I throw down the paper. I remember a time, a couple of years back, when Vati took Karl and me into the offices of the Leipziger. He was keen to show Karl the wonder of the place and convince him that one day he would want to take over the running of it. We had looked in on the bustle of the newsroom, phones ringing, journalists rushing in and out, people shouting at one another. Vati had explained the time pressure to get stories and pictures into the paper for each edition. We’d watched the huge printing presses in action, the laborious task of setting the metal letters in the frames, letter by letter, word by word, sentence by sentence, page by page. The whole effort; the working conditions, the sweat, the dirt, the heat and intensity – we had wondered, to Vati, what was the point of all this when people would glance at the headlines and throw the paper away?

Vati was horrified. ‘This,’ he had told us passionately, ‘is the most important tool we have. With these inked words, we can shape our nation. There is no such thing as news per se. News is power, wrapped in a message, presented, told and retold. With this newspaper,’ he said, his eyes filled with pride, ‘I have the power to put into the world what I want, and in the way I would have the masses understand. Do you realise what supremacy, what authority that gives me?’

But Karl remained fixed on wanting to fly aeroplanes and I had not properly grasped what Vati meant, until now. I think of how it is for Walter. How it is for all of the ‘enemies’ of the Reich. How it is for me being in love with Walter, knowing that, every minute we spend in each other’s company, he is at risk of arrest. How many others are there like us? Simply because of who their parents are? Anger swells at the injustice. I see nothing inferior about Walter. Or, indeed, any of his kind. They, we, are all just people. And I see Vati’s newspaper, finally, for what it is. Not news, but manipulation of thought and mind.

*

‘If they don’t come back soon, the schweinefleisch will be burnt to a cinder and I’ll be blamed,’ Bertha mutters to Ingrid. The dining-room table is all laid up. Ingrid has decanted the wine, and my stomach rumbles with hunger at the delicious smell of roasting pork emanating from the kitchen.

‘The crispier the better,’ I say. ‘I’m starving. Why don’t we eat anyway?’

‘I couldn’t possibly! What would your mother say?’ Bertha stands with her hands on her ample hips and her cheeks puffed out.

‘Worked up a good appetite today, Fraülein Herta?’ Ingrid smirks.

‘What do you mean?’ I feel my face flush beetroot. ‘I went for a picnic with my friend, Erna…’

‘Ah! Is that what you call it—’

‘Ingrid!’ Bertha cuts in. ‘There’re three vases I noticed, in the hall, the morning room and the dining room where the flowers have gone over. Get rid of them and order some fresh. Better still, go down to the florists now – they’ll still be open – and bring some back.’ She turns angrily and begins scrubbing at the sideboard with her brush and soapy water from the sink.