‘Oi!’ The fat, hairy man whose armpit is in my face, addresses the other men. ‘Watch your tongues,’ he says gruffly, ‘leave the little lady alone. She’s only a youngster.’ He turns and dips his big, round head towards me. He smells of beer and cigarettes. ‘You okay, girl?’

I nod, absurdly grateful to this rough gorilla-man for standing up for me. The tram slows for the next stop.

‘I’m getting off here,’ I say quietly, not wanting the others to hear. ‘Thank you.’

I jump out as soon as the tram screeches to a halt, thankful none of the men follow me. I take a long, deep breath of fresh air, delicious after the stale odour of male sweat and beer in the carriage. My legs are weak and I grab the spokes of a metal gate in front of me to steady myself.

I look up and see I’m standing at the entrance of a small Jewish cemetery. Someone has defaced a few of the gravestones. ‘Jewish Swine’ is daubed over one. Another has been smashed into pieces. A third reads: ‘The only good Jew is a dead Jew!’ and the one next to it, ‘Spill Jewish blood – the only way to solve the Jewish Problem.’ Hairs stand up at the back of my neck.

I think of the whispers of a Jewish conspiracy, of not knowing what they plan and when. Because this is the way they work, underhand and secretly; through the medium of foreign governments. Through revolutionary movements and unrest. Dividing and unsettling. Manoeuvring themselves into power in all spheres of life. A bead of sweat tracks down my spine. Hitler will lead us to victory. He must.

I hurry away from this ill intent amongst the gravestones.

A vision of Walter floats in front of me as I walk. His soft, curly blond hair. His warm blue eyes. That smile. How polite and proper he is compared to those brutes on the tram. And they have the audacity to call themselves German.

Walter is not a normal Jew. He cannot be.

I’m certain he isn’t part of this Conspiracy of International Jewry.

Where are his hooked nose and shifty eyes?

He is kind, handsome and funny.

Perhaps he isn’t a Jew. Maybe he is a mischling, a mix with Aryan blood too. This would explain his looks. Maybe he doesn’t even know it himself.

I turn into Fritzschestrasse and the thrill of rebellion suddenly flows through my veins. I shall meet him tomorrow morning. Just one last time, to say goodbye and tell him we can’t meet again. Nothing terrible happened last time and no one will ever know.

To simply not turn up would be rude.

And I have been brought up to have good manners.

8 August 1937

I am standing on a high, narrow rock. Behind, a meadow of lush grass and wild flowers. Ahead, the rock falls steeply away into a deep emerald valley. Tight bands of conifers grow vertically on the steep slopes. At the bottom is the winding silver strip of a river, shimmering in the sunlight.