‘Excuse me, excuse me.’ A Russian soldier moved towards her. Of course, he was in charge. She hadn’t seen him. She froze. Did he know? He flipped his wrist, move on, move on. She backed away, looking carefully. Lieselotte was not there. The women had formed a chain. The last woman stood on the street close to her. The Russian had turned his back and Lieselotte went over.

‘Have you seen my sister? Lieselotte?’

The woman shrugged, turned, stretched out her arms to take the next bucket, empty it out. She didn’t care.

Bette sniffed. Her nose hurt. She touched it with her fingertips. Blood. On her hands, on her shirt. Her face, damp and sticky. Of course. She’d smashed it against the edge of the door. It hadn’t hurt at the time, but now it throbbed.

She must go on. Apart from the women and their Russian gangmaster, the street was empty. She turned around, trying to find her bearings. She used to know the way to Unter den Linden, to the Kranzler Café, but the streets bore no resemblance to the boulevards she had known. The handsome buildings which had flanked them were mounds of rubble, the elegant cafés and shops no more than memories, their signage burned and buried in the ruins. Without the tall apartment blocks, the landmark signs, the streets merged into one desolate landscape, a topography of death, of destruction.

Bette turned. Spotted the cathedral. She knew where she was. Its spire was gone, its dome scarred, open sores where the windows had been. Behind it, the museums, their buildings black and battered with gaping windows and crumbled porticos, their walls gnawed and chewed. The Neues Museum had lost its cupola, its corners skewed, piles of broken bricks. She blinked. Mutti used to take them here once a month. They knew the Pergamon like an old friend, had stood in awe, she and Lieselotte. How had they got them here? That ancient altar? Those biblical gates?

She could not stop. On and on. Over the bridge. Past the Zeughaus, past the Neue Wache, its walls blasted out. The Friedrich Wilhelm University. She was out of breath, had to rest. She paused, gasping hard. Had Vati worked there once? What had he done there? She could not see Vasily, no soldiers were chasing her. Perhaps they had lost her, or she’d shaken them off. The penalty for injuring an Ivan was death. Would they know it was her? She’d been stupid enough to boast to Greta that she had a gun, and she wasn’t sure Frau Weber wouldn’t tell. Tears were filling her head, her mind. She looked around. Who could help her? Who could tell her, You’re all right, you’re safe?