‘Well! You had better write and tell whoever-it-is. And fast. He will get a hell of a shock. But then,’ she laughs a hollow laugh, ‘he should have thought about the consequences before he did it to you. Shouldn’t he? Stupid men. They never do, though, do they? Hmm? Think. Or at least, they think only of one thing.’ She shakes her head and jiggles one leg up and down on her tiptoes.

I bury my head in my hands.

‘Herta, you have to tell me who the father is.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Hetty. This is serious! You have to tell me, and you have to marry him!’

‘You don’t understand. I can’t, I just can’t.’

Mutti’s leg stops jiggling.

‘Who the hell is the father?’ she screams, leaning towards me, red in the face. ‘Do you have any idea what Vati is going to say when he finds out?’

She’s going to strike me. I lean away. I’ve never seen her so angry. We stare at each other, then she howls in frustration and jumps up, paces the room again.

I stare at the floor. The geometric patterns on the rug beneath the coffee table swim and merge. Rust red. Olive green. Burnt orange. Camel…

‘Please, Hetty. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me. Come on…’ Her mood changes, her tone cajoling, pleading.

‘I can’t.’

‘At least tell me the reason why you can’t name him.’

I glance up at her. Her eyes have grown large. I shake my head, tears welling once again. A look of horror falls like a shadow over her face.

‘Oh, Herta,’ she says, ‘he isn’t married, is he?’

‘No, Mutti.’

But he is.

Blood curdles in my veins. Vati, who is in Dresden until the weekend, could, at this very moment, be with his mistress and their newborn son, instead of being on the official SS business Mutti thinks he’s on.

Lie upon lie upon lie. The falsehoods gather and pile up, one on top of the other, like a castle formed from layers of packed, wet sand, until one day the sand will dry and the castle will crumble and come tumbling down.

16 April 1939

Their voices travel from the dining room, unnaturally heightened, when I arrive home, mid-morning, from Kuschi’s Sunday walk. The door is ajar and I listen from behind it.

‘Really, Franz, I have no idea who the culprit is. I’m shocked by her behaviour, truly. But I can’t imagine why she won’t name him. She’s protecting him. I suppose he’s married…’ There’s a pause. ‘It’s my fault. I should have been more careful with her. But I was so distracted with losing Karl…’ Mutti’s voice breaks.

‘No, Hélène. It’s not your fault. I’ve a damned good idea why she won’t name him.’ Vati’s voice is acid and my stomach turns over.

‘You know who it is?’

‘Oh yes, and it’s worse than you imagine.’

‘Franz, tell me! What can be worse than a married man?’