We were just getting back from the Fasching parade – well, the slimmed-down, wartime version of a Fasching parade – when the air raid sirens started. I used to love the parades as a child, and I still feel like a big kid even though Mutti keeps on telling me I’m nearly a woman. Of course, there have been plenty of false alarms before, and even a few small raids on the railway yards. When they’ve happened, I’ve wondered if Arnold – who must be eighteen now – is up there, flying a British plane somewhere. Or perhaps he’s with the infantry, maybe a dashing captain.

So I’m still wearing my witch’s mask as we break into a half-hearted run, heading for our apartment block’s cellar, me having to hold the mask to my face with one hand to stop it falling off. Mutti’s laughing at how stupid I look. Earlier in the evening, I saw a boy – well young man, really – eyeing me up and down. That’s the best thing about me; my figure. He sauntered over to chat to the ‘witch’, looking very dashing in his Hitler Youth uniform. I think he was a year or so younger than me, but definitely flirting. Then he dared me to lift up my mask so he could see my face. I shouldn’t have done it really – I should have kept some mystery back. Always leave them wanting more. But he’d piqued my curiosity, so I obliged. I could immediately see the coldness and disinterest cloud his face as I gave in and showed him what he wanted. It’s not that I’m ugly, I know. Just a Plain Jane. Soon he was moving on. Perhaps that’s why I still hold a torch for Arnold, even though I know it’s stupid, and still write him letters that I never send. Because I remember his look of wonder when I kissed him on the platform of the Personenaufzug, the way he was excited but scared when I tried to get him to make love to me in Kirnitzschtal, near the waterfall, and the little wooden cottage my parents wanted to buy as an overspill for the hotel. My imaginary love affair.

I’m thinking all this as we’re running and laughing. It’s been a perfect spring day – even though it’s only the middle of February. But the laughter dies in our throats when we hear the sounds of the aircraft engines. Of course, it’s an almost daily sound – enemy sorties. But this time they seem closer, louder than before.