She stops kneading and pounds the dough on the board. The muscles of her forearms flex beneath her mottled skin.

‘Shall I wake her, do you think?’

‘No, Fräulein Herta. I don’t think.’

I sigh and wander out onto the street. The old couple are shuffling across the road in the distance. I catch up with them.

‘Good morning. May I stroke your dog? My name is Hetty. I live in the big house across the street from you.’

The old man is dressed in a brown day suit and tie with a Homburg hat perched neatly on his head. The woman, tiny and frail, in a thin coat despite the warmth of the day, flickers her eyes at her husband.

He clears his throat and says quietly to her, ‘She’s just a child, Ruth.’ He turns to me. ‘Of course. His name is Flocke, and I am Herr Goldschmidt.’

Flocke wags his tail so hard that his body snakes and twists.

‘Aren’t you friendly?’ Crouching down, I giggle as he jumps his two front paws on my knees and tries to lick my ears.

‘Perhaps I could take him to the park for you?’ I look up at the Goldschmidts. They really are very old and Flocke can’t ever have a proper run. ‘I’m good with dogs. I shan’t lose him or anything.’ I stand and look responsible.

Frau Goldschmidt answers this time. ‘You can’t take the dog.’ Her tone is hard and sour, as though she has just swallowed lemon pips. ‘I won’t allow it, after what happened.’

I take a step backwards. Perhaps she doesn’t like children.

‘Come on now, Ruth. There’s no need for that. Let’s go.’ Herr Goldschmidt tugs on his wife’s arm, but she doesn’t move and her dark eyes narrow into snake-slits.

‘Your father,’ she hisses, ‘forced them out. Those trumped-up charges. The campaign in that paper of his. It was criminal! All lies and falsehoods…’

‘Ruth! Please!’ Herr Goldschmidt shakes her arm, but she is unstoppable, trembling and spitting her words at me.

‘The Druckers were good people. Successful. But that creates jealousy, doesn’t it? Envy from lesser folk. And now there he sits, like a Lord, in his stolen house!’

‘Ruth!’ Herr Goldschmidt’s voice is high and sharp. He turns back to me. ‘I’m sorry for my wife’s words, she’s not herself today…’

But by now I’m certain the old woman is a witch and I’m running hard and fast away from them, before she can spray me with poisonous spit. I don’t stop until I’m safely inside my iron gate, my heart thudding like racehorse hooves in my chest.

A car is parked outside in the street and I find a young woman standing in the hallway, wrapped like a fat bockwurst in a tight brown suit. She has chubby cheeks, a snub nose and the thickest lips I’ve ever seen. Her hair is the colour of a paper bag, plaited and so fiercely wrapped around the top of her head that the skin above her ears is taut and red. She gives me a surprised look.