I nod dumbly. I think of Bertha, Lena, and the countless others who don’t share Hitler’s vision of the future, but are too scared to say anything, do anything. I’ve been so blind, buried my head so deep and believed in all the promises. Because I wanted to believe.

Erna’s staring at me, waiting for me to speak.

‘I’ll… do what I can. I’ll try.’ I think of Mutti and the strange conversation we had this morning. ‘What do you think of this story about vom Rath?’

‘My father said Grynszpan did it out of frustration at the expulsion of the Polish Jews from Germany. A couple of thousand of them had to leave Leipzig alone. Apparently, they were hauled from their beds, shoved onto trains in the early hours of the morning, and sent back to Poland. But Poland won’t let them back in and so now they’re stranded on the border with nowhere to go. His parents are amongst them and that’s why he did it. I’m not saying it was the right thing to do, but I guess that’s why he was so angry.’

‘How does your father know these things?’

‘He has his sources,’ Erna says, and winks at me. ‘It’s probably just a big fuss over nothing,’ she continues. ‘It will fizzle out over the next couple of days – or until the newspapers are filled with some other scandal.’

I remember Vati’s warning about things not being safe.

‘I’m not so sure about that. I think something big is brewing, Erna. I’ll try and find out what.’

‘Thank you, Hetty. You are a true friend, you know that?’

We exchange weak smiles and make our way back into the school building.

*

For the first time since I’ve been at the Gymnasium, Mutti meets me at the school gates. It reminds me of when I was small and she’d be there, every day, outside the gates of the Volksschule, waiting for Karl and me.

She hooks her arm through mine and steers me along the pavement towards the old town.

‘I felt restless at home,’ she explains. ‘I thought we could go to the Fürstenhof Hotel for lunch. It’ll make a nice change of scene. Oh, and Tomas telephoned for you. Asked if you would like to go for a walk on Sunday afternoon. Does he have designs on you, Herta?’

‘No, Mutti. He’s just a friend, that’s all,’ I say.

As we walk, I can see nothing about the day which seems different than usual. In the Fürstenhof, the waiters, aloof and unsmiling in black, with pristine white aprons tied around their waists, serve us cold meat and salad followed by delicate cakes and dainty cups of strong coffee. A pianist plays soft Bach melodies and the clientele relax at neat little tables arranged at discreet distances around tall ferns in the glass-domed café.

Mutti eats well and even manages some strudel for dessert. She is calmer than she was this morning.

‘Did Vati tell you anything after his meetings?’ I ask.