‘Franz, I’m sorry, she shouldn’t—’

Ingrid returns to clear away the dessert.

‘Coffee?’ she asks, her voice bright and cheerful as though she has been listening gleefully outside the door.

‘In the sitting room, if you please, Ingrid.’

She leaves the room again, without bothering to shut the door.

Vati wipes his mouth on his napkin. ‘Your cousin Eva has just finished at a very good school in Halle. Or perhaps you could go to Dresden, or Berlin.’

Hausfrau school!

‘Vati, I would like to take my Abitur.’ I try to keep my voice steady. ‘Please. I’m a good student – I should get an excellent mark.’

‘The Abitur is a waste of time, especially for girls. You can study teaching at Hausfrau school, if you are so set on a job. That would be acceptable to your mother and I.’

He places his hand over hers where it lies, limp and pale on the table. He smiles at her, then at me. His anger has evaporated. He has that look on his face which says, I’m being so very indulgent. I’m kind-hearted but I don’t give in to hysteria or weak-minded women.

I look from one to the other. Mutti is closed off and I’m all alone. If Karl were here, he would know just what to say. He would make them see reason.

I collapse back in my chair. Words are useless. They won’t listen. Mutti and Vati move on, talk of something else. The air around me is leaden, pressing me down. Squeezing and suffocating. More than ever before I’m aware of the confines of the walls of this house, solid and impenetrable as a prison.

I will not go to Hausfrau school, Vati. I simply will not go.

Back in my room I shove the linen aside in my cupboard and, with shaking hands, pull up the loose floorboard. Reaching into the void, my fingers brush the journal. Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you. I pull it out and stare at the patchwork of colours on its cover. I remember, as though it were yesterday, when Karl sat on my bed, anxiously awaiting my reaction when he gave it to me, and how the light dazzled in his eyes when he knew the pleasure it gave me.

I imagine burning it, watching the pages curl and blacken in the heat. Would the cover turn to ash, or would traces of it be left in the grate for Ingrid to find in the morning?

I smooth my hand back and forth over its cover, as if it is a precious pet. One day I’ll be old and my memories will be all I have. When they fade, what will there be to remind me? What if I should forget altogether?

Carefully, I fold the journal in a pillowcase, place it in the void, and drop the floorboard back into place. If Ingrid hasn’t found it yet, she is hardly likely to before Walter leaves this country for good. And I’m going to make damned sure of that.