My childhood fantasy, whenever there was an unexpected knock at the door, was that Charles and Diana had had a breakdown on the A road that ran outside our house and needed a bed for the night. Subsequently, I was always mortified when the door opened on a grinning friend of my parents or some pre-GPS driver lost in the black Oxfordshire countryside. This huge disparity between reality and the grandiose expectations I was able to conjure up in milliseconds has never left me.
The call that Wednesday afternoon was a rare exception. I had just finished teaching my weekly English class at the University of Potsdam and saw a missed call on my phone with a Berlin number. I am always waiting for the call, the one that is going to change my life, so it’s impossible for me to ignore an unidentified number. I always phone back.
“Frau Schw[mumble],” the voice said.
“It’s Ben Fergusson. I had a missed call from this number call.”
“Ah, Herr Fergusson. It’s Frau Schwenk.” Our social worker, I now understood. “Thank you for getting back to me. I’m calling because we have a little boy, four weeks old, who needs a family.”