‘I can understand that, Arnold. But by talking about it, you will be helping the war effort. Everyone has to do their bit. As Mr Churchill has said, this is a war of unknown warriors. He didn’t just mean soldiers by that. He meant every one of us – even those, like yourself, who are too young to actually fight.’

I glower at him then. What does he know – sitting in his pinstripe suit, with his fountain pen and inkwell? Why isn’t he fighting like others of his age? Why isn’t he doing his bit?

But he’s like a dog picking at its own scabs, again and again and again.

‘Was the loss of Fred particularly hard?’

I start curling my fingers into fists under the table. I want to give him a bloody good punch. How dare he ask such stupid questions?

‘It wasn’t just hard, it was awful,’ I snap. Tears wet my cheeks, but I don’t care. ‘He was my baby brother. I looked after him. Protected him. Only I didn’t do a very good job, did I? And it was all my fault.’

The man looks surprised at that, and stops taking notes. ‘Why do you say that, Arnold?’

‘I opened the blackout curtains to see the sky burning. The German bomber probably saw the light.’

The man gets out a handkerchief from his pocket and offers it to me. I take it and dab at my eyes and face. Then, from his other pocket, he gets out a packet of sherbet lemons and a paper serviette, puts three of the sweets on the tissue, and slides it across the table to me.

‘Those might help,’ he says in a friendly whisper. I don’t want to take the sweets. It seems like a betrayal. But being presented with sherbet lemons in the middle of a world war is a bit like a man dying of thirst reaching an oasis in the desert. Grudgingly, I allow myself to think that he has a job to do, like anyone. ‘Please look at me Arnold, and believe me when I tell you this. War is a terrible thing – but absolutely none of this, and certainly not what happened to your brother, is any of your fault. All right?’ He lifts my chin up gently so that I have to look him in the eyes.

‘All right,’ I say, trying to choke back the tears.

‘After what happened, did it change your attitude to the war, and to the Germans?’

‘Not really,’ I mumble. ‘I’ve always hated the Germans.’

‘But your mother said you had a German pen pal.’ He peers through his glasses at his notes again, leafing back a couple of pages. ‘Lotti. Did you feel differently about Lotti?’

‘What’s she got to do with anything?’

‘In her letters, did she talk about her views on the Nazi leadership?’