‘I don’t know for sure,’ she said. ‘I find accents quite difficult to place. I can hear that they’re different, but I can’t always say where the person is from.’ She sighed deeply, and frowned as she tried hard to concentrate. ‘It could have been Austrian. But I suppose it could just as easily have been Bavarian. You know, old-fashioned.’

‘Austrian or Bavarian,’ I said, writing in my notebook. I thought about underlining the word ‘Bavarian’ and then thought better of it. There was no point in giving it more emphasis than she had done, even if Bavarian suited me better. Instead I paused, saving my last question until I was sure that she had finished her answer.

‘Now think very clearly, Sarah. You’re standing by the car. The window is down and you’re looking straight into the car. You see the man with the moustache. What else can you see?’

She shut her eyes tight, and licking her lower lip she bent her brain to squeeze out one last detail.

‘Cigarettes,’ she said after a minute. ‘Not like Daddy’s.’ She opened her eyes and looked at me. ‘They had a funny smell. Sweet, and quite strong. Like bay-leaves, or oregano.’

I scanned my notes and when I was sure that she had nothing left to add I stood up.

‘Thank you, Sarah, you’ve been a great help.’

‘Have I?’ she said gleefully. ‘Have I really?’

‘You certainly have.’ We all smiled, and for a moment the four of us forgot who and what we were.

Driving from the Hirsch home, I wondered if any of them realized that for once Sarah’s race had been to her advantage – that being Jewish had probably saved her life.

I was pleased with what I had learned. Her description was the first real piece of information in the case. In the matter of accents her description tallied with that of Tanker, the desk sergeant who had taken the anonymous call. But what was more important it meant that I was going to have to get the dates on which Streicher had been in Berlin from General Martin in Nuremberg, after all.

14

Monday, 26 September

I looked out of the window of my apartment at the backs of the adjoining buildings, and into several sitting-rooms where each family was already grouped expectantly round the radio. From the window at the front of my apartment I could see that Fasanenstrasse was deserted. I walked into my own sitting-room and poured myself a drink. Through the floor I could hear the sound of classical music coming from the radio in the pension below. A little Beethoven provided a nice top and tail for the radio speeches of the Party leaders. It’s just what I always say: the worse the picture, the more ornate the frame.