Page 1 of The Banned Books of Berlin

Oxfordshire, November 1946

She is standing at the window, looking out into the park. Tawny deer are grazing on the other side of the ditch, mist pooling around their hooves like soft grey smoke. Mating season is nearly over and the stags only occasionally rear up to clash antlers – half-heartedly, as though they can’t really be bothered. Mid-afternoon, and the sky is already darkening. How many times have you seen that view on a dreary winter’s day, misery clenching your body in its iron fist?

She turns around as you walk towards her and gives you that old dazzling smile. ‘Hello, stranger. Been a while, hasn’t it?’ And she holds out her hand for you to shake. You exchange pleasantries about the weather, and the journey you’ve taken to get here. By unspoken agreement, you’re both talking in English.

‘Have a seat,’ she says, indicating a chair by the fire. ‘It must feel a little strange, getting a taste of life on this side of the house. I’ll ring for tea in a minute and that will really give you the heebie jeebies. I’m afraid things have gone sadly downhill since your day. Rationing, you know. It’s worse than the war. If it wasn’t for the chickens and the kitchen garden, we’d be sunk.’

‘We heard things were tough over here,’ you say, perching on the edge of the chair.

She’s so thin! Not lithe and slender in the way she used to be, but shrunken, desiccated, as though she’s being eaten up from inside. Her eyes look bigger than ever and her cheekbones stand out like razor shells.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t sure whether you would.’

‘Of course I came,’ you reply. ‘How could I refuse you anything?’

‘We’ll see about that,’ she says, and smiles again.

The tea tray is delivered by a slatternly maid in wrinkled woollen stockings and no cap, and it’s disappointing. Fish-paste sandwiches and leaden, grey crumpets with marrow jam that hasn’t set.

She pours the tea and passes you a cup. ‘So how are you?’ she asks. ‘You look well. Bonny, even, which I’d never have guessed. You must find me sadly diminished.’

You tell her that you’re glad to see her, and it’s true. She knows you better than anyone else in the world and being with her reminds you of the old days. Days that were so glamorous and painful, brighter and sharper than any that have passed since then.

She lights a cigarette, which makes her cough, and an ancient Pekinese waddles out of its basket by the fire and heaves itself on to her lap. Stroking the creature, she says, ‘I invited you here because I have a request to make. I have several things to tell you which may come as a shock, but will you hear me out?’ And she looks at you with an expression you’ve never seen on her face before: pleading, vulnerable.

‘Of course,’ you say.

‘Promise?’ she asks, like a small child, and you nod.

‘Promise.’

And so she begins to speak, and the world stops turning. Stop talking! you want to shout, but you’ve given her your word and have to listen. On and on she talks, and her voice drips like acid, eating its way through your heart.