He puts the papers down and stares for a moment into the middle distance. Then he clears his throat and picks up the phone.

‘Operator. Yes, put me through to Obergruppenführer Heydrich, please. His private line.’ A pause. ‘Yes, he is expecting my call. Tell him Obersturmbannführer Heinrich is on the line. It’s important.’

There is another, longer, pause.

‘Ah,’ he sits up straighter, his voice loud, ‘Obergruppenführer: thank you for taking my call. Heil Hitler.’ His tone is deferential, not one I’ve heard Vati use before. ‘Yes. I’m reporting in, as requested. All local units are ready to go. We have briefed the police, the Mayor, the fire service. We await your orders.’

He is quiet again. His eyes dart about. Can he see me in the crack of the door? Slowly, I pull back and move to the side, breathing shallow and fast. I pin my ear to the door.

‘Of course,’ he is saying. ‘No, it blatantly hasn’t worked… Absolutely, a change of strategy is needed… it is indeed the perfect catalyst… the German people are ready, as you say. We are more than ready, believe me – the men are itching for it. Those Jews need to realise the full force of feeling against them… Certainly, just as soon as I have your word to go.’

This sounds like more than a fuss about nothing.

Fingers of fear crawl up my back.

Walter. I must go to him. Warn him something terrible is about to happen.

9 November 1938

At school, during break, I tell Erna all I heard of Vati’s conversation yesterday.

‘I need to find a way to warn Walter.’

‘But what does your father mean?’ she asks. ‘The German people are ready? Ready for what?’ She looks at me, eyes full of fear. ‘I should tell my father.’

‘I don’t know. I’ll try and find out more. I need to go to the café and get a message to Walter, but Mutti will want me home this afternoon.’

‘Tell her you’re having supper this evening with me. You can go and find Walter instead.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ll cover for you, if for any reason she should check. What else are friends for?’ Erna smiles.

Later, when Mutti is taking her usual afternoon nap, I send Ingrid on an errand to buy some fabric and strong thread for a school needlework project. Bertha decides to take a break in her room. The house is quiet – a gem of an opportunity.

I stand alone in Vati’s study, straining my ears. The silence crackles as, dry-mouthed, I press my back against the closed door. I tiptoe my way across the room to the desk. Ever since we moved into the house, this has been Vati’s sanctum, forbidden to all but him. The back of my neck prickles.

The room is gloomy in the late afternoon. I click on the lamp, casting a soft, yellow circle of light over Vati’s desk. It’s perfectly neat. The big square of leather-bound blotting paper lies in front of his chair, the pot of ink at the top end. A marble ashtray and his fountain pen are on one side of the blotting paper, next to some wooden trays neatly stacked with papers.