20 September 1937

Two suitcases sit neatly side by side in the hallway.

It’s come so fast. Too fast.

Karl appears at the top of the stairs. He wears a long grey coat belted around his slim waist, neat tie, a glimpse of an eagle, a splash of red, his infectious smile and warm brown eyes that glow beneath a smart Luftwaffe cap.

How unbearable that he is leaving home.

Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsodies blares from the sitting room. Mutti is trying to be cheery so the volume is at its highest.

Karl runs down the stairs, putting his finger to his lips.

‘Don’t spoil the surprise, Little Mouse,’ he says with a wink. ‘I’m going to give her my best twirl.’ Ingrid sidles next to me, throwing admiring looks at him.

‘Hi, Mutti,’ I call above the music. ‘I’m home from school.’

Mutti appears in the doorway, slender and beautiful. She’s dressed in emerald green and wears the rich red lipstick she would not dare to wear out of the house. Earrings dangle and sparkle in her ears and a single diamond pendant glitters at her throat.

‘You look wonderful, Mutti,’ I tell her, but she neither hears nor sees me. She only has eyes for Karl and slaps her hand to her mouth as tears well up in her eyes. She opens her arms and a sob escapes as he steps forward to hug her.

Later, when Vati is home, we eat dinner in silence, the only sound being that of a knife on fine china and the clink of a glass as it’s set down. Bertha has prepared Karl’s favourite meal: fried chicken with onion and roasted potatoes.

I can hardly believe this is our last meal as a family. Now, lunches and dinners will be without him. School will be without him. The house, vast, echoing and empty.

Stolen.

The walls lean in, oppressive and gloomy. Does Karl know how our father got this house? Would he even care? After all, it was he who turned his back on his friend. Or perhaps he simply had no choice in the matter. He had to give him up.

I stir the greasy chicken and potato around my plate. The smell of it is nauseating. I push the potato to one side and quietly slip some chicken to Kuschi, lying beside my chair, who thumps his tail on the floor in thanks. I stroke the soft fur on his head.

‘Herta?’ Vati’s voice slices through the silence. ‘I do hope you are not feeding that dog under the table.’

‘No, I was scratching my leg.’ I give Karl a pleading look, and he immediately turns to Vati. After a lifetime’s practice, he’s a master of diversion.

‘How soon do you suppose they will let me fly?’ Karl asks.

‘I have no idea about the inner workings of the Luftwaffe, but you have to work your way up from the bottom. They will need to toughen you up for a start. You’ve led a privileged life so far, my boy. They have to turn you into a man.’