‘My father? Vati? And Lieselotte?’

The UNRRA nurse looked at the major, back to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We have no news of your sister. But come…’ She held out her hand and Bette took it. ‘Let’s go and pack your things. Where do you keep them?’

‘They’re in the laundry room,’ the Fräulein said.

‘Then lead the way, Bette.’

A rush of excitement, a thrill, a topsy-turvy ferment, froth on a wild, raging sea. Bette ran to the laundry room, sorted out her underwear, her nightdress, her spare dress, checked the name tags, all in order. The Fräulein had followed them in, and Bette could tell she didn’t trust the UNRRA nurse.

The dress with the net tutu was still on the rack, unclaimed.

‘And that one,’ Bette said, pointing, turning to the Fräulein, asserting herself with a new confidence. ‘I will wear that one.’

The UNRRA nurse nodded. ‘How pretty.’

She lifted it off the rack and gave it to Bette. The Fräulein scowled but said nothing. Bette unbuttoned the brown dress, pulling it over her head, discarding it on the floor and slipping on the tutu. No matter her vest showed through the straps and the cardigan covered the sequins.

‘Here,’ the nurse said, delving into her pocket, pulling out her lipstick. ‘Open your mouth.’ She dabbed on the lipstick. ‘Now smack your lips together. Like this.’ Like Mutti, Bette wanted to say. I know how to do this.

‘Don’t you look a treat. Your father will be so proud to see you.’

She could dance, too. She would be a dancer like Mutti and Lieselotte. For her father, smelling of Mutti’s lipstick.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Nuremberg: November 1945 – January 1946

He became that defendant smoking cigarettes, one after the other, holding them between languorous fingers, eyelids half closed. We were under attack, we had to dispose of the Jews. I did a good job and nobody thanked me. There in that booth, searching for the word, John was that man. And the others. Flick left, right. Life. Death. He was that Nazi, too, corralling the skeletal slaves, dropping gas into the chamber, shifting the dead like ballast.

His German wasn’t up to it, he’d told them. He needed time and a dictionary. Subsequent, yes. But simultaneous. That wasn’t possible, not for him. Not with these words, groping for their meaning, their accuracy.