‘I can show you,’ she cries brightly.

She stands right in front of me, waving the string in the air.

‘I really don’t want to play,’ I say firmly.

‘Don’t bother Herta, Sophie,’ Hilda says. ‘Not everyone wants to play games in the early morning. I’ll go and make some coffee,’ she adds, disappearing into the kitchen.

Sophie begins to dance from foot to foot in front of me, waving the string like a flag.

‘Shall we play something else if you don’t want to play cat’s cradle?’ she asks.

‘I don’t want to play anything, Sophie. Sorry.’

She frowns, then skips to the other side of the room and puts the string on a bookshelf.

I watch her. This child has been a spectre, an evil, mocking spirit in my head. Now the real thing is here, in the same room, talking with me, smiling, wanting to play a game. She has a name. Sophie. In any other circumstance, I might think her sweet. Charming even.

She’s your sister!

I don’t want a sister.

I need to plan exactly what to say to Vati when he arrives. But this is all too much and I can’t think properly. Sophie is prattling away to herself. She holds a doll in one hand and a toy dog in the other, facilitating an imaginary conversation between them. I try to see hints of me or Karl in her. Perhaps there is a resemblance about the eyes. I look for signs of evil in her. But I can’t see the spectre that haunted me in this flesh-and-blood child. That was an invention of my imagination.

I suppose the child in front of me is as innocent of the faults of her parents as I am.

‘No, no, you naughty doggy,’ Sophie is saying, ‘if you run off again, I shall have to punish you and you shan’t be allowed to play with your friends in the park.’

She looks up and sees me watching her.

‘Do you like doggies, Herta?’ she smiles.

‘I—’

The intercom buzzes loudly and we both jump at the noise. Hilda appears and looks at me with nervous eyes.

‘Vati!’ Sophie shouts with glee, tossing the doll and the dog to one side and running to the front door.

Hilda and I stand together, frozen, as Vati’s bulk fills the doorway. He stares at us wordlessly, with wide eyes, while Sophie reaches up to him.

‘Vati!’ Sophie tugs at his hand. ‘This is Herta. She is very nice and I want to teach her to play cat’s cradle.’

I search Vati’s face for horror or rage or shame.

But there is nothing. His face is as blank as a sheet of paper.

He simply looks tired. And old.

*

Hilda puts on her hat and picks up her basket.

‘Come along, Sophie. Let’s visit the bakers. We can stop and feed the ducks on the way back, if we’re quick,’ she tells a now neatly dressed Sophie.

Vati exchanges a look with Hilda as she passes. A private, intimate look. A chill runs down my spine. How they understand each other, these two. I never see Vati look at Mutti that way.