I found Thom sat writing at a desk in one of the drawing rooms. Renoir nude over the fireplace, possibly the one Axel mentioned, the one the Russians were pleading to have back. Thom shot out of his seat and directed me over to a wall of pictures. It was a collection of 1920's photographs of women in flapper poses. Now I think, said Thom. I was quite clear he wasn't thinking anything. What had happened to my son? He scratched his chin. I think that a photograph must have a title. You cant just take a picture and not give it a name. Can you, really? His eyes softened a little. Clearly, he didnt want me to know what he was writing at the desk. Well, probably these pictures are anonymous, so we if we don't know the photographer, then. I sounded rather lame but looked him hard in the eyes. Where had my son gone?

Gertrude entered carrying a cheeseburger and chips.

Dankschoen, said Thom, without turning round.

Bitte, said Gertrude, quietly leaving the plate on his desk.

I was angry with her, but I'm not now. She kept correcting my pronunciation, he said. For a moment, we looked at the pictures. I was reminded of a photo of my mother. I felt a yearning to be out of Hamburg, to be hurtling on down to Auschwitz. The memory of my mother, dead when I was nine, had also softened Thom. He looked down at the floor. I am writing a diary, he said. He looked up quickly and said, to be certain there was no misunderstanding, but it's not secret.

Of course it's secret, Thom. If your diary is any good, you will never show a soul. Now, I am going to sit over here, you go back to your diary and write. Just write! And so we passed the time. My son on the other side of the drawing room, hiding his words with his cupped hand, the light fading on the Rumanian rug, the last of the brandy on my lips while, on and off, looking up at the Renoir. For a moment, like a dying man, I lacked for nothing.

3 am. I woke up in the chair. Thom had gone, and his diary. He was in bed, a plate of cookies and a glass of milk on the table. Quietly, I let myself out the side entrance, onto the Reeperbahnn. I heard my voice saying, research, research. Another voice, also my own, did not reply.