‘You can trust me, John. I’ll understand, really.’ He knew she was searching his face for clues. ‘Please, John. Please, talk to me.’

He couldn’t tell her even though her pain sliced through him and left him lame and crippled.

‘I don’t want it to end.’ Desperation caught her voice, choking it. ‘I can’t bear it.’

He wanted to say, Nor can I, to pull back his words, but they were already out, reverberating like bullets in a firing range.

‘I love you, John. Please.’

He was shaking his head. He couldn’t bear this. He’d never wanted to do this, never planned it, never wanted to make her plead or beg. He looked up, but she was staring at him, her eyes narrowing with fury.

‘I thought you loved me,’ she said. ‘I thought we had a future, you know? That’s why I let you—’

He hoped his eyes were saying, Forgive me, this won’t be forever, didn’t see her arm swing up, her hand flatten, but he felt its sting as she slapped his face with such force he fell backwards.

‘You bastard,’ she said, words whistling through her teeth. ‘You utter bloody bastard.’

She kicked him hard in the thigh, turned and ran. Round the corner, out of sight. He rubbed his hand against his cheek, feeling the welts bubble up. There was dust on his trousers where her sandal had landed. He pressed his fingers into his eyes, wanting his world to go away.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Berlin: May 1945

‘Those stairs,’ Frau Weber said, rushing into the apartment, fanning herself with her hand. ‘They’ll be the death of me.’ She paused, taking in a lungful of air, turning to Mutti. ‘The thing is. Turns out he killed himself.’ She shaped her hand into a pistol and held it against her temple. ‘The Führer. Did himself in. Pow! Bang! Peng!’

Greta and Waltraud followed her into the apartment. Bette stood in the entrance to the sitting room, one hand on the edge of the door.

‘He wouldn’t do that,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘And the Goebbels. All those beautiful children. Poison. The whole lot of them.’ Frau Weber sniffed, pulled out a rag from her sleeve, blew her nose, rolled her eyes.

‘For all of this we thank the Führer,’ Mutti said, but there was something about her voice that mocked the familiar mantra.

‘You’re lying,’ Bette said. ‘That wouldn’t happen.’

She stomped into the sitting room, slamming the door behind her. It caught the draught from the empty window sockets, shut with a force that made the handles shake. She rushed to the sofa, hid behind it. She hadn’t meant to bang the door, nor to be rude to Frau Weber. She’d be in trouble now. She’d say sorry the moment Mutti came in. The Führer could not have killed himself. He died a hero.