'And I say yes. At that flashy new American hotel in Wilmersdorfer Strasse. Red shutters and flower boxes,' she said disparagingly, as if such trappings were self-evident signs that it would encourage the illicit sharing of bedrooms.

I smiled.

'This hotel isn't good enough for them, I suppose.'

So that was the affront. It wasn't Gloria or Bret, or the rumor of them sharing a bed, that had annoyed Lisl; it was the idea that they might have preferred another hotel to hers. I didn't dwell upon it; Lisl loved rumors and she always got them wrong. Soon a tray arrived with broth and Bratwurst and warm potato salad, with a slice of the sort of Roggenbrot that I remembered from my childhood snacks — when I came home from school and helped myself to such good dark bread from the hotel kitchen.

'What have you done to Werner?' she said again.

'Nothing. Where is he?' I said between mouthfuls of soup.

'Eat! Eat' Don't talk to Werner until he's finished decorating my tree. He's gone to buy more colored lights.'

'What did he say I'd done to him?'

'Good sausage? I have a new butcher. You should see the Eisbein he sends me. And the Bockwurst: real Berlin style.' She watched me while I ate some more. 'Whatever you did to Werner, you've upset him.' Despite her love for me she loved to jolt me with disturbing news. 'Two wasted lives — you and Werner. What prospects do either of you have?'

'Werner is making a fortune,' I said.

'What's wrong with your broth? Why haven't you finished it? I have a new cook; just to do the lunches. He's a Schwab, a nice boy. Can you taste the goose gravy in it? That's how he gives it that lovely color.' She sniffed. 'Yes, Werner is always telling me he is doing well. But if he was really doing well would he still be working for you British?'

'He's not working for us,' I said.

'How do you know?'

'I'm Frank's Deputy.'

'Eat your bread. Is there too much garlic in the potato salad? Eat it then. Frank's Deputy? Ummm. That's not so bad then. Will you get allowances, car and driver, and all the trimmings?'

'I suppose so.' I finished the last morsel of potato salad. 'But the government in London is cutting back.'

'It's a family matter.' I looked up and she met my eyes. 'Whatever you've done to Werner . . . it's about your family; he said that it was. It's none of my business of course, so I don't expect him to confide in me about it. I told him that. I said, if it's something concerning only you and Bernd, it's private. It's better I don't know about it.'

'I can't imagine what it might be.'

'I've never interfered with you, Bernd. I've always let you live your own life in your own way. Even when I could see you were making that terrible mistake . . .' She fixed me with a stare and nodded to be sure I under- stood that this referred to my marriage to Fiona. 'I never interfered. I never commented. I never criticized. When your father died — God bless his soul — I told him that you would always have a home to come to here. But your life is your own, Bernd. Whatever you and Werner have to discuss, I don't want to know about it.'

'I respect that wish, Tante Lisl,' I said, not without a shade of Schadenfreude. 'And I'll see Werner keeps to it.'

Her eyes narrowed. She felt her parental role in my life entitled her to full and frank disclosure, the way all parents feel. 'He's back upstairs now, doing the tree. I heard the upstairs door bang. Keep where you are, I'll send for coffee. It's better Werner finishes doing the tree first. I'm determined to have the tree decorated and lit up early this Christmas. Trees are so expensive this year, and a Christmassy look brings in casual customers to drink at the bar.' As I kissed her goodbye she was still complaining that I wouldn't go and see a doctor.'Dr. Litzmann is a wonderful doctor; I wouldn't be here today without him.'

When finally permitted to depart and go upstairs I found extensive decorating under way. Bunches of holly and mistletoe, and golden foil decorations, were arranged on the floor upon sheets of brown wrapping pa- per. A ten-feet-tall Christmas tree had been erected near the bar at the far end of the saloon, the stepladder alongside it repeating its shape in shiny alloy, like some futuristic tree by a trendy designer. Heightening this effect, there was a set of colored fairy lights, draped over the ladder and winking on and off.

This large fin-de-siècle room was the best-preserved part of Lisl's lovely old family home. The same panelling and the ceiling could be recognized in many of the old photos that she treasured. One photo in particular stayed in my memory, a photo so full of action that I could almost hear the orchestra. This sepia-tinted grand salon was depicted sometime during the 1920s, with mothers in voluminous gowns and girls in scanty Twenties dresses; elderly men in elegant evening dress and young veterans in carefully tailored uniforms, military and political. The ancient camera's roller-blind shutter that had made the flowing ball gowns blur had frozen the splayed coattails of the whirling men. Fittingly so, for this was the time, and Berlin the place, where old and new Europe began to split apart, and where the Second World War was born.

'Werner, old pal. Where have you been?' Only after the golden star was fixed atop the Christmas tree, and it was garlanded in twinkling lights, did Werner stop work, put aside the ladder and go through the formalities. His jet-black hair was long and wavy and he had the discreet tan that the rich folk wear in winter. He was slim and elegant in black pants, patent loafers and a mustard-colored roll-neck. And when I grabbed his arm I knew I was holding several hundred D-marks' worth of silky cashmere. Such signs usually proclaimed that Zena was back on the Right deck, and sitting in the left-hand seat.

'Bernie. I was trying to reach you in London. It was only when I got Fiona on the line that I found out you were right here in Berlin.' Werner sat down beside me on the sofa near the bar, plucking at the knees of his trousers to preserve the creases.

'Where did the tan come from?'

'Punta,' he said self-consciously.

'Oh, Punta,' I said, as if I was an habitué of Punta del Este in Uruguay, the secret southern hideaway where the jet-set went to get tanned, while hoi polloi pulled on their woolen underwear to face the northern winter.

'Zena loves it there.'

'Your tree looks good, Werner.' He smiled nervously, not sure if I was joshing him. 'Lisl told you that I was looking for you?'

'She didn't say why,' I said.

'You didn't track down George Kosinski in Warsaw?'

'Not in Warsaw. Not in Switzerland. Not anywhere.'

'He's alive.'

'I think so,' I said. 'No, I mean I know he's alive. Someone I know saw him and recognized him. Very recently.'

I looked at Werner for a moment. It wasn't a joke; there were some things that Werner never joked about and my work was one of them. 'And did this someone know what George Kosinski looks like?'

'Definitely.'

'Where?'

'His brother's house.'

'I went there.'

'So I heard,' said Werner.

'The bastards. So they were hiding him. I thought they were.'

'But you didn't keep trying?'

'No,' I said. 'I figured that everyone has to draw the line somewhere, and man-hunting a fugitive brother-in-law might be the right spot for me to blow the whistle.'

'The Kosinskis outsmarted you, and you're sore?'

'Finding George is the easy part,' I told him. 'I'm still trying to figure out what he's doing there.'

'He's Polish,' said Werner.

'He's been Polish for a long time. But why should he suddenly tip-sticks and rush off to rural Poland in time for winter?'

'He's been pestering the DDR people about his wife's remains, hasn't he?'