‘Do you really think a bunch of conniving Jews forced the hands of those governments who signed that treaty?’ Walter’s face reddens as he speaks. He’s angry. I have prodded the tiger. ‘According to our Führer, Jews are the instigators behind the tyranny of capitalism AND communism. Two opposing ideologies. Why? Ask yourself, Hetty? The Jews behind everything that is bad? It’s simple and easy to blame us for all that is wrong. And people believe what they want to believe, whether the evidence is there or not.’

His words sting, and I squirm beneath the force of them. But he’s being unfair. We’re not personally responsible for his family’s bad fortune.

‘Well, none of this is my father’s fault. People have always been jealous of his success.’

Walter stops walking. His eyes search my face. ‘You don’t know, do you?’

‘Know what?’

‘How you came by your home.’

‘What do you mean? What’s this got to do with anything?’

And now there he sits, like a lord in his stolen house.

This is not how this morning is supposed to go.

‘You really don’t know, do you?’ he repeats.

‘Well, what then?’ I shout at him. ‘If you know something, tell me! How can you blame me for not knowing something if I’ve not been told?’

‘I’m sorry. I just thought…’

‘Please tell me,’ I repeat, quieter now.

Wissen ist macht. Knowledge is power.

We walk again, side by side, along the dusty path.

He takes a deep breath. ‘The family who owned the house you now live in were Jewish acquaintances of my parents. They were much wealthier and better connected than us and Herr Drucker was the ultimate boss of your father. He owned and edited the Leipziger. But the National Socialists don’t like Jews controlling newspapers. So, a number of people – your father and the Mayor amongst them – got together and concocted stories about Herr Drucker to oust him. Corruption, tax evasion, that sort of thing. All made up of course. The whole case went to court, heard by Judge Fuchs, a big supporter of the Nazi party, who was only too happy to oblige with a favourable judgement against Drucker.’

‘These are terrible accusations!’ I cry. ‘Why should I believe you?’

‘You don’t have to. But it’s the inconvenient truth.’ The look in his eyes is honest. His expression hard. Is this the truth? Or, what he has been told is the truth?

I look out across the wheat-gold field and remember the day we moved in. The fancy furniture, the artwork, the crystal and silver all left in the house. Like fitting pieces of a puzzle together, a picture emerges. Why would anyone leave such treasured things behind?

‘So, what happened to the Drucker family?’ I ask. ‘Where are they now?’

‘I’ve no idea. My guess is they left Germany.’

‘How could you know all this?’

‘The day my father told me what had happened was the very first time I felt fear. And shame.’