‘I must go,’ I whisper at last in Walter’s ear.

‘I don’t want you to leave.’ He clutches me tight.

‘I must…’

It’s still long before daybreak. Reluctantly, I peel myself away from his warmth and creep quietly back to my room. My legs are sticky. They’ll smell it on me. The sex. They’ll know…

Alone in my bed, I try to sleep but it’s impossible. Events replay and replay in my mind. An energy fizzes inside, keeping me on high alert, so much so that I fear I may never be able to sleep again. What on earth have I done?

I pull out my journal and begin to write, to pass the time, as the night ticks relentlessly towards morning. Writing my feelings down risks discovery, but it’s the only way to calm the turmoil in my brain. I will find a place for it where Ingrid cannot think to look.

What do you think of me now? After what we did? According to the law, we have sinned. The worst of all sins. I think of our bodies: our sweat, our blood, mingled now, forever. It can’t be undone. I’m ruined and damned. But how could something which felt so natural, so perfect, be a sin? Indeed, it is not. It cannot be. Walter is the best, the most kind, the most gentle. In his arms, I am safer than safe. It is they who are wrong, not us.

3 November 1938

‘Come to the BDM fundraiser this afternoon, Hetty,’ Erna urges at the end of school. ‘You need a change of scene,’ she adds, looking carefully into my eyes, ‘a… break. Besides, I miss him too, you know. I haven’t seen you, properly, since…’

‘I know. But Mutti is home. I must take care of her. Soon, I promise.’

She gives me a sad smile and I hurry home.

Mutti returned yesterday. Impossibly thin and angular, she looks as if she could be snapped in two. More streaks of grey are visible in her glossy, dark chignon. Like her dress, her eyes are dull. She smiles and hugs me. Tells me it’s good to be home. She’s here, but she isn’t here. The Mutti she used to be is buried alongside Karl in the graveyard.

After lunch Mutti and I walk arm in arm to the florists on the corner of Hallische Strasse, Kuschi padding quietly at our side.

Mutti looks and looks at the selection of colourful blooms but is unable to decide.

‘How about these?’ I point to some blue cornflowers. Her favourite colour. Her favourite flowers.

‘Too cheerful.’ She shakes her head.

I look over the selection. Is there such a thing as a flower without cheer?

‘Can I help you, dear ladies?’ The shop owner sidles towards Mutti, a dazzling smile beneath his stiff-looking moustache.

Mutti gives him a withering glance.

‘I’m looking for something suitable for my son’s grave,’ she says.

I wince at her words.

The man extinguishes his smile and adopts a suitably respectful demeanour, head bowed, face downcast.