There is exquisite relief when it’s done. I let the skirt drop to the floor, unbutton my blouse and allow my belly to bulge out. It aches from being constricted and sucked in all day at school. I look down at my distended abdomen. Deep red indentations mark my belly where the waistband dug in for so long. Five months gone. I feel it all the time now. No longer flutterings, these are the proper, strong kicks of two little feet. I’m not going to be able to hide it much longer.

Tears work themselves loose from my eyes. I’ve shed so many, but they don’t solve a thing. I clench my fists and rub them away, knuckles hurting my cheeks, but I don’t care. I deserve it.

I walk bare-legged to my window seat, resting my back against a cushion and stretching my legs gratefully out in front of me. The cherry tree is in full blossom once again. It’s so full with pink-tipped flowers this year that some of the delicate ends of the branches appear to bow under their weight. I wish I could be that tree. It doesn’t suffer human anguish. It lives in blissful oblivion of mine – and of the German boots marching their way across Eastern Europe. Vati says war is inevitable now. A war to annihilate the Jews.

My bowels shift. This threat to the life that scrabbles and squirms inside me… A mischling child, whose Jewish blood is considered to be so abhorrent that it would be in the greatest danger if it were to be born, and whose existence may also be the end of mine. I think of Hilda Müller, how I despised her for her poor morals and husband-stealing. Now I am just like her. Only worse. Because there is no Vati in the background giving me a flat and money and love. Even if she does have to share him with Mutti, at least she has a part of him.

I wish Walter was here. I screw my eyes closed and conjure his spirit with every pore of my being. I can see his face, his hair, his smile… I feel the touch of his hand, the smell of his skin. I’m drifting in his arms. There is water swirling, but I’m safe; after all this lonely time, I’m safe…

I barely register the sound of the door. I open my eyes, turn my head and Mutti is in the room. She is speaking, walking towards me. It all happens in slow motion.

‘I’ve called you three times – why aren’t you answering?’ She stops. She is staring at me, staring at my round, exposed belly.

My brain clicks and everything speeds up. I tuck my knees in, wrap my arms around them to hide the bump. But it’s too late. Mutti is standing statue-still, her mouth half-open as if to speak, but no words come out. Her eyes are wide; she doesn’t blink.

The air is static. Time stops.