And then, of course, there’s my cancer room. It’s not a treatment room. It’s just where I collect all my information. All the cases where miners, or workers at the mine like myself, have either developed cancer, or silicosis, or both. I’ve noted the details of each one down. One day, people will learn the truth, I’m sure of it. Whether I’ll still be alive to see that . . . well, somehow I doubt it.

*

I check myself in the mirror before I set off. It’s probably been more than the ten minutes I said I’d take, but then he’s the one who sought a reunion with me, not vice versa, so I can afford to make him wait a little. In any case, absence makes the heart grow fonder, so they say. I don’t particularly love the reflection that looks back at me, but it’s about the best I can do for a middle-aged woman with fourth-degree burn scars on one side of her face.

When I finally arrive, I see him waiting in the corner, nursing a beer a little dolefully. Some of my neighbours try to catch my eye, probably surprised to see me out – no doubt even more surprised about me meeting a man sitting on his own, at least one that doesn’t look like a complete gargoyle. They’ll be gossiping about it tomorrow in the Kaufhalle, no doubt.

Let them.

He stands up when he sees me, gives me a kiss on the good side of my face because that’s the side I proffer to him, and pulls out a chair for me. Then he asks me what I’d like to drink. A proper gentleman, not like some of the oafs I’ve been on dates with down the years.

‘That’s kind of you. I’ll have a small Sekt please, Arnold.’

He calls the waitress over and orders for me, and another beer for himself.

‘It’ll have to be my last one. I’m driving back to Dresden.’

Oh don’t worry, I want to say. You’d be very welcome to stay over. But I don’t because (a) I know he’s married although his wife’s not with him in Dresden for some reason (b) the flat’s still a terrible mess and (c) it would be horribly forward and I couldn’t bear him turning me down.

‘It’s so good to see you, Lotti, after so long. How old were we?’

‘I was thirteen, you were twelve,’ I laugh. ‘I suppose you could say I was a cradle snatcher.’

‘I suppose so, but we shouldn’t really joke about such things.’

Oh god! I forgot. He’s a terribly serious academic these days. I’d better try not to make any of my feeble jokes.