The photo had been coloured. Her mother’s dress was cream and she carried a posy full of pansies, deep purple flowers that tumbled from her hands. Her father wore a suit and bow tie, had a clipped moustache and hair slicked to his temples. He wore it with a side parting. Herr Hitler had the same. It had been fashionable then, as she remembered. She’d recognise him, she was sure, even though she hadn’t seen him for years. People didn’t forget their parents. Did parents forget their children? She’d grown since he last saw her, her face had lost its chubbiness, her body had changed. Her hair was cut like a boy’s. What if he didn’t recognise her? What if she met him again and he said no, she wasn’t his daughter? She hadn’t thought about that. She squeezed her eyes shut. He’d never taken much notice of her, even before the war. Vati worked hard, that’s what Mutti always said. He came home for dinner and wouldn’t let them chatter at the table. She had been afraid of him. You mustn’t disturb him, Mutti said, all the time. Bette, don’t pester your father. He’s a busy man. What if he said Get out of my home? You’re not mine.

She’d ask Lieselotte when she came home.

She took off Mutti’s gown and hung it back in the wardrobe, putting on her trousers and shirt. They had placed their favourite clock on one of the tables in the sitting room. Lieselotte had been gone for two hours. She’d said to eat the soup. Nettles and dandelions. The gas had come back on so Bette warmed it up, sat at the kitchen table, spooning it in, mopping her plate with a roll. There was one left. She should save it for breakfast. Perhaps the baker would have delivered fresh supplies by morning. Perhaps Lieselotte wouldn’t notice. She’d have a little bit, that was all. She grabbed the second roll, tore it apart, soaked a quarter in the remains of the soup and gobbled it down. She eyed another quarter. She was too hungry to care. She wiped it round her plate, savoured the last of the moisture. There was only a half left and that would be stale by morning. It was wrong to waste it. Lieselotte shouldn’t have gone out, shouldn’t have left her. The bowl was dry now so she ate the bread as it was, savouring the rye, holding it in her mouth until it was soft and mushy.

She took her bowl and spoon over to the sink, turned on the tap, waiting while it spat and lurched before enough of a stream of water flowed and she could rinse the dishes from lunch and supper, put them to drain.