‘It’s Karl,’ I choke. ‘There was an accident.’

She freezes and in the gloom of the hallway, the whites of her eyes grow.

‘He died yesterday morning.’

‘Dear God, no,’ she whispers. ‘It can’t be…’ Her disbelief mirrors my own.

We step inside Erna’s comfortable flat and climb the narrow stairs up to her attic room.

‘Tell me,’ she says, her eyes filled with tears, ‘exactly what happened.’

I don’t have much detail. The last twenty-four hours have been a blur, but I tell her what Hauptmann Winkler told us.

Erna sinks onto the bed, her eyes moist, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers, listening while I talk.

‘Oh, Hetty…’ She holds her arms out and we hug each other for comfort.

‘I’m sorry for you too, Erna. I know how much you meant to each other.’

We lie next to each other on Erna’s bed, my head rested on her shoulder, her auburn hair fanned around us both.

‘It makes no sense,’ she says after a long silence. ‘It just makes no sense at all.’

‘Mutti blames Hauptmann Winkler. Vati blames the Jews. He vows revenge.’

Erna shifts. ‘How can he blame the Jews?’

‘It’s because of them that we have to build our armed forces. Not altogether rational,’ I sigh, ‘but he has to direct his anger against somebody.’

I don’t tell her that his ranting is making me sick. That Mutti’s flopping about like a wringing rag makes me want to scream and shake her. And I don’t tell her that I honestly cannot see how we are all to live anymore.

12 October 1938

The more people who arrive here, the lonelier I become. The more family who gather, the more obvious is Karl’s absence. He was the beating heart of every party. He breathed life into the dullest room. Everyone creeps around, talking in hushed tones as though speaking loudly or smiling will somehow offend the dead. It makes me mad. I remember how it used to be, long ago, when we were children. When all three of us – Walter, Karl and I – could play and laugh together without a care. Before we knew about death and anguish and forbidden love. If only we could go back to that time.

I snap my journal shut and hide it in its usual spot. It’s mid-afternoon and Mutti and Vati are napping. The last few days have been a blur of unwanted visitors and funeral preparations and we are all exhausted. The house is full of extended family. Like Christmas, but without the cheer. This week is the autumn holidays, but I’ve been excused from school for next week too.

I leave my room and pad through the hushed house to the kitchen where Bertha is stuffing a chicken for the evening meal.

‘Dear Fräulein Hetty,’ she says. ‘I’ve hardly seen you these last two days. How are you bearing it all?’

‘Not great.’

‘Come, have a seat. I made cookies and an apfelkuchen. You must eat. Keep up your strength.’ She clicks her tongue. ‘What a dreadful business.’