‘Yes, Vati,’ I whisper.

‘Go to bed, Herta.’

I swallow the words I promised myself I’d say this evening and watch him walk heavily upstairs. Instead of begging words, a different plan is replacing them. I will not be bowed by Vati and his threats. I can be a better person than that.

7 January 1939

It’s happening again, that tight ball in my stomach. I will it to relax, but there is too much saliva. I can’t swallow. I jump up and run down the corridor to the bathroom, retching bright yellow bile into the clear water of the toilet bowl. Shaking, I flush it away, then splash icy water over my face.

In the gloomy early morning light my reflection in the mirror is ghostly pale, my eyes dull and lifeless. Beads of sweat shine on my forehead, despite the chill. If the past few days are anything to go by, the vomiting will only provide temporary relief. The nausea will soon return and stay for the rest of the day.

Back in my room, I swing open the shutters and stare through the grey misty dawn onto the empty street. The frigid branches of the cherry tree are bare. It looks dead. But deep inside its broad trunk, life slumbers, waiting for the warmth of spring to pulse sap to the very ends of each and every twig. Then the blossom will come.

1939. A new year. New hope. New life.

Still the relief of bloodied underwear evades me.

Please, God. Please do not let me be pregnant…

*

‘Where’s Bertha?’

Mutti is in the kitchen, alone, stirring something in a pan on the stove.

‘Gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘She had to. After what she did, that night…’

‘What? Please tell me, you haven’t fired Bertha?’

Mutti doesn’t look at me. The rolling nausea in my belly intensifies.

‘Vati and I discussed it. One has to trust one’s staff. Once that trust is broken, there’s no going back.’

‘But why? It wasn’t Bertha’s fault – I told you! It was mine. Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.’

‘We’d have done it sooner, but it was hellishly difficult to replace Bertha just before Christmas. We agreed with her she could stay until we found another decent cook,’ Mutti adds, spooning egg from the pan into a serving dish, ‘who will start next Monday. We shall just have to manage ourselves until then. I used to cook,’ she adds, almost with surprise. ‘I’m sure I can remember what to do.’ She picks up the dish and leaves the room. ‘Breakfast is served,’ she adds.

How dare Vati get rid of her like that? It was my fault, and I’ve had no chance to say… what? Why didn’t she say anything to me, if she knew? It never occurred to me there might be a time Bertha wasn’t here. She’s a part of this house, a part of my life. Until this moment, I had no idea how precious she is. Will whoever comes next chat to Kuschi and throw him kitchen scraps? Will she be there, square and comforting, with cake, coffee and a listening ear? It’s only now that I understand the void of quiet affection, gentle kindness and understanding she has left. I am wretched with guilt.