‘So being Christian didn’t protect you from the fucking Nazis?’

‘No. The law said I was a Mischling Jew, so that was that. I was put on a transport east; first to the ghetto in Krakow, then later on to Auschwitz.’

‘And your parents?’

Rothstein shrugged, then looked down at the ground and slowly shook his head. ‘Same story as you, I think, Mo.’

‘Have you been back there – to Stuttgart?’

‘Yes, but there was nothing there. No family, the house destroyed. I walked to Munich because I had cousins there, but they were gone, too.’

‘Tell me about Auschwitz, Albert.’

Again he shook his head and was silent.

‘Ah, no one wants to talk about it,’ Heck said. ‘And no one wants to listen. No one wants to hear our stories. They want to put all the misery behind them and get on with their lives. They want to get married, have babies, plan their futures in Palestine or New York or wherever. But not me. I want to know these stories, for I believe they must be heard.’ He pulled out his leather-bound journal from his bag of khaki webbing and flicked through it. ‘This is history and someone must write it down so that it is not forgotten. Surely you agree?’

‘Yes, Mo, you are right. But not now. Maybe another day.’

They were sitting with their backs to a wooden shack in the far corner of the DP camp. Men, women and children ambled past without looking at them. Both were smoking American cigarettes. Heck was in tattered trousers held up by a length of cord tied around his waist. He had a grubby open-necked white shirt and his sleeves rolled up to show his tanned arms. Unlike Rothstein, he had no tattoos.

Rothstein wore an old suit, jacket buttoned up despite the warmth of the summer’s day.

‘Show me the mark, Albert. Your number.’

Rothstein frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your Auschwitz number. The tattoo on your forearm. I want to see it. Please. I need to witness these things. I need to hear your testimony – what you saw there. The murders, the Zyklon B, the crematoria.’

Without waiting for Rothstein to comply, Heck stubbed out his cigarette into the ground and then grasped Rothstein’s arm and rolled back the sleeves of his jacket and shirt. The tattoo was there – B9658. Heck peered closely at the mark. ‘It looks almost new, as though it were done yesterday.’

‘It was done two years ago.’

‘It is a badge of honour for you, and a badge of shame for your SS tormentors.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘I do not have one, but perhaps my family did. Perhaps not. Perhaps they went straight to the gas chamber. I still have no idea of their fate. Did you ever come across anyone called Heck at Auschwitz-Birkenau, Albert?’

Rothstein shook his head and tried to draw his hand back, but Heck was holding him in a firm grip.