Walter said to me once that he thinks all people – Germans, Jews, Nordics, Africans, Slavs or Americans – we all have the same capacity for good or evil. That no one race is different to any other. He said that although some individuals are worse than others, everyone is a mixture of both. But I know this is wrong. Perhaps he’s right about most of us, but not all. Some people really are better. They sacrifice so much for the good of others. Their own safety; their own lives. These are the real heroes among us. The ones who possess so much strength of mind and fortitude, not to take the easy route, no matter what personal cost is to be paid.

The Bäckers are such people. Others may think they are like them. But few would match up. They are as rare as the Lady’s Slipper Orchid, and more precious. One day I truly hope I will find a way to thank them.

I drop my pen, gripped by a wave of pain so fierce I cry out. In the few moments that it eases, I scrabble for the pen on the floor and place it, with the journal, back inside the bedside drawer, on top of the small pile of letters Tomas has written, delivered surreptitiously by Mutti to a box at the post office.

Another wave of pain, stronger than the last. I break out in a sweat. My breathing becomes ragged and I reach for the door.

‘Frau Bäcker!’

She appears at the base of the narrow stairs to the attic.

‘It’s getting worse,’ I tell her, my voice breaking as the pain grips again. I bend double on the landing.

‘It’s all right,’ she soothes. ‘I’ve already called Dr Kaufman. Hermann?’ she calls to her husband. ‘Boil water and fetch fresh towels from the linen cupboard. Quickly now. Erna, come with me.’

The pain is all-consuming. I’m enslaved to it; I walk, sit, lie, sway, bend to its demands.

Why does love end in pain?

I try to remember the fun Walter and I had together. The endless walks by the river. His kisses, tender and sweet. The light in his eyes when he met mine. His words, his hands, the warmth of his body against me. His dear, beautiful face.

Oh, Walter, how I miss you.

And the pain overwhelms me once again.

*

Freshly shaved and the enema having done its trick, Dr Kaufman is trying to get me to lie on the bed. But I don’t want to lie on the bed. It feels all wrong, lying on my back with the great weight of the baby pressing down. So, I’m on all fours, making a slow, crawling circuit around the room, bathed in sweat, groaning with each building mountain of pain. As the light outside fades, the louder I groan. In some weird way, this eases the suffering.

‘I wasn’t able to get hold of any sedative,’ Dr Kaufman says apologetically. ‘It’s very difficult for me to get any supplies.’