‘Teach,’ Boris said, striding towards Mutti, arms stretched as if he were holding her already, pushing Bette aside as if she were no more than a mote of dust. Bette could smell the schnapps on Mutti’s breath, on Boris’s. She slunk away, lay on the floor behind the Biedermeier, watching as her mother and Boris and Lieselotte danced as if there were no war, as if they were not bitter enemies. The sky grew lighter and Boris took Lieselotte and led her into the bedroom, shutting the door. The soldier slumped into a chair, his accordion on the floor beside him.

Bette didn’t hear the Russians go, but when she went into the kitchen in the morning they had left what remained of the schnapps, and the food and the cigarettes. Mutti was already up. Bette sat at the table, watching as her mother broke up the bread and soaked it in the milk, sprinkling the top with the sugar and cinnamon.

‘Fetch Greta,’ she said without looking up, but Bette heard the waver in her voice. Her mother untied her apron, stepped into the hall, picked up the bucket and opened the front door. There were two chamber pots on the threshold, the ones Frau Baumann used to use. She heard Mutti breathe in, watched as she flew to the Baumanns’ door, rattling the handle, knocking hard with her fist, calling.

‘Frau Baumann. Herr Baumann. Open up.’

She saw her mother lean her head against the wall, coughing and sobbing. Their neighbours’ door would not open again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

North Germany: early May 1945

The truck lurched to the left, passing a line of refugees with shabby suitcases and ragged coats.

‘So if Hitler done himself in,’ Arthur said, squinting at the refugees, against the sun, ‘how come the war ain’t over?’

He was grateful to Arthur for not showing him up when Private Nash got shot. John respected him, though he wasn’t sure this was reciprocated. Still, hours in a troop truck, all jolted spines and spiked nerves, did wonders for camaraderie. Arthur, he thought, tolerated him.

‘Search me,’ he said.

The tarpaulins were rolled up. John could see the refugees four or five abreast. Their faces were sallow and grim, eyes hollow and fearful, filling the road, thousands of them in a line that stretched to the horizon, like a river coursing through the countryside, rising higher by the moment.