‘But how can we stop pretending? If my parents knew we loved each other they’d be frantic about the fact that you’re not Jewish. When I’m eighteen, then we’ll tell them, because by then, no matter how much they object, they won’t be able to stop me seeing you as they’ll be able to stop me seeing you now. That’s what we agreed, Hugo, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ His voice was suddenly so authoritative as to be completely out of character and for a fleeting moment she was reminded of his uncle, Josef Remer. ‘But that was then, Hester, and this is now.’

He took hold of her shoulders, his eyes burning with purpose. ‘We don’t have to put up with your being forbidden to see me any more. We don’t have to put up with waiting until you’re eighteen before we tell people we’re in love. You’re coming to Shuttleworth Hall for Christmas with Claus and Lotti and Ilse, aren’t you? It’s all arranged, isn’t it?’

She nodded, not knowing what he was going to say, but knowing that whatever it was she would go along with it; knowing she loved him with all her heart.

He said with fierce urgency, ‘When you come to Yorkshire, bring your birth certificate with you.’

Her eyes rounded. ‘But why?’

‘Because we’re going to go to Gretna Green.’ He grinned, dizzyingly happy. ‘We’re going to elope, Hester. We’re going to get married!’

Chapter Twelve

Berlin, October 1933

Lotti sat before one of the chaotically disarrayed dressing tables in the Guido Theilscher’s Revue dressing room. For the first time in her life she was truly nervous before a performance. Max had often come to see her when she had appeared in small-time clubs off the Ku’damm, but then she had always been relatively decently clothed. Guido Theilscher’s Revue dancers were some of the most famous in Berlin and their exotic costumes were scanty in the extreme.

She added more kohl around her eyes, telling herself that Max had never sat in judgement on her and wasn’t likely to start now. Of all her cousins, he was the one she had the most in common with; the one who, to use an English term, was her best chum.

‘I’ve ripped my tights!’ the girl at the next dressing table suddenly wailed. ‘And not just a little bit. They’re totally kaputt!’

Lotti, whose routine called for black stockings and suspenders, scrabbled in the bag at her feet and withdrew a scrunched-up pair of fishnets.

‘Here,’ she said, handing them to her, happy to bail her out.

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ The girl blew her a kiss.

Lotti grinned, enjoying the sensation of backstage camaraderie.

With the kohl in place she began putting on batwing eyelashes. Because her eyes were already a tad too big for her face, they made her look like a startled lemur—though that was not what Max called her. His nickname for her was Monkeyface and had been ever since his visit to Berlin after the war, when he had been nine years old and she had been four.