The house at no. 14 Savignyplatz was a wedding cake: just as Ernst would have wanted it. There were lilies in the window, more in a great urn on the mantelpiece, and bright flowered wallpaper that shone even from a distance. A darkened square above the fireplace was a mirror perhaps. Mr Steiner had left earlier but had returned twenty minutes later to pick up a black briefcase. His possible wife had left for the day too.

The day was stormy: fast winds and even faster rain showers, and, out of all this in a clearance of cloud, sunlight so strong it lit every embellishment of the house. Hats were lifted off heads, children were dragged into the blasts, and women raced to tie handkerchiefs around their hair. Then the dirty clouds skittered along until the sky had turned blue once more, and the morning was very bright, and the headscarves were again removed. Even in the sunshine I heard the grind of thunder, and saw three rainbows come and go, so that if I was looking for auspices in the weather I could have found one for every eventuality.

I wondered if making contact with Walter again didn’t cross some verge that my loyalty to Charlotte forbade, but I knew if he was in there, then I wanted to see him. He’d say – a princely toss of his head, maybe even cupping my cheek in his hand – that I was right to feel so troubled about Jenö and the Bauhaus; he’d feel the same. Follow her, he’d say. Work out what she’s up to. Irmi’s reassurances were nothing next to proof.

I felt the expense of the gravel as I walked to the door. The nameplate said Mr and Mrs Steiner, and my heart dropped. Ernst had married; Walter was not here. I knocked.

A woman answered. Her guard came up when she saw me, and it gave me the old feeling of being a Bauhäusler again. ‘Yes?’

Before I answered I heard Walter’s voice, plunging me back into the past. ‘Who is it, Annaliese?’

A lift of excitement, a thrill. Here he was!

‘Who do you require?’ she said. She kept the door closed enough that I couldn’t see into the house.

‘Mr König, please.’

She asked me for my name and I gave it to her.

‘Paul Beckermann for you,’ she said. For moments nothing happened as she watched Walter’s expression in the hall. ‘Do you want me to send him away?’

‘No, no. Let him in.’

Walter was in a dressing gown, silk and paisley, the bones of his chest visible. He had become a slender man again. His hands shook as he drew the gown to his throat. ‘Paul. What a shock.’

‘Hello, Walter.’ Here he was: my friend and traitor. His lips were full; his hair still thick.