‘Was ist mit uns?’ the Fräulein said under her breath. ‘What about us?’ She turned to Bette, her voice far away. ‘What have we done to deserve this?’

Bette thought of Frau Weber. That was the kind of thing she’d say, no care for another. Just herself. Obsessed, as if this war had turned on her, was personal. The night Mutti died, she left her and Lieselotte. The night Lieselotte went missing, she told Bette to go away. ‘We’re starving too,’ she’d said once to Bette, her upper lip twitching in fury. ‘Was ist mit uns? Was ist mit uns?’ What about us?’

Bette had never considered Hitler. He was all she’d ever known. But she wondered now.

‘Where did you get that ring?’ the Fräulein asked, pointing to Bette’s hand. ‘Did you steal it?’

‘No,’ Bette said. ‘It was my mother’s.’ It was the truth, though Bette understood how to lie to get by, for she’d cheated the Russians by dressing as a boy and told the Americans she couldn’t remember her address, kept quiet about Vasily. In this world, she thought, this new world, you needed cunning to survive.

‘Shall I look after it for you? It could get stolen. The children here…’ She shrugged. Thieves.

Bette clutched her hand. She’d never take her mother’s ring off. They’d have to kill her to remove it. She backed into her seat, pushing away from the Fräulein. ‘Nein,’ she said. ‘No. No.’

The Fräulein held up her hand in surrender, turning once more to the notes. ‘It says you’re a refugee, but I can tell you’re a Berliner from your accent,’ Fräulein Schneider went on. She looked cross, as if she’d finally caught Bette cheating her in some way, as if she was used to being lied to, disrespected. ‘How much schooling have you had?’

Bette calculated. ‘Five full years,’ she said. ‘But the last year…’ Her voice trailed off. She added, ‘I’d passed the test for the secondary school, and had started there.’

The Fräulein smiled for the first time. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is excellent news. You can teach the younger ones. Come.’ She beckoned her forward. ‘Let’s get you something to wear.’

She led Bette into a room where freshly laundered clothes hung on rails arranged according to size and gender.

‘Thank the Red Cross,’ the Fräulein said, running her finger along the rack, pulling out a dull brown dress, holding it up against Bette.

‘That’ll do.’ The dress next to it had a net skirt, like a tutu.

‘I prefer that one,’ Bette said.

‘Prefer? There is no choice, my dear.’ She thrust the dress at Bette. ‘Put it on.’

She selected a second dress, and a cardigan, a pair of shoes from a rack. She walked over to a shelf, pulled out two vests, two pairs of knickers, socks and a nightdress.