‘A little, Vati,’ I say instead. ‘Something has been playing on my mind for some time.’

There is rot in my soul. I can feel it growing deep in my bones, seeping into my veins. But this will cleanse me. Put me back on the right path. The path of duty, correctness and obligation. Hitler’s path of selflessness.

I clear my throat. ‘It’s about a friend of mine, Erna, and her father. I overheard something, and it worried me.’ The words spill from my mouth with ease.

‘Go on.’

‘It’s…’ A shadow flits. The body of Tomas’s father, falling from a high prison window. Was it an accident? Nobody will ever know.

‘I’m never too busy to hear things which worry you, Herta. It’s important you feel you can come to me,’ Vati is saying. ‘Without good girls like you, where would Herr Himmler and our beloved Führer be, eh?’ He smiles again, warm and encouraging.

A ghostly Walter begs me not to do the right thing.

Bloody Hitler. Herr Bäcker’s words echo in my mind.

‘I heard…’

‘And what did you hear exactly, Schnuffel?’

‘I heard them say…’ Erna’s sloping green eyes swim across my vision. You can trust me to the ends of the Earth, Erna. I swallow hard. Vati stares at me, waiting for me to speak.

A kaleidoscope of images flicker: Erna and I in the playground at school; lying on her bed talking endlessly; marching together in the BDM; sharing our deepest hopes and dreams as we huddle side by side in our tent on summer camping trips. Walter. Heavenly, Jewish Walter.

Vati is becoming impatient. He drops his pen onto the paper in front of him and grunts.

‘Heard what?’ he presses.

I sit up a little straighter. A promise is a promise, Erna. You might have betrayed me, but I shall never do that to you.

‘Sorry, Vati… That try as they might, they cannot get front-row tickets for the Annual Celebration of the Hitler Youth.’ I feel a sweat break out on my forehead. ‘Herr Bäcker admires the Führer so very much. It would be the biggest thrill for them if you could, perhaps, pull a few strings.’

I watch Vati’s face change. He guffaws. ‘Is that all?’

It’s the best I could do in the moment.

‘Well, could you?’

‘No, Herta. The front row is reserved for men of importance and their families.’

‘That’s a shame.’