19 December 1937

I dig my hands deep inside the fur-lined pockets of my coat and hurry towards our meeting place. It’s nearly the shortest day of the year and, as yet, it’s barely light. A keen wind lifts my hair and numbs my face.

He’s there, waiting, hunched inside his coat on the low wall of the bridge. As soon as I reach him, he gathers me into his arms.

He enfolds me inside his coat and, pressed against him, I’m safe and warm. He kisses me gently on the lips.

‘I’ve been watching the sun come up,’ he says, waving a hand in the direction of the glow in the sky behind him. His face is so close, I can smell his peppermint-scented breath. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmurs, looking at me.

Kuschi begins to whine at my side. He pauses and whines again, louder. I pull away from Walter and bend down to stroke his head.

‘Let him go,’ Walter says, holding his coat open. ‘He can run around and have some dog fun. I need you in here. With me.’

I unclip Kuschi’s leash and he ambles off on the path by the river, waving his tail in happiness. What simple pleasures a dog has.

If only it were so with humans.

We walk, hip to hip, arms wrapped around each other. The wheat field ahead of us is winter-bare, dark earth lying inert in frigid furrows and ridges, waiting for spring to warm and waken the hidden life slumbering deep inside. Beyond the field, slim skeletons of leafless beech trees extend away into seemingly endless forests. Kuschi’s moving shape merges and disappears against the black furrows.

Then Walter kisses me and the outside world fades.

It’s just his body against mine. The hard ground beneath my feet, and the smooth lining of the inside of his coat against the back of my hands.

Lost in his touch, the sound of a cough rips me from my entrancement.

‘What was that?’ I whisper.

‘What?’

‘A noise.’ I stiffen with fear.

Walter looks over his shoulder. Nothing moves.

‘I didn’t hear anything.’ He turns back to me.

I scan the landscape. The grassy bank. The empty path. The line of trees. We hold our breath.

Crack. The unmistakable sound of a twig breaking underfoot. Then movement on the riverbank.

Suddenly Kuschi’s running back from the field, barking furiously, as he disappears over the other side of the bank.

Walter’s eyes are wide.

‘Who’s there?’ he shouts.

No reply. No barking. Only the wind rustling dying leaves in the treetops and the river flowing behind us.

‘Stay here,’ I whisper and, throat tight, I climb up the bank. On the other side is the little lane. My knees give way at the sight of a tall, gangly figure in a dark jacket with his collar turned up, walking briskly away. Kuschi runs in circles around him, inviting him to play. This is no stranger.

Bile rises in my throat.

‘Get away, stupid bastard dog!’ The figure bends and pushes Kuschi roughly. He half falls, but goes back for more, perhaps thinking this is some kind of a game. The boy straightens and looks back. My eyes lock with his.