‘Then what’s your name?’ Her voice had lost its vulgarity.

‘Bette,’ she said. ‘My name is Bette Fischer.’

‘Well, Bette,’ she said. ‘I’m going to take you to someone who can help.’ She smiled. ‘Follow me.’

§

The man who translated was Dutch but the officer in charge was American. They had given her water and some hard, dry biscuits and a nurse had wiped her face and cleaned her nose, gesturing, it’s not broken. She’d given Bette a mirror. There were still traces of dried blood and speckles of dark dust. Two black eyes were emerging. Her face didn’t look her own.

She spoke, a sentence at a time, so the Dutchman could put her words into English. The American nodded, raising an eyebrow, writing in his notes. She didn’t tell them that she had shot the Russian. She told them she couldn’t go home. She didn’t know the address. She told them that her mother was dead, her sister was missing, and her father hadn’t come back from the war. She had nowhere to go. Her grandmother was very old and she didn’t know if she was alive, or how to get there. Could they please give her a lift? She didn’t have the street or the number, but she’d recognise it when she got there.

‘Listen, Bette,’ the American said.

‘Hör mal, Bette,’ the Dutchman said.

‘I don’t know how we can help you,’ the American went on. ‘You’re not a Displaced Person, you’re not a Jew, or a Pole, or Ukrainian. You’re a German. Maybe you’re an orphan.’ He leaned back in his seat. ‘Maybe not. Maybe this is a trick, maybe not.’

‘A trick?’ Bette said.

‘Yeah. They send the kid out first to get sympathy, then pile in behind.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Bette said. ‘I want my sister. I want my Oma.’

‘But you don’t know where she lives. You don’t know your own address.’

She couldn’t give them that. What if they went and found Vasily? Or made her return and wait for Lieselotte? Her hands were quivering and she was shaking her head, tears of frustration welling up.

‘Please.’ Her voice was soft, fretful. ‘Please help me.’ She looked at the American, at the nurse. ‘I don’t know what to do. Where to go.’ I’m frightened.

The American leaned forward, nodded at the Dutchman.

‘How about I say you’re running away from the Russians?’ he said, as the Dutchman put it into German. ‘We can put you in temporary care for the time being, with other orphans, get you transferred somewhere else later. Maybe get you adopted if no one comes to fetch you?’

Bette nodded.

It was a house in Eisenacher Strasse, in the south of the city, a long way from Dahlem. But his voice was tender, and the place sounded safe.