Tomas smiles in the semi-darkness; carried along with the excitement, he shuffles closer. ‘I just hope the war doesn’t start and finish before I can play a part in it.’

‘Why does everyone talk of war when Hitler claims only to want peace?’ I whisper.

‘Because we need to show the bastards what we’re made of!’ Tomas waves a hand towards the now blank screen. ‘The swine out there have to see Hitler means business. War is the only way to do that, so to get to peace, you need to have war, right?’ He looks sideways at me.

‘The Führer must know what he is doing,’ I say, thinking of Karl, vulnerable up there in a metal box with wings.

‘Of course he does. He’s the ultimate leader. God amongst men. He has a Master Plan for all this.’

‘Let’s hope he’s better at winning wars than he is at writing books,’ I say, softening my voice so nobody can overhear. Thankfully, Tomas laughs at my joke and the screen lights up again.

After the scenes from Nuremburg, the main film is something of an anti-climax. My mind wanders. Is Vati with his other daughter? He could, at this very moment, be tickling her round belly and making her giggle. I imagine him smiling at her mother, running his fingers tenderly down her cheek, praising her for giving him this lovely child. Bile rises and stings the back of my throat. The cinema is no sanctuary from my thoughts. Everywhere I go, I’m haunted by that vision of Vati. There is no escape. No respite. I shift uncomfortably in my seat and only now do I notice Tomas has my hand in his. I gently pull it away.

If only it were Walter here beside me, holding my hand.

But then, he wouldn’t be allowed to come in here at all.

It’s dusk when we get outside. We sit on a bench opposite Thomaskirche. Strains of the clear, high voices of the boys’ choir flow from the ancient church across the cobbled square.

‘My father is dead,’ Tomas suddenly announces, his voice a harsh monotone, breaking the amiable silence between the three of us. A bolt passes through me.

‘What happened?’ Erna gasps.

‘He fell from a prison window,’ Tomas answers, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. ‘He was cleaning it, four stories up. Must’ve leant out too far.’

‘That’s just awful. How horrible,’ Erna says. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ Tomas replies swiftly. ‘He was a terrible embarrassment. He didn’t fight in the war. He was a communist. He was anti-Nazi. Truth is, he was a traitor and he got what a traitor deserves.’ His cheeks are pink and his smudged glasses have slipped, just as they always used to, halfway down his nose.

Erna looks at him, wide-eyed with shock. ‘But you can’t be happy that your own father is dead!’

‘I’m not happy. Of course not. But he only had himself to blame. He was selfish and we all suffered because of him. He never earned a decent wage and now we have to live in a shithole in Plagwitz, and my poor mother has to do the work of a man and a woman. Slaving all hours in that goddam factory, while we live on crap food and factory fumes. You never knew him, Erna, nor anything about it. Hetty understands, don’t you, Hetty? We’re better off without him, that’s all.’