‘Girls. Please. Bette, put on your shoes.’ Her mother pointed to a pair of battered boys’ boots, and a pair of darned grey socks.

‘I can’t wear those.’

‘You can’t wear your girls’ shoes, so put them on.’

Bette scowled and sunk to the floor, pulling at the socks so they stretched beyond her knee. The toes and heels had been darned in a thicker ply and lumped as she shoved her feet into the boots and laced them up. She stood up, grabbed the kettle and stomped out of the door.

Old Herr Baumann was standing on the landing, leaning on his walking stick, as if he was waiting for them. Bette didn’t know what was wrong with him, but Mutti said whatever it was had got him out of the Volkssturm, who seemed to take anyone these days. Better not to ask, she’d added. Young Herr Baumann, Otto’s father, had died on the Russian front.

‘Well, little man,’ he said, patting Bette on the head. ‘You make a handsome young fellow.’ He chuckled, picked up a jug with his free hand, and set off.

‘How does he know?’ Bette said, tipping her head towards the stairs, where Herr Baumann’s lopsided tread echoed up through the well.

‘Of course he knows,’ Mutti said.

‘But what if he tells?’

‘Tells who, mein Liebling?’ Mutti said. ‘Who can he tell? Who is in charge now?’

‘The Russians,’ Bette said. ‘He could tell the Russians.’

‘There’s no danger of that.’

‘The Führer. The Gestapo.’

‘That man?’ Her mother snorted. ‘Too busy rounding up the white flag wavers to bother about us.’

They joined the queue for water, shuffling forward, one after the other. It was a slow business. Bette knew not to complain. The routine was the same every day. First the water, then to forage, a turnip or two in exchange for a saucepan, or a pair of Vati’s shoes. They had to eat the vegetables raw. There was no fuel for cooking. The soldier who took Waltraud was standing by the water pipe marking the tally. Bette froze, but her mother pushed her forward. She went to place the kettle under the tap but the soldier took it from her, held it in place.

Bette bit her lip and hoped he couldn’t see her shaking. He was very young, the soldier, and brown, with slit eyes and bowed legs. He patted her head and smiled at her. She couldn’t understand how a man could be kind and cruel at the same time.

Lieselotte followed. She kept her head down, staring at the ground, her hair over her face, not looking at the soldier as she placed her pail under the tap and waited, watching it splutter and splash the sides of the bucket.

‘Enough,’ the soldier said. It wasn’t even full.