‘I’ve told you,’ Dora said, hoping the quiver in her voice wasn’t telling, ‘I don’t know who he is. If I don’t know him, how can he know me? He is mistaken.’

Barbara picked up her teacup and leaned back. ‘The photo was with my mother’s things, when she died.’

‘So?’

She wished she had never agreed to meet Barbara. She’d had a strange feeling all along. Something was amiss. Barbara Hummel was a good actress, fraudsters had to be. What did she want? Money?

Barbara took the photo from Dora, turned it over.

‘It says aus Jersey on the back.’

‘So?’

Whatever she wanted, this was a shabby, sordid trick. Dora signalled to the waitress for the bill. She dabbed at the crumbs on her plate with her finger, aware that Barbara was studying her.

‘Before you go,’ Barbara said. She delved into her bag and pulled out another photo. A fraudster would have given up, surely, but this woman persevered.

‘Do you know this man?’

An SS officer. Grey tunic. Three silver pips on the left-hand collar. Cap with a black band, leather belt with a revolver. He wore the Iron Cross. Breeches. Boots. High-ranking. Hauptsturmführer. Captain. A studio portrait.

Dora’s hands were trembling and her heart pounding. She could feel the blood rushing to her face. She knew the physiology. Uncle Otto explained it to her in those early days when she couldn’t sleep. Your mind perceives a threat, so your body responds. Blood diverts itself away from the stomach and into your muscles. Your heart pumps harder to inject sugar and fats into the system for energy. Fight or flight, mein Liebling. But if there is no threat, if it’s just in your imagination, in your memory…

Who was this woman?

‘No,’ Dora said. ‘Never seen him before.’

She was tempted to say, Who are you? How did your mother have these photos? But that would give away the lie. Dora’d had to live on a lie. She didn’t want to do it again, thought those days were over. But here she was. Lying. Lies have short legs, her father used to say. Lies corrupted, built fear. Lies caught up with you. She could feel the bitter taste of fury swell inside her, the choking resentment at this woman churning up so much, without explanation, without a care. She was aware that Barbara was still studying her, weighing up Dora’s expressions, the way her body moved, her eyes flickered. She picked up her teaspoon, polished it with her napkin, returned Barbara’s gaze. Barbara looked away and Dora saw a brittleness there, a fragility she’d not spotted before.

‘Do you have children?’ Barbara said.

‘I never married.’ That was easier than the truth. She couldn’t have children. Not after what they did.

‘You don’t need to be married to have children.’