‘Then I guess I had better go and talk to your cousin. Do you have a more specific address for him? House name or number? Street?’

‘No. But Almrosen is tiny. Everyone in the village will know him and his house is the largest. But please, Professor, do not tell him or anyone else that I provided his name. I hope one day to return to civilian life and I am certain there will be resentment aimed at those who have helped the Allies.’

Wilde rose to leave. ‘I’ll see how it goes, Dr Schellenberg. But I’m not making any promises.’

The Shell also stood. His whole body shaking, he reached across to give the sweat-soaked handkerchief back to his interrogator.

‘Keep it,’ Wilde said.

Chapter 7

Mozes Heck had been Albert Rothstein’s constant companion for four days. It was the way he held his cigarette and the way he looked at the canteen food that confirmed Heck’s interest. That and the casual throwaway line of Jerzy, the boy with the camera.

Making friends with Rothstein had been difficult at first. Heck had used the direct approach. ‘Hey, what is your name? You always seem to be alone,’ he had said by way of introduction as they waited in line at the food counter.

Rothstein had shied away, startled at the unwanted intrusion on his personal space.

Heck was undeterred. He smiled, then clapped Rothstein on the shoulder. A gesture of understanding between two young men who had suffered the horrors of war. ‘Don’t worry, friend. We’re all on the same side now. No one’s going to hurt you. No guards here.’

They were in the Apfelwald displaced persons camp, located in the middle of a forest near Garmisch. It was one of hundreds of refuges dotted around Europe. Some were the size of towns and all were temporary home to the millions of people thrown to the winds by the war.

Many of those living here had been slave labourers interned in concentration camps, others were survivors of the death camps.

Volunteers from the Red Cross and the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration worked tirelessly to improve their lot. And things were getting better. Having lived through the horrors of the Nazi regime, the people here did their utmost to recreate some sort of normality. They planted flowers in pots and created intricate hanging baskets bursting with blooms. Their barrack-room accommodation began to feel almost homely.

In the months since liberation, the former prisoners had put on weight and had started to live and love again. But where would they go from here? When would their predicament end? ‘Excuse me,’ Rothstein had said when Mozes Heck first approached him. ‘I just wish to get my food and eat alone, if you don’t mind.’

‘Don’t be like that. Come on, what’s your name?’ Heck asked again. He had noted the accent; Rothstein was undoubtedly German.

‘My name is Rothstein,’ the man conceded with a sigh. ‘Albert Rothstein. But honestly, I don’t want to talk right now.’