But Vati holds an arm out to stop her. ‘They need to know, Stella,’ he says. ‘There’s no point in pretending it’s not happening.’

One of the soldiers wags a finger at Vati. ‘See,’ he says, turning to the other two soldiers and laughing. ‘At least one of these stupid Jews has finally understood what’s going on.’

‘Vati?’ I ask.

He crouches down and talks quietly. ‘We have to leave,’ he says.

‘Leave where?’ I ask. ‘Our home? Prague? Czechoslovakia?’

‘Just our home,’ Vati says.

‘For now,’ one of the soldiers says with a laugh, and the three of them guffaw.

I can see Otto’s jaw tightening and his fist curling into a ball. I reach out for his hand.

‘We have to live somewhere else for a while,’ Mutti says, coming over to join us. She takes my other hand. ‘We’ll all be together, like we promised. We just have to move to a different house.’

‘Why can’t we stay in this one?’ I ask. My voice comes out in much more of a whine than I want it to. ‘This is our home.’

‘Not any longer it isn’t,’ one of the soldiers replies. ‘You Jews don’t get to own a home any more. It’s your own fault for choosing to live somewhere so nice. Much too nice for a family of Jews. And so near to our headquarters, too. Perfect for us.’

‘You can’t just take our home from us,’ Otto says to the soldiers.

One of them steps towards us. I flinch and take a tiny step back. ‘Actually, we can,’ he sneers, his face right in front of Otto’s. ‘We can do whatever we want.’ Then he moves to me. ‘We don’t like Jews. And we need your house. So you’re moving. Understand?’

I nod fiercely.

He glances at his friends and they both grin back at him. One of them jumps up to sit on the table – the kitchen table where we’ve eaten our dinner every evening for the last three years. He pulls a chair around and as he puts his feet on it he reaches for the silver candlesticks that we have had for as long as I can remember.

We barely used them when I was younger. Neither of my parents had ever been religious and we didn’t practise the traditions or rituals of our faith. That’s changed a little since coming to Prague. Only a little. Vati takes us to shul on Saturday mornings when he can, and every Friday night Mutti lights candles in these candlesticks and says a brachah – a blessing – over them. I like it: the feeling of being part of something bigger than myself.

And now, the soldier is waving the candlesticks at his friend as if they mean nothing at all. ‘What d’you think of these? They’d make a nice present for Helga, eh?’