Chairs were dragged in the kitchen and muffled voices filtered into the room. She could hear her mother cough. The door handle clicked, and Greta sidled through.

‘Bette?’

‘Behind the sofa,’ Bette said softly, as Greta crawled towards her. ‘Is Mutti cross with me?’

‘How should I know?’ Greta said.

‘What are they talking about?’

‘I’ve been sent to find you and stay with you,’ Greta said. ‘But I know what it’s about. It’s about…’ She leaned forward, cupped her hand over Bette’s ear, whispered, ‘Poison.’

‘Poison?’

‘My mother got some poison, because of Waltraud, you know? She says we’ll all be slaves now. That’s what it said in Der Panzerbär. Under the Russians. And the Americans. They’re as bad. She’d rather die.’

‘What about you and Waltraud?’

‘We’d go with her.’

‘What?’ Bette said. ‘Do you know what you’re talking about?’

‘Sure,’ Greta said. ‘It’s cyanide. She has a little ampoule of it round her neck.’

‘Do you want to die?’ Bette said.

She lifted her knees towards her chest and hugged them close. Lots of people were dead, not just the Führer. Others too, people she knew. Herr and Frau Baumann. Tante Winkler. The Müllers. Otto. There were all the extra bodies buried in pits in Friedrichshain Park, as well as corpses she saw in the street. She didn’t want to blow up like one of those, have her guts gnawed by maggots, eyes pecked by crows. She didn’t know if Oma and Großvater were still alive.

‘What would I do without you?’

The door opened and Frau Weber came in. ‘Greta, come,’ she said.

‘Can’t she stay?’ Bette said. Her mother wouldn’t be so cross with her in front of Greta.

‘No,’ Frau Weber said.

‘Are you going to give her poison?’ Bette said.

Frau Weber narrowed her eyes. ‘What have you been saying, Greta?’

‘Nothing,’ Greta said. ‘We were just talking about the Goebbels family.’

Bette had never heard an outright lie. She wouldn’t dare be untruthful to her mother, not even a fib. Perhaps Mutti was right. They were common, after all. Greta scrambled to her feet, walked out of the door, waved her fingers at Bette. She watched as they left, Frau Weber, Greta, and Waltraud, her head low, her feet shuffling. She had lost weight.

She heard her mother shut the front door, her footsteps as she walked across the hall, into the sitting room. Bette stood behind the sofa, staring at her feet.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to slam the door like that. The wind caught it.’

‘I know,’ her mother said, but her voice was weak and she began to cough, a deep, phlegmy rumble. Bette looked up. Her mother was holding onto the door frame with one hand, the other clamped over her mouth. She looked paler than usual. ‘I’m going to lie down.’