‘No.’ Bette grabbed the paper again, shawled it round the figurine. ‘No. This is Mutti’s.’

‘We have to,’ Lieselotte said, her voice calm. ‘We have no money.’

‘No.’ She clutched the package close to her. ‘You can’t.’

‘It’s only porcelain. They’re only things.’

‘No,’ she whimpered in that grizzly tone that Mutti never tolerated. Tears get you nowhere. She stopped, paused. ‘My idea was to sell the clocks.’

‘But they’re Vati’s.’

‘Vati’s not here,’ Bette said. ‘He’s probably dead.’

Lieselotte rocked back on her heels and looked up at Bette. Dusk was approaching and the room was dim. Bette couldn’t see her sister’s face, not clearly, but she heard her take a breath as if she was about to speak.

‘The clocks,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think about Vati’s clocks. They can’t be hard to find in all this.’

‘You see,’ Bette said. ‘I do have some good ideas.’

They both reached towards the remaining suitcase, each took out a package.

‘I wonder why he collected clocks,’ Bette said, unwrapping a small mantel clock. He had taped their details to the backs of them. ‘He used to have this on his desk.’

‘Perhaps it wasn’t the most valuable,’ Lieselotte said. ‘Because he kept the others under lock and key in the cabinet.’ She paused, smiled, ripped off another wrapping. ‘Do you remember this? Kienzle. Designer: Heinrich Möller. 1933.’

‘I never liked that one,’ Lieselotte said. ‘Just too modern.’

‘Nor me,’ Bette said. ‘Its face is cold and empty.’ She lifted a small brass carriage clock. ‘I preferred this. And wasn’t there one that showed the phases of the moon?’

They both leaned forwards into the suitcase and for a moment Bette felt light-headed, as if the sorrow from Mutti was flowing away and the anguish which had sat in her bones was leaching out. They could sell the clocks. She hated every one of them. If her father came back, she’d ask him, Where were you? They’d start with the Kienzle clock.

‘Tomorrow,’ Lieselotte said. ‘I’ll take it tomorrow.’

They bumped their heads as they rummaged and laughed, the first time since Mutti had died. Stopped. Hammering on the back door, shouting. Bette froze. They hadn’t heard them climb the stairs. Soldiers. Russian soldiers.

Lieselotte began to shake, her face crumpling, her blood filtering away. Bette had never seen her sister so frightened.

‘Where’s the gun?’ Bette whispered.

Lieselotte pointed to Mutti’s bureau, her hand quivering. ‘Secret drawer.’ She clamped her hand over her mouth, shaking her head, eyes wide in terror.