Professor Hartmann’s optimism was a comfort when she thought of Bavaria.

There were others in the carriage: a young Belgian man who perhaps tried to catch her eye, but then hid himself behind his Süddeutsche Zeitung, bought from a news-vendor on the station concourse. An older man was asleep. An elegant woman whose blond hair shone with careful grooming sat with a basket on her lap, staring straight ahead.

She wore a feathered hat and a coat that was surely too warm, but seemed not to notice.

Gavriela sneezed - stray summer dust - and the woman looked at her.

‘Bless you.’

‘Thank you.’

After a time, Gavriela took out the book she had been reading, holding it so her fellow travellers could not make out the title or author. There were those who would consider Herr Doktor Freud’s works unsuitable for a feminine readership, however many of his patients were women. Part of her was afraid to find a reference to a Fräulein W, meaning herself - but her own case had been nothing interesting, not then. Doktor Freud’s mesmerism had relaxed her, making her life so much better, but it had been simple tiredness from overwork, no more . . . at that time.

Until those events later in Berlin, the apparition in the churchyard, the visions that hung above the entranced men’s heads in the school hall—

She floated in a golden space, near a city-world that bristled with towers and complex structures, where vessels swarmed amid futuristic splendour . . .

‘—my dear?’ It was the glamorous woman.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Gavriela came awake, and smiled around the carriage. ‘My apologies.’

The two men, smoking - the older had also woken - told her it was nothing. The younger man glanced at the book on Gavriela’s lap. Face growing warm, she closed the book and tucked it away beside her.

‘Although the gentlemen are not hungry,’ said the woman, ‘perhaps you could snack with me? So I’m not alone.’

‘I’m not—Actually, yes, thank you. You’re very kind.’

‘So what did that lazy maid of mine pack for us? I let her get away with too much. My husband always says, Magda, you’re too soft with that girl.’ She opened the basket. ‘So. Good enough. We have bread and sausage and all sorts. Does that sound good to you?’

‘Absolutely.’

They shared the food mostly in silence, the two men declining another offer to join them. It was only afterwards, as the woman was packing the remains back in the basket, that the food Gavriela had eaten petrified in her stomach.

‘At least,’ the woman said, ‘it proves you’re not one of them.’

She nodded towards the newspaper, and a small article entitled Bankers Are Predominantly Jewish.

‘Excuse me?’

‘The pork sausage you enjoyed so much. It means you’re one of the Volk, doesn’t it?’

The word meant so much more than people.

Folding up his newspaper, the young Belgian shook his head, saying nothing. The beautiful woman paid no attention, retaining a faint smile for the remainder of her journey.

Steam billowed and whistles sounded, as Gavriela carried her suitcase along the platform. Ilse was waiting for her, smiling and waving her glove. She put the glove back on once Gavriela had spotted her.

‘Would you like to take a taxi?’ asked Ilse after they hugged. ‘Or shall we walk?’

‘My case—’

‘Oh, I can carry that.’

So they walked, following clean streets, alongside canals where possible. Gavriela liked being in new places; but she was equally impressed - almost intimidated - by her sister-in-law. She had not realized how physically strong Ilse could be. She herself could not have lugged the case far - it was small but heavy - yet Ilse carried it as easily as a handbag.

Ilse quickened the pace as they passed along a narrow passageway. Women with reptilean eyes were waiting in the doorways, their gazes flicking away from Gavriela and Ilse, fastening on the few men who walked here.

‘Sorry,’ muttered Ilse. ‘But it’s much quicker this way.’

‘All right,’ said Gavriela, not understanding.

It was ten minutes later, at the corner of a well-kept road, that she paused and said: ‘Oh.’

‘What is it?’

‘Those women—’

‘Exactly.’ Ilse raised her eyebrows. ‘You think Berlin is any different?’

Indoors, the rooms were high-ceilinged and smelled of wax polish, everything spotless. Being a housewife was hard work, but Ilse was more than that.

‘How is the book-keeping going?’

‘The tobacco shop’s owner, Herr van Rijk, is alternately mortified at having a woman keep his figures and overjoyed at the job I’m doing. I nearly asked him if I could serve in the shop for a while, but I didn’t want to overtax his heart.’

‘My dear,’ said Gavriela. ‘That would hardly be seemly in a gentlemen’s tobacconist.’

They giggled.

‘And that brother of mine,’ Gavriela continued. ‘How is he?’

‘He walks very well. His employers at the Census Bureau work him hard, but he enjoys it. We’re doing all right.’

‘You deserve it.’

It was evening by the time Erik arrived home - he used a silver-tipped walking-cane with the straightforwardness of long practice - and hugged Gavriela. Her day had passed quickly, gossiping with Ilse, comparing their lives and cities: Ilse’s Amsterdam, Gavriela’s Zürich, and the Berlin they both knew.

Now her beloved brother was here. His leather eye-patch was clean, his face somehow harder than before, and he looked very handsome.

‘I’ve got something to show you,’ he said as they sat down for supper. ‘Take a look at this.’

Reaching inside his suit jacket, he withdrew a card bearing broken rows of tiny square holes.

‘What is this?’ Gavriela took hold of it. ‘I’ve not seen anything like it.’

‘It’s a Hollerith card,’ said Ilse. ‘If you hang around Erik long enough, you learn these things.’

Erik smiled at her, an expression that told Gavriela everything she needed to know about their marriage. She grinned at them both, then returned her attention to the punched card.

‘They’re used to control mechanized looms,’ Erik said. ‘The pattern of holes effectively forms instructions for weaving.’

‘Very good.’ Gavriela caught on immediately. ‘If you change the pattern of holes, you obtain a different weave.’

She might not recognize prostitutes when she saw them on the street, but logical principles were clear to her, whether in theory or in mechanical devices.

‘So you’ve been visiting a clothing factory?’ she added. ‘Or is it carpets?’

‘Neither one. We’re using them now at the Bureau.’

Ilse passed plates around the table.

‘The Bureau has realized that taking census figures is boring,’ she said. ‘So they’re branching out into dressmaking.’

‘That would be one explanation.’ Erik smiled at her again. ‘Or there’s another use, storing information about people. One card, one citizen.’

‘You could decide what pieces of information you need to hold,’ said Gavriela. ‘And you could change the encoding accordingly. That’s interesting.’

‘Or one might write the information’ - Ilse pointed to a sideboard where a closed notebook lay with a fountain-pen on top - ‘on paper, in a manner comprehensible to actual living people.’

Erik spread his hands.

‘Try searching through millions of pages for the information you need. Machinery can do it so much better.’

‘It’ll never catch on, dear,’ said Ilse.

‘Whatever you say,’ answered Erik.

All was well. They ate their supper, chatting about trivia, enjoying their time together.

Later, Erik smoked and drank brandy - the latter a new habit - while Ilse did the washing up in the kitchen. Gavriela, at Ilse’s insistence, remained sitting opposite Erik.

‘Mother and Father,’ he said, ‘think you’re soft in the head, trying to get them to leave Berlin. But I’m glad Ilse and I made the move.’