Bette stepped into the kitchen. Old Herr Baumann was sitting where the Russians had been, Frau Baumann to the right of him. Greta sat like a mouse at the end of the table.

‘Where’s Lieselotte?’ Bette said. She wanted her sister there, in case her mother lost her temper again.

‘Asleep,’ her mother said. ‘Come, sit.’

Bette stepped into the kitchen and perched on a stool her mother pulled towards the table.

‘You found my Otto,’ Frau Baumann said, her voice flat and emotionless.

Bette nodded. ‘I think he was coming home. He was nearly here.’

Frau Baumann’s mouth clamped tight and Bette saw the muscles in her cheek ripple beneath her skin. She must have said something wrong, but she didn’t mean to. She thought Frau Baumann would be pleased.

‘He would not be coming home,’ old Herr Baumann said, slapping the palm of his hand hard on the table top. ‘Let me be clear. He was loyal to the Führer, to Germany. He was defending our city.’ He spoke slowly, emphasising each word, as if Bette did not understand. He tossed his head towards the empty window. ‘Barbarians.’ He turned and stared at Bette. ‘Are you saying he ran away?’ Bette went to answer, but he broke in before she could say a word. ‘Otto was no coward.’

He put his hand over his face and Bette saw how twisted and gnarled it was, how the veins pulsed and the knuckles had swollen.

‘Don’t be hard on her, Herr Baumann,’ Mutti said. ‘She’s just a child.’

‘She’s old enough for the Jungmädelbund,’ he said. ‘She should know better.’

‘Frau Baumann,’ Mutti said, turning towards her, her voice plaintive, pleading. ‘We have been neighbours and friends for so long now. You will understand. Bette meant no harm.’

‘My son and my grandson sacrificed their lives for the Fatherland,’ old Herr Baumann went on. ‘This is my honour you talk about. Their honour. Our honour.’ A dewdrop hung from the tip of his nose. Bette looked at him, at Frau Baumann staring at her hands tucked in her lap, at Mutti who was reaching over and touching old Herr Baumann on the arm, at Greta whose lips had curled and quivered as if she was about to cry.

‘The Führer can’t know what’s going on,’ Mutti said. Bette wanted to say, Has the Führer left us? He wouldn’t leave us, would he? No one moved. She wasn’t sure she should speak but she could feel fear rising in her chest. She looked from one grown-up to the next, each wrapped in their own thoughts. She could hear the panic in her voice. ‘What will happen to us?’ That’s what her mother said, all the time.