‘What doesn’t Vati like?’ I whisper.

Mutti sighs. ‘Go and wash your face and hands. We’re going to visit the soldiers’ home today.’

‘But—’

‘Just for a couple of hours. It will be good for you.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘You do,’ she says firmly. ‘Community work is – is holy. It brings us closer to the Führer. It’s very important that we look after each other.’

‘I’d rather play with Karl and Walter.’

‘Young ladies,’ Mutti says crisply, ‘need to learn the meaning of obedience.’

A little knot forms inside as I stomp upstairs.

*

The soldiers’ home is on Hallische Strasse, set well back from the street. The building is hundreds of years old and was once a hospital; now it’s given over to care for the brave soldiers who were badly injured fighting for our nation – A Home for Heroes. It has a pleasant garden and wide terrace on one side, with a few wheelchairs lined up in a row. The men sit so still, staring wordlessly out across the lawn and the flower beds, that I wonder if they might have dropped dead already.

Mutti marches us up the front steps and rings the doorbell. We’re greeted by a neat nurse who ushers us into a hall smelling of wood polish and bleach. She introduces herself as Lisel. Blonde hair peeks from the front of her white cap.

‘Heil Hitler. How lovely to see you again, Frau Heinrich,’ says the nurse.

‘Heil Hitler. This is my daughter, Herta.’

‘So good of you both to come. Our residents very much look forward to your visits, Frau Heinrich.’

We follow Lisel along a dark passageway, past a ward, and I glance in. Eight iron beds, all neatly made and empty of occupants who, Lisel tells us, are in the day room. I try not to breathe too deeply – beneath the smell of bleach is a pervasive odour of urine and something else unpleasant.

‘Some of our inmates are war-heroes, Herta, who have no family,’ Lisel says. ‘They deserve a fitting place to live out their days in comfortable surroundings.’

‘Yes, they deserve that.’ I nod.

‘They certainly do. But we need more funds. It’s very difficult…’ Lisel says with a frown.

‘I’m arranging a fundraising lunch,’ Mutti offers with enthusiasm. ‘And my husband could draw attention to your plight in the Leipziger.’

Lisel smiles. ‘We are very lucky to have a patron like your mother,’ she tells me, ‘working tirelessly for the good of others.’

I glance at Mutti in surprise. To me, she is just Mutti. But now I see she is something else besides.

In the sitting room, three old soldiers are parked in a semi-circle in their wood and wicker wheelchairs. I know I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t help it. The sight of one makes me sweat. Half of his face is missing, the rest of it, a twisted mess of flesh. A small hole is approximately where his mouth should be, but a great chunk is gone from the cheek area. One eye is missing altogether and the other stands proud from the shrunken flesh, white and cloudy. His face reminds me of the mangled parts of a half-eaten chicken.