‘Oh, you know,’ Lena says, wiping a hand across her forehead. ‘We’re getting by.’

I nod. There’s an awkward pause.

‘I was hoping you would be able to get a message to Frau Keller. And,’ I hesitate, ‘it might be of interest to you, too. For your boy.’

She nods quickly. ‘Yes?’

‘The British are organising for children to travel to England, to be looked after by foster parents, until it is safe for them to be reunited with their parents. Someone I know is trying to find places on one of the trains. It’s very difficult – there are more requests than spaces – but he will keep trying for the Keller children, and for your boy, if you would wish it?’

She nods again. ‘I heard talk of this. And also that a politician in America is trying to organise a similar programme. If he’s successful, they will be able to double the numbers…’ Her face crumples. ‘What has it come to, that we must send our precious children to the care of strangers in foreign countries?’

On a sudden whim I grab her hands. ‘Don’t give up hope, Lena. We must all fight this, however we can.’

Lena’s eyes fill with tears and she looks away, embarrassed.

‘I must go, I have school. But I’ll try to come back soon. Hopefully with good news,’ I add.

I leave the café feeling better than I have done in weeks. I’ll find an opportunity at school to tell Erna what I heard about the Leipziger Meuten. Herr Bäcker will know what to do about it. At last I feel useful. It may not be much, but it might make a difference.

Wissen ist macht, after all.

And I smile to myself as I hurry to the tram stop.

1 March 1939

The nausea has gone. Nothing more to worry about. Sudden shock and grief can stop bleeding. I heard that somewhere, and it’s a relief to be without the dreaded monthly cramps.

As I’m gathering my books for school, Kuschi barks loudly from the hall, heralding the arrival of the postman. I find Mutti in her bedroom. Unusually, since Karl’s death, she is dressed to go out at this time of morning. She’s sitting at her dressing table, arranging her hair into its usual neat chignon.

‘Good morning, Mutti,’ I say, unable to mask the surprise in my voice. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

She smiles at me in the mirror.

‘It’s time to pick myself up and get back to my charity work. The need for the children’s home becomes more urgent every day,’ she says. ‘Truthfully, Hetty, I don’t have the heart for it, but the doctor says I must, otherwise my malaise may never leave me. And I’m not sure I can bear to live with it forever,’ she adds with a quiver in her voice.

I place my hand on her shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze.

‘He’s probably right,’ I say softly. ‘Nothing will bring him back. He would want you to be happy, Mutti.’