She held the gown against her, then slipped it on. It fitted, once she had hooked it up, though it was a little long. She rummaged in the back of the wardrobe, pulling out a pair of high heels and slipping them on her bare feet. She lifted the dress up above her ankles, balanced her way towards Mutti’s cheval mirror, and let go of the folds so the dress flowed to the floor. It had a halter neck, but no back. She turned sideways. The dress draped so she could see the dents on her bottom. Lieselotte said they were called the dimples of Venus, and Bette liked the name. Still, she wasn’t sure they should be on show, but if she didn’t turn, the dress was perfect. She bowed towards her reflection, smiled, threw her head back, laughing at an imaginary companion, holding a pretend cigarette, taking a drag. She could wear this if they started a dancing school, or when she met her husband.

Nail polish. She teetered towards the dressing table, fished out a crimson varnish. The top was stuck tight, and she didn’t have the grip to open it. She tried the others. All the same. Ah well. She could pretend. She dabbed at the lipstick again, tucked her hair behind her ear, imagined when it would be long, when she would be a grown-up, go to a ball. She would insist to Lieselotte that this dress was hers. Lieselotte could have the everyday outfits. Bette the dreamtime ones.

She opened the wardrobe again, fingering through the rest of the evening clothes, a short black dress, a long red frock with a fantail, an emerald-green silk suit. Mutti hadn’t worn them in the last few years, not since Vati had left to join the war. If Greta’s father was home, Vati could not be far away.

Unless Lieselotte was right and he was a prisoner somewhere. What if they had shot him? What if he had died in the last battles of the war and nobody had been left to count the bodies? Mutti kept a picture of their wedding day in a silver frame by her bed. She’d hidden it when the Russians came but Lieselotte had put it back in place, now that it was safe.