She looked the same. Like Charlotte, she was dressed in trousers and a shirt. I kissed her on the cheek. Her hair was streaked with grey but her eyes were lively and mocking. ‘I’ve got my own studio. But occasionally I learn something new at the Bauhaus. Or they learn something from me.’

Otti pulled me over to her loom. She talked about her new work using the language of photography – lights, shades, exposures. One might have thought it was typical Otti, inflating her understanding of the world, but it was also clever: dress the feminine form in masculine language, and people started to listen.

‘And what are your plans for the great exodus?’ she said, as if all talk always returned to this. She rolled another cigarette, forgetting about the one she had tucked behind her ear.

‘We’re staying,’ I said, the words coming out unevenly. I took the cigarette from her ear to show her. ‘At least for now.’

Otti smoked the new one instead. I pocketed the old one, and she showed me all her teeth. ‘Good for you. I’m off to England.’

‘With who?’ said Charlotte, surprise in her voice.

‘Myself. I’m saving up. The hard of hearing are all the rage in England. Lilly’s put me in touch with a Weavers’ Guild in Norwich. I’ll be like an exiled Walloon.’

Perhaps the thing about Otti was that she did actually know an awful lot. I had no idea who the Walloons were, but maybe they had been Master Weavers in Norwich. Otti said she had to go – she had a meeting with the Director and couldn’t be late. ‘He’s annoyed because I’ve got the patents on my fabrics. Nota bene, Charlotte dearest. Irritate the Director and you know you’ve done something right.’

Otti squeezed my hand, and we arranged to meet at Aschinger’s the following week. All this planning was good for us. It showed Charlotte our rootedness. The ballet with Kaspar. Ice-skating this Sunday. Aschinger’s the week after. It was our life that was here. Our life.

When Otti left, Charlotte rolled her eyes. ‘You just can’t stop flirting with each other, can you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Otti may be hard of hearing, but I’m not.’

‘Why is it you think everyone’s suddenly in love with me?’

‘Do you want to see what I’ve brought you here for? It wasn’t just to have Otti Berger blowing smoke in our mugs.’

Charlotte opened a big metal cabinet. Inside, there were hessian sacks pegged to the hangers. On the rough cloth of the first she had stitched her name in yellow thread: Charlotte F. ‘Here it is,’ she said. She was watching my face for a reaction, then she unsacked the weave and laid it on the desk. ‘Here it is.’