‘Göring does. And Frick. But that’s it, I think.’

‘Let’s go into town,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘To see what’s happening.’

‘Why?’ I asked again.

‘Because I want to see it with my own eyes.’

She wore Rosenberg’s shirt. ‘Charlotte, it’s a Nazi parade, not Irmi’s Christmas party.’

‘We must see it for ourselves.’ She swung her legs off mine to find her coat and scarf. ‘Besides,’ she said, her voice muffled, ‘I can’t stand to be inside any longer.’

Ah; yes. This was what she needed: a small break, a little distance – whereas I could have had weeks more with her like this. That was always the difference between us. She was always the one to break first.

Our train was full of people with the same idea. The tunnels were dark aside from the lamps which lent passing brightness to the commuters hanging loosely from the leather straps as the train crashed along the tracks. The platforms were full, and our carriage only got fuller as we approached the city: businessmen and students and housewives and the unemployed, ready to see whatever spectacle we deserved.

After we reached the station we walked toward Unter den Linden. Everywhere illuminated advertisements sold politics and health. Around us was the helpless brickwork of the city, and khaki trucks on the road, their cargo covered. Several fireworks shot into the sky, far away enough to be Luna Park.

There were many women in the crowd when we reached the boulevard. There were men too but not as many. I asked one woman how long she’d been there and she said ‘since lunch’, which was when we’d heard the radio announcement. Flags snapped loudly in the quick wind. The women might have been our age, though they seemed older. They kept on looking at Charlotte. They would look once, trying to divine her; then look back again.

We shared our kirsch amongst the women and they let us closer to the rope. Victory was in her chariot at the top of the Gate, and the horses looked ready to ride out from under her. I wondered if we might see Jenö in the crowd.

It must have been an hour or so later when everyone without warning surged forward, a whisper going through the crowd – he’s coming, he’s here! The noise of drums came from the avenue, then a rattling, but most of the boulevard was dark. Then the drumming became louder, and we could hear hundreds of boots marching in time. Torches suddenly provoked from the night the Storm Troopers, grimly, steadfastly, entering Berlin. Whatever the torches burned made the air foul. Everything was quiet as the men marched toward the gates, burning rivers of light into the boulevard beyond the rope.

‘Look!’ one of the women exclaimed. ‘Over there!’