‘Yes,’ she said, her voice soft and fretful. ‘Yes. He saw it. Horrific things, beyond imagining. Except we did them, Bette, we Germans. Some of the things he told me, I couldn’t repeat to you. They’re too hideous, too evil. He says we will be punished. Germany will be punished.’

‘So Frau Weber was right? We shall be slaves.’

‘Frau Weber is a malicious gossip and a Party member,’ Lieselotte said. ‘Why else do you think Waltraud was so fat?’

‘We could run away,’ Bette said. ‘Go to Dahlem, find Oma. Is it far?’

‘Miles away.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ Lieselotte said. ‘We’ll go and find her when the war’s over.’

They rounded the corner. Boris was waiting for them outside their building. He was holding a bicycle, brushing the back of his hand over the handlebars as if it were a prize mare. He grinned as they drew close, the gap between his teeth dark and moist. The bicycle was large, a man’s bike. It must have been kept under lock and key, for the paint was shiny, the chrome gleamed, the tyres were new.

‘Gut,’ he said in his German, pointing at the bike then at Lieselotte. ‘You, me. We go.’

Lieselotte shook her head, nodded at Bette. ‘Him, and me.’ She made cycling movements with her finger.

‘Net,’ Boris said, shaking his head. ‘Net. Dangerous. Thief. Bad man.’

‘Please,’ Lieselotte said. ‘Bitte. Half an hour. Bitte.’ She pointed to Boris’s watch, painted a semicircle with her finger. ‘For my brother.’ She pointed at Bette. ‘For the boy.’ She made a pedalling motion with her legs. ‘He needs fresh air. To get out.’

Bette hadn’t even thought about a ride, but now Lieselotte had raised the possibility, she wanted to go too. The sun was high and she felt its heat and light, the brazenness of the afternoon. She stepped close to the bike, pointing to herself.

‘There.’ Lieselotte nodded at Bette. ‘My brother will look after me.’

A Russian came out of their building, leaving a puddle of urine in the entrance hallway. He buttoned his flies and saluted Boris. Bette was staring at him, didn’t see Vasily come up behind her, hook one arm round her chest and the other between her legs, squeezing. He hoisted her onto the crossbar, holding the handlebars to steady the bike. He was grinning, his face close to hers, pimples bloated with pus. He knows, Bette thought. He knows. He pointed to her, to himself and, straddling the bike, took the handlebars from Boris.

‘Nein.’ Bette jumped down, catching him off balance. He put his foot down to stop the bike from smashing on the ground.