Yes. She was in a camp somewhere, where they put those kinds of people.

She padded out of the bedroom. The clock in the sitting room showed half past five. She had slept for hours. Bette dressed, pulling on the trousers, the dirty shirt, Otto’s socks and shoes. Fear gnawed inside her, chomping at her gut, chewing on its gristle. Lieselotte wasn’t in a camp. That wasn’t what had happened. Something else had cropped up. She had been right to have been anxious. A premonition. She went to the bureau, pressed the buttons and pulled the levers in sequence, fingered the pistol Boris had left them. Bette brought it out of its secret place, took it with her into the kitchen, laid it on the table. She wasn’t sure how to use it, except to point and squeeze the trigger, but it felt all right, sitting there, shielding her.

She should eat. Perhaps she’d feel better, settle her stomach, but there were no more rolls left. Perhaps Lieselotte had been out after curfew, taken shelter somewhere. She’d be hungry when she came home. Would Herr Grossman have more bread today?

The heft of a boot on the broken stone echoed round the empty stairwell. Another. Strangers had moved into the Baumanns’ apartment but Bette never heard them coming and going. This step was laboured, deliberate. Lieselotte’s was light, nimble. This was a man’s tread. It was early in the morning. He was coming closer, louder. She heard him pause, heard the hiss of water as he pissed against a wall. Treads again. Up, up. Stopped. He was on the landing outside, his breathing laboured, wheezy. Who would be out at this hour? Perhaps he’d come to visit her new neighbours.

The key stabbed at their door, and she moved her fingers close to the gun. This was not Lieselotte. Those were not her steps. Who had a key to their apartment? Lieselotte knew how to jig the key, just so. She didn’t need to stab at it, rattle it. Vati. Perhaps Vati had come home. Had forgotten the knack with the lock. She should open the door, let him in.

A man shouted, in Russian. Bette grabbed the gun, held it like Boris had shown her, arms out straight, two hands, squinting along the sights, pointing at the door. Her body was tense, firm, but inside it trembled. She couldn’t shoot. What if it didn’t go off? What if it wasn’t loaded? She held the gun steady as the door gave way. Vasily stumbled in.

She smelled the alcohol, even from the end of the hall, the stale sweat. He staggered towards her, opening his mouth in a leer.

‘Bert.’