’clock in the morning. She had a neighbour who relied on them, and he always complained that they were cold and came at uncivilised hours. Well, she had a few more years before she need think about that.

‘Will you pass the wine, too,’ Dora said, ‘while you’re there.’