The older Russian was smiling at her. He had a gap in the front of his teeth and his lip curled into the cavity. He was stocky, thickset, looked like one of the pictures of the Slavs, die Untermenschen, in their schoolbooks. His hair was dark and wavy, his eyes pale blue and crinkled at the edges as if he laughed a lot. The younger soldier was taller, and thin, with vile spots and boils on his face and neck. His eyes, Bette saw, were taking in everything, appraising it all – the pictures, the rugs, the furniture. Her sister, her mother, herself. His fellow soldier, watching his every move, like a spy. Or a chess player, Bette thought, calculating his advantage.

‘Eat,’ he said, breaking into her thoughts, nodding to Lieselotte, and then to Mutti and Bette. Bette thought she must try and save some of the food for Greta, hide it under the table or slip it in her pocket.

‘Boris,’ the older man added, pointing to himself. ‘Boris.’ He poked his finger towards Bette.

‘Bert,’ Lieselotte said, glaring at Bette, be careful, tapping her on the head. ‘His name is Bert.’

‘Hitler Youth?’ Boris said.

‘Net,’ Lieselotte said. Bette guessed it meant no. Lieselotte must have learned some Russian words. ‘Too young.’ She gestured with her hand to indicate shortness.

She was grateful to Lieselotte. She would have forgotten her new name, her boy’s name. She’d never had to talk to any of the Ivans before.

The Russian beamed, pointing to himself and to Lieselotte.

‘Boris marry Lieselotte,’ he said. He, too, had learned some German words. ‘Boris love Lieselotte.’

‘Here,’ Mutti said, pushing between Lieselotte and Boris, placing a board on the table and breaking up the bread. Bette couldn’t work out whether it was disgust or resignation on her mother’s face.

‘Boris is a major,’ Lieselotte said, as if this explained everything.

‘Very important,’ Mutti said. There was no warmth in her voice, no recognition, just a be careful in her tone. ‘So we will be polite to him in our home.’ She nodded at Boris.

‘You all come to Soviet Union,’ Boris said, pushing the bread board towards Bette. ‘Novgorod. Boris, teacher.’ He beamed, waved his hand. ‘After. Before.’ He looked at Mutti. ‘Good job.’ He smiled at Bette. ‘Boris like boys.’

‘He means children,’ Lieselotte said. ‘Boys and girls.’

The younger soldier was opening the tin of milk with his army knife and said something in Russian to Boris.

He laughed, then said, ‘Comrade here. He call Vasily. He want good girl. Clean girl. You know?’

Bette swallowed. She was wearing Otto’s shirt and trousers, a dead boy’s clothes.

‘You have friend?’ Boris said.

‘Net,’ Lieselotte said.

He pointed at Bette. ‘You have friend with sister?’