‘Um, she’s fine.’

Did he even get the message?

‘Good. Good, that’s good.’ He checks his watch. ‘I know they don’t want you out too long, shall we turn around?’

We have reached the far end of the wide expanse of grass. The dark woods are ahead of us, and dusk hovers. I shudder involuntarily.

‘Yes, perhaps you’ll come in for a hot drink?’

He nods, looking pleased.

‘Kuschi, we’re leaving,’ I call.

There is no response, so we stand and wait, peering between the slim, naked trunks.

‘Kuschi!’ I call again, louder this time.

Finally, his black shaggy shape appears hurtling through the trees, ears flattened, tail streaming out behind, as though he is being pursued by the devil.

It doesn’t get any easier, my love, you not being here, and I wonder if it ever will. That day, 15 March, the day you are to marry, approaches ever closer. I wish you had never told me when it is to be. I read your letter over and over, I know it by heart! Sometimes my resolve weakens and I pick up pen and paper to write to you. But if I start, I’ll never stop. I must stay strong, so this journal is my outlet. I know you have been in touch with Erna. She told me you’re worried about me and how you think of me all the time. That you just want to know I’m okay. I’ve urged her to tell you I’m fine, just getting on with life, but I suspect you won’t believe it. Erna’s father met with an English Kindertransport volunteer who came here but they were inundated with requests from desperate parents and he didn’t manage to secure passage this time. Oh, I feel so useless and tired. How I would love to turn back time and be in your arms. I picture us walking by the river, you and me, with Kuschi happily bounding beside us. I imagine what you would say to me. You’d say: Hetty, together we can do anything. But it isn’t like that is it? You exist only in my mind; a hazy memory.

4 February 1939

The party is in full swing when Tomas and I arrive. Two large Hitlerjugend boys on the door check our names off the list and let us in.

We push our way through the smoke-filled room towards the bar. The smell of cigarette smoke is almost unbearable and I feel a rush of nausea. I spot Erna standing amongst a gaggle of BDM girls. She waves and we weave towards her. Tomas buys us a sherry each. I take a large gulp, hoping its sweet, medicinal taste will help bury the sickness. All around us, heads turn to look. Their eyes flicker over me and, as usual, come to rest on Erna – the beautiful objet d’art.

No wonder Karl fell so heavily for her. Poor, darling Karl.

Erna is impervious to the staring eyes. We stand and watch the dancers who are careful to move correctly. No daring American moves under the critical eyes of several Gestapo officers who hover around. I drain my glass and am left with a warm and slightly fuzzy feeling. I feel a little better. Tomas smiles at me from where he stands, a little distance away, talking to a boy in the field-grey uniform of the Heer, army cap at a rakish angle.