Any tiredness disappeared as she walked down the corridor to the bathroom. She hadn’t heard from Carl in a month, and now here he was, turning up in the middle of the night. It was unlike him to be so random, a thought that troubled her as she ran a shallow bath. She removed her gloves, and stepped into the lukewarm water. At least it wasn’t cold, which it always was in her flat. A regular hot bath was one of the few luxuries, along with good food and wine, that made working at Kitty’s bearable. She knew that there were some women in Berlin who had prostituted themselves just to earn some scraps for their children—in comparison Leni felt lucky, very lucky. In fact, she might even have put on a little weight since leaving Sonthofen. She looked down at her stomach, and pinched it—there was very little fat, but she had definitely been thinner back in Dresden.

She splashed herself all over with a sponge, concentrating on her breasts and vagina. She and Heinrich used to joke about such a bath—a “whore’s bath”—when the water supplies ran low back home. The force of the irony never stopped hurting, especially when she had up to five such baths a day. She got out and briskly toweled herself dry.

Strasser was already sitting on the edge of her bed, his boots off, and swigging from a bottle of champagne. His uniform, normally so well pressed, looked crumpled, and she could smell that he had been drinking heavily. His state somewhat dented her enthusiasm.

“Hello, Carl,” she ventured tentatively. “I thought we had New Year’s Eve a couple of days ago!”

He looked up, his eyes glazed and watery. He smiled broadly.

“I’m drunk, Leni,” he slurred. “Very, very drunk.”

“I didn’t think you got drunk.”

“No, but tonight I am. It’s all Max’s fault—he said he would try to get me drunk and he succeeds to have appeared.”

Leni laughed.

“Appears to have succeeded, you mean.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You nearly did. Here, give me the bottle. It looks as though I’ve got some catching up to do.”

Strasser stretched out his arm, waving the bottle toward her. It was a 1921 Louis Roederer—it would have cost him a fortune. She took a gulp, feeling the gently sparkling liquid slip down. She tried handing back the bottle, but Strasser was slumped forward, staring at the same spot on the carpet she had been gazing at a few minutes ago. She took another swig, and then went to stand in front of him, his forehead coming to rest just below her stomach.