Greta raised her eyebrows, and Bette circled her fingers as Lieselotte had done, then leaned on pretend handlebars, lifting her legs and pushing down.

‘Dummy,’ Bette said. ‘I’ve been on a bicycle.’ It wasn’t quite a fib, but two could play at that.

It was almost dark when Bette came back to the apartment. Boris and Vasily had left, taking the bicycle with them. There was no sign of Lieselotte, or her mother. She guessed they were both in bed. Bette listened to make sure no one had come up the back stairs when they saw Boris and Vasily leave. She went into the kitchen. There was a slab of fresh butter on the table, some herring and bread. She cut a slice, slapped the pickled fish on top.

She couldn’t waste a candle so tiptoed into the bedroom, changed into her nightdress and crept into bed. Her mother’s breathing was silent now, but she was hot, hotter than Bette had ever known a person. Hotter, even, than she’d been when she’d had the measles four years ago.

She rushed out of the bedroom to Lieselotte’s room, didn’t bother knocking.

‘Mutti,’ Bette said, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the bedroom. ‘She has a fever. Come quickly.’

Lieselotte ran then into the room, felt her mother’s forehead.

‘Frau Weber,’ she said. ‘Fetch Frau Weber. She was a nurse. She’ll know what to do.’ It was dark now, not quite curfew but too late to be out. Bette pulled on her trousers and shirt and ran to the door. She felt her way to the staircase. It was dangerous at the best of times, but in the dark, who knew what could happen? She tapped the broken steps with her toe, listening. A step, a rustle. A stone fell. Bette jumped. Something ran across her foot. She choked back a scream, feeling for the wall. A scuttling. Her heart was hammering hard and she froze. Nothing. The building was silent, the street noises muffled. A rat. It was probably a rat. Or a ghost. Greta said that there were ghosts in the building. Bette felt dizzy, her breath thin and light. She wanted to climb back up, find her sister. No. Step by step. What if an Ivan was hiding in the shadows, grabbed her from behind, hand over her mouth, hand between her legs, like Vasily? Clean girl. She breathed in, tensed, counted the steps one by one, silent feet, no sound, no loose stones, hands on the wall walking her along until she knew she was on the ground floor. She ran through the opening, across the yard, hammered on Frau Weber’s door.

‘Frau Weber. Kommt. Kommt. Schnell.’ She tried the handle, but the heavy furniture was blocking it from inside.

‘Frau Weber? Wo sind Sie?’ She could see that the apartment was in darkness. What if— She screamed, hammering on the door. ‘Frau Weber, Frau Weber.’