He swings around to face me, red-faced and angry.

‘What you did is unforgivable. There are state secrets in this room.’

I think of the little stack of letters, neatly tied together with a ribbon. Personal secrets too.

‘I’ve heard something,’ he says, ‘a rumour, which troubles me. I refused to believe it. But if it’s true—’

The telephone on his desk jangles.

‘What things? What have you heard?’ I brace myself for the accusation.

But Vati stares at the ringing phone, snatches up the receiver, listens intently and grunts, ‘I’m leaving immediately. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

‘I’ve no time for you now,’ he says replacing the receiver. ‘Events are moving too fast. We’ll discuss it in the morning. In the meantime, I forbid you to come in here again, and I forbid you to leave this house until we’ve spoken.’ His face is serious and unsmiling. ‘Vom Rath has lost his fight for life. Our nation has been attacked and we must act now to ensure worse will not follow.’

My guts squeeze, thinking of Walter.

I follow him out to the hall where Mutti hovers.

‘Take care, Franz. Please be careful tonight,’ she says, her voice tremulous.

‘I’ve been hand-picked to do the Führer’s work,’ he tells Mutti as he shrugs his coat on. ‘If Herr Himmler trusts me, you must too. Don’t wait up,’ he adds, striding from the house, leaving behind him a faint aroma of liquor.

Mutti and I stand staring at each other.

‘It’s all ready, Frau Heinrich,’ Bertha says, hovering in the dining room doorway. ‘Shall I go ahead and serve the soup?’

*

After a dinner where Kuschi lay across my feet as if trying to protect me, Mutti and I go to the afternoon sitting room in silence. She knits ferociously, her lips pursed, brow furrowed. I hold a book in my hand but cannot focus on the words. Bertha won’t let me down, I’m sure. But with each minute that passes, whatever is happening outside on the streets of Leipzig puts Walter in danger.

Unable to sit still, I go to the window and gaze out at the dark, empty street as if in some vain hope he might be standing out there, beneath the cherry tree, leaning nonchalantly against its trunk, his hat pulled low. He isn’t there, of course, and I return to the edge of the sofa. The empty space in the house grows. Room after room filled with priceless objects and the ghostly shadows of long-departed inhabitants. Mutti’s needles click, click, click together, louder and louder until I want to scream at her to shut them up.

Bertha comes in with the coffee and gives me a long look. She carries a crease in her forehead. I meet her eyes and I know she won’t let me down, even though every fibre in her body is against my idea.

She places the coffee cups carefully on the table.

‘I’ve told Ingrid to get off home to her parents,’ she tells Mutti. ‘She’s no good to me, getting under my feet, stressing and worrying. You know how she is.’