“It’s a boy this time,” said Eva as she came inside from the backyard after hanging out the washing. She sank her middle-aged, rotund body down at the kitchen table opposite her husband Martin, who put down his paper and spectacles to listen. Eva looked anxious, and the lines on her strong face seemed to have grown deeper. “His name was Peter Fechter. A bricklayer. He was shot and left to bleed to death. Hundreds of witnesses watched it, including those bloody border guards, and no one moved a finger to help him, not even after hearing him scream.” They…