How to define our relation except as halves of an indivisible whole? We spent more time together than brothers, yet ours was not a fraternal tie. It lacked the frictional bickering of siblinghood, the inherent rivalry for parental affection. Nor was it, as one might reasonably suspect, a homoerotic involvement. No matter that we flicked wet towels at each other in the bathroom and ran naked down the corridor, willing the deliciously shockable Florrie to run shrieking across our dripping path. We blew raspberry-farts and taunted each other’s pimply cheeks and skinny shanks. As manhood descended, Dovidl’s limbs thickened and sprouted jet-black hair while mine remained for two long years laggardly boyish and bare. I knew his body as well as my own, yet I cannot recall a covetous thought or penetrative urge. A state of unity, quite distinct from love or desire, was the current and currency of our connection.

An over-serious psychoanalyst (I have paid a few in my time) might interpret this as a sublimation of deeply repressed lust in a neurotically submissive personality. Nothing in my conscious recollection offers any confirmation of this diagnosis. True, we hugged and wrestled as all boys do, but we were far too respectful of each other’s dignity to press for submission or consummation. The longer Dovidl stayed, the more assertive I grew, confident in my usefulness to him and, tacitly, to my father. Dovidl, aware of my dual loyalty, never alluded to it by so much as the arching of an eyebrow. He was a hart-like creature of natural delicacy. What passed between us was, it seemed to me, stronger and more elegant than ties of blood or sex. And, as we became exposed to blood and sex in the havoc of Blitz and adolescence, our bond grew tighter and ever more vital.

When the suspenseful calm was broken in June 1940, with northern Europe in Hitler’s hands and Luftwaffe fighters swaggering in broad daylight above our heads, we ten-year-olds were nicely placed to observe the excitements. To earn extra pocket money and sustain an essential service, I had proposed that we should take up the paper rounds that were being forlornly advertised by the Blenheim Terrace newsagent, Mr Wilcox.

‘Out of the question,’ said Mother. ‘I will not have you rattling at people’s doors like hawkers and common tradesmen. What would your father think of us, David?’

‘It is what he does for a living,’ said Dovidl quietly. ‘He sells costume jewellery, door to door.’

She had the grace to blush.

‘Johnny Isaacs does a paper round,’ I piped up.

‘That boy is turning into a great disappointment, after such a promising start,’ sighed Mother.

‘It would be a kind of war work,’ volunteered Dovidl, ‘giving people responsible information and saving them from rumours.’