The first months of 1948 were unusually cold. There was a tiny stove in Friedel's attic room, which we kept burning all the time if we could. When it went out the room turned into a refrigerator. There was no running water. Fresh water had to be carried upstairs from the pump in the courtyard and waste water carried down again. But I knew that well from my time with the circus.

People in Germany were hungry. Rations were reduced, and you couldn't even get what your food coupons entitled you to because the shopkeepers would claim they hadn't got anything from the distribution centers. The black market was flourishing. Friedel had a real talent for operating in that territory. I was still getting my dried food and cigarettes in the camp – though they were now Turkish and not American cigarettes – as well as hard soap, so we had something to barter with.

We packed our son into an old pram, headed out to the villages and tried to swap cigarettes and soap for food. Mostly we were told, “We've got nothin’, we're givin’ nothin’, we're wantin’ nothin’,” but in the end we always brought something home from our mission. Potatoes, apples, a jar of silver beets or a couple of eggs. For me those years were a continuation of the years of hunger in wartime. But we would do anything to make sure that at least our son would thrive, and he did.

On one occasion Friedel had exchanged a month's work of fat coupons for a bottle of oil at the shop. Margarine was hardly to be had and there was no butter to speak of at all. She was very happy and put the precious bottle at the bottom of the cupboard where we kept almost all our housewares. Our son, who was developing splendidly, was crawling around and playing on the floor. The doors of the cupboard were wide open and the items inside excited his curiosity. Hey presto he had found the bottle of oil. The cork didn't resist, and the little chap was utterly delighted at the way the wonderful golden oil spread across the floorboards and disappeared into the cracks.