‘I’m sorry for you Walter, truly, but stealing?’

‘Hetty…’ He touches my hand and the shock of his skin on mine is electric. He looks hard into my eyes. ‘The bakery will no longer sell us bread. The greengrocer refuses us entry. Haven’t you seen the signs: NO JEWS, outside so many shops? They permit dogs, but not us. I don’t want pity; I just want you to see how it is. The truth is, we are barely getting by.’

‘But there are Jewish shops. And department stores. What about those?’

‘Yes, but most have been taken from their Jewish owners, or shut down. If I go there, I risk being set upon by SA thugs.’ His jaw is set and his eyes become angry. He laughs harshly, his face red. ‘And you berate me for stealing a few vegetables?’

His anger hits me like a fist in the belly and I shrink from him.

‘I’m sorry.’ He stretches his hands towards me. ‘I didn’t mean to… God, you’re the last person I want to think badly of me.’ And there, suddenly, is the Walter who saved my life, open and honest. Not angry at me, but at life. His face crumples. ‘We just have to hope these times will pass, and things will become… normal again.’

Can it be so wrong to take a few vegetables if you are denied the ability to buy any, whispers a tiny voice. I silence it.

‘I really must get back now.’ I speak into an uncomfortable silence. The temperature is climbing and Kuschi pants gently at my side.

‘Of course.’ Walter glances around and then looks at his basket. ‘Me too. This is rather conspicuous.’

We stroll back to the hump-backed bridge where we will go our separate ways, me across the river back to Gohlis, and Walter, right, towards his grandmother’s house on Hindenburgstrasse. I’m strangely aware of my body: the shortness of my legs, the messiness of my hair, my thin arms, the fat feel of my tongue in my mouth, a strange tingling sensation on my skin.

‘How is Karl?’ Walter asks suddenly. ‘He must have his Abitur by now and be off to university soon?’

‘Yes. He did well, but Karl is going to join the Luftwaffe.’ It’s impossible to keep the pride from my voice.

‘A pilot, eh? He’ll do well, I’m sure.’

‘He reached a high rank in the Flieger-Hitlerjugend. The Luftwaffe recruited him because he was so well thought of.’

‘Remember the games we used to play, Hetty? Cowboys and Indians? We always argued over who would have the pistol, who the bow and arrow.’ He shakes his head and smiles to himself.

‘You used to let me be the doctor-squaw. I’d scrub your feet and treat your war wounds. Afterwards I’d make you mud pie dinners!’

‘Very delicious they were too,’ Walter laughs.

We reach the bridge. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. We stare at each other and I shuffle my feet. The silence stretches. Not taking his eyes off mine, Walter reaches out for my hand and solemnly shakes it. I feel a flicker of illicit excitement at his touch and don’t want to let go.