I jolt awake and stare into the darkness, sweating and breathing fast.

I switch on my bedside lamp and peer at the clock. Three-fifteen in the morning.

Karl is dead. The last conversation we had was that awful one, full of distrust and accusation. Karl was the centre of my universe when we were children. Where did it all go wrong? How can I live with that dreadful exchange being our parting words?

Tears slide from the corners of my eyes, dripping onto the pillow. The room is so still and quiet it’s as if time has stopped and the world is no longer turning.

But the clock still ticks on my mantelpiece.

I turn towards Hitler’s portrait hanging above it. He looks smugly down at me, over his bristly moustache.

You did this. How could you let this happen to my beautiful, dear brother?

He stares back, his eyes stony, black, arrogant and taunting.

This is your punishment, Jew-lover. It’s all your fault, for consorting with the enemy. You chose the wrong path. You chose evil and this is your reward.

But Karl was your perfect child. He gave you everything he had. His love, now his life. Not like me. Why didn’t you kill me instead?

We all know what happens to those who make a pact with the devil… A wry smile plays on Hitler’s lips.

A rush of heat and I cannot bear the sight of him any longer. I’ve made my choice. No matter that Walter is leaving and will soon be married to this Anna girl. No matter that I shan’t ever see him again. He has taught me things I never understood before, but I do now. You have lied, Herr Hitler. And Karl is dead. You bastard.

I run across the room, ripping the portrait from the wall, pulling out the nail and a chunk of plaster. I throw the picture to the floor and I stamp on the Führer, cracking the frame and pounding his head, grinding my heels over his eyes.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!

Now I’m certain. It wasn’t God who sent him – it was the devil himself.

I shove the broken picture behind the wardrobe.

8 October 1938

The next morning Vati locks himself in his study to make the necessary phone calls. Mutti sleeps late after taking the sedative prescribed by the doctor. I sit in my window seat, Kuschi tucked next to me, pressing his shaggy black body against my thighs, comforting and steady.

Life inexplicably continues on the street below. Cars trundle past. A boy on a bicycle. A couple walk arm in arm along the pavement; the woman’s shoulder-length hair is curled at the bottom, a shade lighter than Erna’s.

Erna.

Erna. My stomach drops. I must tell Erna what has happened.

A soft knock at the door. Ingrid. Her face is drawn and pale.

‘Can I get you anything, Fräulein?’ she asks. ‘You’ve had no breakfast…’

‘I’m not hungry.’