‘That’s fine, Bertha,’ Mutti sighs, not looking up.

‘So, I was thinking,’ Bertha continues, throwing me a look, ‘as we’re getting so close to St Nicholas’s and Ruprecht’s Day, perhaps Hetty could help me make the gingerbread house?’

Mutti finally looks up from her knitting.

‘Yes,’ she says finally. ‘Domestic chores will do her good. Herta, be so good as to put something on the gramophone before you go to the kitchen. Some Wagner, I think. It feels appropriate for tonight.’

‘Yes, Mutti,’ I say, picking out a record and placing the needle into the groove with shaking fingers. She settles back into her chair and waves me away with a dismissive hand.

I follow Bertha to the kitchen. She bangs the door shut behind me.

‘God, help me, I don’t know why I’m doing this…’ she begins in a low voice, beads of sweat appearing on her brow. ‘Go warn that boy. I’ll collect the coffee cups in an hour or so and tell her you’re knee deep in flour. That’ll buy you a little longer. After that, though, she’ll be wanting to go to bed and she’ll come in here, so you’d better be back. It’s my neck you’ll be risking too, you realise,’ she adds briskly.

‘Are you sure about this, Bertha?’

‘Damn well get out of here before I change my mind. And by God, you’d better be back in an hour, two at most, or I’ll skin you!’ She wipes the palms of her hands on her apron and, breathing heavily, she pulls the big mixing bowl, flour and butter from the cupboard.

I don’t wait to see any more. I’m bolting out of the back door, wondering where I should look for Walter first.

*

I start with the café. Lena is taking an order at one of the tables. She glances up as I rush in and her eyes widen when she sees me.

‘Come with me,’ she says, passing close with a tray. No need for any pretence. She leads the way behind the counter and through a small kitchen where an elderly lady, probably her mother, is working. A wireless sits in one corner from which the voice of Zarah Leander is singing ‘Eine Frau Wird erst schön durch die Liebe’. I follow Lena into a tiny sitting room at the back. A dark-haired boy of eleven or twelve years old is doing his homework at a table, books spread around him. This must be her son, who has delivered messages between Walter and me.

‘He isn’t here…’ she begins.

‘Do you know if he would be at home? I need to find him, quickly. He – he could be in danger.’ My voice is shaky and Lena nods quickly.

‘My boy will fetch Walter for you,’ she says, leaning over him, gently rubbing his shoulder and speaking softly into his ear. He nods eagerly, dropping his pencil and tears out of the back door. ‘It is best. Nobody will notice a child. It’s safer than you going yourself.’ Lena shakes her head and sniffs. ‘Sorry, but I must get back to the café. You can stay in here.’