‘Once Walter’s left, I want to help your father with the resistance. Please, tell me what I can do.’

She hooks her arm through mine.

‘It’s too dangerous for you, given what’s happened.’

‘I don’t care about myself. Not really, not anymore.’

‘I don’t have much to tell anyway. It’s not like there is an organisation, as such, to join. To have anything more than a few loose connections is pretty much impossible now. The Gestapo have ears everywhere. The second there is a whiff of anything so much as an anti-government whisper, they’ll make arrests. People are too afraid.’

‘So, what is it your father does?’

‘He just has a few contacts. There’s an underground web. No one person knows everyone in it, for safety. Thus, if anyone is arrested, they can’t give the whole network away. From what I understand, they pass information. Try to help people leave Germany. Give them shelter, let them know where it’s safe to go. Especially children.’

‘I want to help, Erna, in any way I can.’

And we walk the rest of the way home, in quiet contemplation.

22 November 1938

I’m becoming fond of this draughty little sitting room at the back of the café, with its threadbare rug and worn-out, faded green sofa. A place of safety. A haven where I can meet Walter before he leaves Germany tomorrow. Strange how I should feel sheltered and safe here, amongst strangers, but exposed and vulnerable in my own home.

I peer out of the door into the little backyard behind the café with its coal store, toilet and bins. I listen to the gentle clattering in the kitchen and the low hum of voices in the café beyond. My heart beats hard and strong.

I’m staring into the bare fireplace when Felix, Lena’s son, slinks silently into the kitchen. A stranger has followed him. A pang of fear as I wonder who this is. There is nothing familiar about the gaunt, bald-headed figure who stands in front of me. His cheekbones stand proud, too proud, out of his face; his eyes are sunken and deep purple bruises and scabs cover his hairless head. One hand is thickly bandaged and his shoulders sag. A homeless beggar, perhaps. He is instantly repelling and I take a step backwards.

Then I look into his eyes.

What have they done to you?

‘I never thought I’d see you again,’ the stranger speaks.

I step forward, raise my hands to his face. His cheeks are wet beneath my fingertips and I trace his grey skin upwards, feel the fuzz of new hair growth on his head. His beautiful blond curls; hacked off. Gone.

‘No,’ I whisper. ‘No, no no…’

We sit on the sofa. Lena, her mother and Felix are in the room. Lena’s hand is over her mouth and she stifles a cry at the sight of Walter. Her mother hands us tumblers of some sort of strong liquor. I take a gulp and shudder as the fiery liquid slides down my throat.