They’d taken off her wedding ring when she died, and rolled it in a handkerchief. Bette slipped it onto her finger. It fitted, more or less. Mutti had always been petite. Lieselotte took after her. Bette had her father’s build, big bones, Mutti used to say, palm against palm. We’re the same size now. She opened the drawer. Nail polish. Lipsticks. Mutti’s embroidered handkerchiefs, her suspender belts, an unopened pair of silk stockings. She reached further back, pulled out a small brown casket with Mensinga Membran written on the top. It must, she thought, be something secret for Mutti to hide it so far back, something forbidden. There was a small rush of excitement as she opened it, stared at the round rubber cap, at the sprays next to it. A flush crept up her neck, burning her cheeks. She had no idea what this was but knew it was private, womanly. Mutti would be angry. She shut the box, pushed it back, picked up a lipstick. It was almost finished, but she dabbed some on her lips, smacked them together as she’d seen Mutti do, sat back to look at herself, smelling its faint perfume.

Her hair was growing but it was still boyish. She went into her bedroom and took out a summer dress, pulling off Otto’s trousers and shirt, tugging the dress over her. Her breasts had grown even in the last few weeks, and she was taller than last summer. She tried to tug the bodice down but the seam tore. Even if she wanted to wear girls’ clothes, she had none. They were all too small. She ripped it off and flung it on the bed, opened Lieselotte’s side of the cupboard where her clothes hung on their hangers. She had been raiding Mutti’s wardrobe, not just her tortoiseshell hair combs, but her summer blouses and dresses.

Well.

Bette walked back to her mother’s bedroom. If Lieselotte could do this, so could she. The wardrobe smelled of Mutti, of her skin and perfume and the musty odour of worn, unaired clothes. At the far end were her evening outfits, ball gowns and cocktail dresses. Where had she gone in them? She sifted through the hangers, lifted down a midnight-blue frock, chiffon silk with a satin lining. Bette could remember her mother wearing it. Where had she been going? Somewhere grand. Bette had made her a necklace from buttons, which she gave her mother before she left. She’d draped it round her neck, thanked Bette, said it was the most beautiful jewellery she’d ever owned and swept out of the door, trailing her fox fur stole, Vati by her side in a dicky bow and dinner suit. Had they met the Führer that night? Had he admired it? She couldn’t remember, and Mutti had never said. The necklace was laid out on the dressing table the next morning.