And what of Maria Dienstag, the woman with the dead baby? It had been an other-worldly encounter, and he still could not adequately explain to himself why he had helped her rather than turn her aside and leave her to go on her merry way to insanity and self-destruction, like so many others in this godforsaken wasteland. A crazy woman, driven to madness by the death of her child . . . it was just one grim story among millions in this year of unfolding horror.

He had helped her within a couple of minutes of shooting dead a fellow German for the crime of being a Nazi. Perhaps that was the clue. Perhaps he had needed to prove to himself that he was capable of mercy, so was better than the enemy. Yet for all he knew at first sight, she might have been a rabid Nazi, too; many women were – and often as culpable as the men.

But he had helped her and, in doing so, he had discovered by chance that she and her husband had resisted Hitler and had paid a heavy price for their doomed heroism. Not only that, but they had actually assisted Miriam and had given her shelter.

Here on this uncomfortable rock ledge, in the damp mist of a low cloud, he worried that he had not done enough for her, that he could have done more than leave her to the tender mercies of a priest with a little money for her keep.

He knew what his father would have done, of course. The old man would have taken Maria into their home and he and Mother would have cared for her and fed her until she was well in body and soul. That had always been the way of Good Dr Heck, as everyone called him, both in Munich and Amsterdam. What sort of people thought it right to kill Good Dr Heck and his family? Had they gone to the gas chambers with words of forgiveness for their murderers?

Father had wanted Mozes to be a doctor, but he had always known that it wasn’t for him. His nature was wrong. He did not love all humanity. He wanted to be a writer.

He turned over on the rocky ground in a hopeless attempt to get comfortable. It didn’t matter; he’d sleep anyway. He had slept in shallow foxholes, behind tanks and in ruined buildings on the way eastwards from Normandy, this past year. He could sleep anywhere at any time. The only thing that intruded tonight was the thought of his family, and that made him want to weep. But no tears came and he wanted to rage at the sky in his wrath and frustration, but not here where he would be heard by those below.