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that smart.’

3
    Walli Franck was playing the piano in the upstairs drawing room. The instrument was a full-size Steinway grand, and Walli’s father kept it tuned for Grandma Maud to play. Walli was remembering the riff to Elvis Presley’s record ‘A Mess of Blues’. It was in the key of C, which made it easier.
    His grandmother sat reading the obituaries in the Berliner Zeitung. She was seventy, a slim, straight figure in a dark-blue cashmere dress. ‘You can play that sort of thing well,’ she said without looking up from the paper. ‘You’ve got my ear, as well as my green eyes. Your grandfather Walter, after whom you were named, never could play ragtime, rest his soul. I tried to teach him, but it was hopeless.’
    ‘You played ragtime?’ Walli was surprised. ‘I’ve never heard you do anything but classical music.’
    ‘Ragtime saved us from starving when your mother was a baby. After the First World War I played in a club called Nachtleben right here in Berlin. I was paid billions of marks a night, which was barely enough to buy bread; but sometimes I’d get tips in foreign currency, and we could live well for a week on two dollars.’
    ‘Wow.’ Walli could not imagine his silver-haired grandmother playing the piano for tips in a nightclub.
    Walli’s sister came into the room. Lili was almost three years younger, and these days he was not sure how to treat her. For as long as he could remember, she had been a pain in the neck, like a younger boy but sillier. However, lately she had become more sensible and, to complicate matters, some of her friends had breasts.
    He turned from the piano and picked up his guitar. He had bought it a year ago in a pawnshop in West Berlin. It had probably been pledged by an American soldier against a loan that was never repaid. The brand name was Martin and, although it had been cheap, it seemed to Walli a very good instrument. He guessed that neither the pawnbroker nor the soldier had realized its worth.
    ‘Listen to this,’ he said to Lili, and he began to sing a Bahamian tune called ‘All My Trials’ with lyrics in English. He had heard it on Western radio stations: it was popular with American folk groups. The minor chords made it a melancholy song, and he was pleased with the plaintive finger-picking accompaniment he had devised.
    When he had finished, Grandma Maud looked over the top of the newspaper and said in English: ‘Your accent is perfectly dreadful, Walli, dear.’
    ‘Sorry.’
    She reverted to German. ‘But you sing nicely.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Walli turned to Lili. ‘What do you think of the song?’
    ‘It’s a bit dreary,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll like it more when I’ve heard it a few times.’
    ‘That’s no good,’ he said. ‘I want to play it tonight at the Minnesänger.’ This was a folk club just off the Kurfürstendamm in West Berlin. The name meant a troubadour.
    Lili was impressed. ‘Are you playing at the Minnesänger?’
    ‘It’s a special night. They’re having a contest. Anybody can play. The winner gets a chance of a regular gig.’
    ‘I didn’t know clubs did that.’
    ‘They don’t usually. This is a one-off.’
    Grandma Maud said: ‘Don’t you have to be older to go to such a place?’
    ‘Yes, but I’ve got in before.’
    Lili said: ‘Walli looks older than he is.’
    ‘Hmm.’
    Lili said to Walli: ‘You’ve never sung in public. Are you nervous?’
    ‘You bet.’
    ‘You should play something more cheerful.’
    ‘I guess you’re right.’
    ‘How about “This Land is Your Land”? I love that one.’
    Walli played it, and Lili sang along.
    While they were singing, their older sister, Rebecca, came in. Walli adored Rebecca. After the war, when their parents had been desperately working all hours to feed the family, Rebecca had often been left in charge of Walli and Lili. She was like a second mother, but not so strict.
    And she had such guts! He had watched with awe as she threw her husband’s