‘Herta?’ Mutti’s voice is a hoarse whisper. ‘Is that… are you… in trouble?’

The clock ticks again and something releases. Like water through a loosened plug, all my suffering flows out. Freely, copiously, the tears come.

‘Yes, yes, yes… I’m in trouble. Terrible trouble.’

At last. Someone knows, and the relief is infinite.

*

I sit with my legs folded beneath me, enveloped between the cushions of the big armchair in the afternoon sitting room. I’m wrapped in my dressing gown and my fingers are curled around a warm, milky cup of cocoa.

Vera and Margot, our new cook, have been told I’m unwell. They both paint a look of concern on their faces, but really, they don’t give a damn. Not like Bertha. Oh, how I miss Bertha.

Mutti paces the room. Her eyes flicker about nervously. Some strands of her usually neatly groomed hair fall free and trail softly over her ears. Her waist beneath her slim-fitting dress looks impossibly narrow and the beautifully cut fabric of the skirt swings as she walks, caressing her long, slender thighs. I cannot imagine how Mutti could ever have been pregnant. Twice.

She grabs the packet of cigarettes and matches lying on the coffee table as she passes, her movements jagged, clipped. She walks the room, one arm up, holding the cigarette between her fingers, wrist cocked, the other arm hugged across her waist. She hasn’t been this agitated since that doomed day last October which shattered our lives forever.

She stops in front of me and perches on the edge of the sofa.

‘For heaven’s sake, Herta. Why? I mean, after all we’ve been through. How could you do this to us?’

‘I’m sorry…’

‘Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl!’ She thumps the arm of the sofa with her fist. ‘I didn’t bring you up to behave…’

‘Mutti, I’m sorry,’ I choke through my tears, ‘I really am.’

‘You will be.’ Her tone is harsh. ‘He’s going to have to marry you, you know. He does know that, doesn’t he?’

‘Who?’ I whisper.

‘The goddam father,’ she spits. ‘Who else? What a damned shame. You could have done so much better for yourself. Tomas – I take it it’s him – is not exactly what your father and I had in mind for you. Vati will be so disappointed. But it’s too late now. You can forget any dream of having a job, taking your Abitur. You do realise that, don’t you?’ Her hand trembles as she moves it to her mouth. She sucks hard on the cigarette, narrowing her eyes.

‘I don’t know who the father is,’ I say softly.

‘What?’ She sits up, staring at me as if I’ve gone mad. ‘Jesus! How can you not know! How many other boys have you been with, you dirty little slut!’ Her voice is high-pitched, on the edge of hysteria.

‘I don’t mean that. I mean, I do know. I just don’t want to say.’

‘Good God, what is this?’

‘Oh, Mutti. I wish I could—’