Bette looked at her mother, and Mutti nodded. She picked up her glass and tipped back her schnapps in one. Bette had never known her mother take a drink, even before the war, when Vati was at home, even at Christmas, when they ate the goose, not even when she and the Baumanns held a party to celebrate the victory over France. Boris was beaming again, filled Mutti’s glass and Mutti inclined her head and nodded and smiled, cheeks flushed.

‘Ballet,’ she said, pointing to herself. ‘Lindenoper. Ballet.’

‘Ballet?’ He stood up, knocking over his glass. ‘Dance?’ He was around the table in two strides, taking Mutti’s hand, leading her across the hall into the sitting room. He called to the young soldier, who followed him in with his rucksack. Boris was speaking in Russian, Vasily smiling as he pulled a small accordion out of his knapsack. He sat on one of the hard chairs, opened the bellows, felt for the keys and began. A few slow chords and as the tempo sped up, Boris pushed the other chairs out of the way.

‘You.’ Boris pointed at Mutti.

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I’m out of practice. I need to warm up, I need to do exercises.’

Boris looked confused and Lieselotte said, ‘He doesn’t understand. Do something, Mutti, please.’

Bette could see the panic on her mother’s face.

Mutti had often waltzed round the sitting room, in better days, scooping Bette up as she went, twirling her round. She loved watching her mother, her grace and poise, weightless in motion.

‘Waltz,’ Bette said. ‘Do a waltz.’

‘Yes, waltz,’ Lieselotte repeated. ‘Waltz.’ She began to hum ‘The Blue Danube’. The soldier shook his head.

‘Wait,’ Bette said. ‘The gramophone.’ Mutti had locked it in a cupboard in the attic, with their records, so the Russians couldn’t steal them. ‘We can play it.’

‘No,’ Mutti said, frowning and shaking her head. ‘No. Not that.’

‘You idiot, Bette,’ Lieselotte said, her teeth clenched tight.

‘Bert,’ Bette said, glaring at her sister. You forgot. Lieselotte stared like a hare in headlights. This was all a sham, the dancing, the manners, the flattery. Bette understood that now. Humour them.

‘It’s all right,’ Bette said. ‘He doesn’t understand.’ The wolf doesn’t understand.

‘Dance.’ Boris had grabbed the schnapps bottle and was shouting, stomping his feet in time with the beat.

Mutti nodded at Lieselotte and walked to the centre of the room with that splayed-out walk that ballerinas have and Bette watched as she rose onto tiptoes, raised her chin so her neck stretched in a graceful arc, and began to dance across the floor, pulling Lieselotte with her, one arm round her waist, one raised above her shoulder, and together they waltzed and polkaed, dipping and rising, graceful as doves, light as fairies.

‘Now me,’ Bette said. ‘Dance with me.’ She forgot Boris and the other Russian, rushed towards her mother and sister.