‘No.’

‘He could become a policeman. Or work for the Party.’

‘No way. He’d rather die.’

‘That’s stupid. Why?’

‘Because he’s a communist and he hates the Nazis.’

I stop walking. Tomas’s words rise and mingle with the spring breeze ruffling our hair. They hang there, heavy and shocking.

‘You’re making it up.’

‘I’m not.’ We begin to walk again, Tomas dragging the heels of his too-big shoes along the pavement. ‘He has meetings in my uncle’s flat with this Polish man, Bajek, and other men he used to work with from the factory. I’ve listened through the door.’

‘What’ve you heard?’ I sidle closer to him, dropping my voice to a whisper.

‘They talk about this person and that person and how they’ve suffered. About the National Socialists bullying and roughing people up. How they aren’t allowed to meet any more, but it won’t stop them. It’s that Bajek. He’s the main one.’

‘Communists are traitors,’ I hiss.

‘I know…’ he hisses back.

We’ve been studying Hitler’s early life at school. His longing to be an artist. His early struggles against his parents and how, if things had been easier, he would not have been where he is today. We’ve learnt about his misery in the 1920s, how he was tried for high treason and imprisoned. But these hardships only made him stronger. His quest for the German people seemed impossible, but he continued to fight – and he won. We must all be like the Führer and fight, even if it means risking our lives. A vision of his face floats before me. Help me. He wears a solemn look, but then one ice-blue eye winks. My child, his voice is firm and resonant, you must do the right thing. It is your responsibility to be a leader and show the way. Tell Tomas that I, too, went against my parents’ wishes. Show no weakness, Herta. You must be fearless in all that you do…

The vision fades but my skin prickles. So this is what He has planned for me. Not a doctor, but someone who guides others along the path to righteousness. I see clearly the mangled shapes of the men in the soldiers’ home, maimed so cruelly by our enemies. I know what must be done.

‘Come home with me, Tomas. My parents won’t mind. You can have lunch and stay for the afternoon if you like.’

‘Really?’ Tomas’s eyes flare.

‘Yes, really.’

Ahead, I glimpse the humped shapes of two people shuffling towards us from the direction of Berggartenstrasse. An old man leaning on a stick, an old lady holding onto his arm. My heart jumps at the sight of Flocke, silently padding at their side, blacker than black.

I point at them and whisper to Tomas. ‘They’re Jews.’ He looks around and wrinkles his nose in disgust.

‘Let’s get a bit closer,’ he says, eyes lit with something I’ve not seen before.

We get quite close and Tomas shouts, ‘Eww, there’s a nasty stink around here!’