‘Your Nazi friends don’t know any history,’ Father said. ‘The Ancient Egyptians built the pyramids when Germans were living in caves. Arabs ruled the world in the Middle Ages – the Muslims were doing algebra when German princes could not write their own names. It’s nothing to do with race.’

Carla frowned and said: ‘What is it to do with, then?’

Father looked at her fondly. ‘That’s a very good question, and you’re a bright girl to ask it.’ She glowed with pleasure at his praise. ‘Civilizations rise and fall – the Chinese, the Aztecs, the Romans – but no one really knows why.’

‘Eat up, everyone, and put your coats on,’ Mother said. ‘It’s getting late.’

Father pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and looked at it with raised eyebrows. ‘It’s not late.’

‘I’ve got to take Carla to the Francks’ house,’ Mother said. ‘The girls’ school is closed for a day – something about repairing the furnace – so Carla’s going to spend today with Frieda.’

Frieda Franck was Carla’s best friend. Their mothers were best friends, too. In fact, when they were young, Frieda’s mother, Monika, had been in love with Father – a hilarious fact that Frieda’s grandmother had revealed one day after drinking too much Sekt.

Father said: ‘Why can’t Ada look after Carla?’

‘Ada has an appointment with the doctor.’

‘Ah.’

Carla expected Father to ask what was wrong with Ada, but he nodded as if he already knew, and put his watch away. Carla wanted to ask, but something told her she should not. She made a mental note to ask Mother later. Then she immediately forgot about it.

Father left first, wearing a long black overcoat. Then Erik put on his cap – perching it as far back on his head as it would go without falling off, as was the fashion among his friends – and followed Father out of the door.

Carla and her mother helped Ada clear the table. Carla loved Ada almost as much as she loved her mother. When Carla was little, Ada had taken care of her full-time, until she was old enough to go to school, for Mother had always worked. Ada was not married yet. She was twenty-nine and homely looking, though she had a lovely, kind smile. Last summer, she had had a romance with a policeman, Paul Huber, but it had not lasted.

Carla and her mother stood in front of the mirror in the hall and put on their hats. Mother took her time. She chose a dark-blue felt, with a round crown and a narrow brim, the type all the women were wearing; but she tilted hers at a different angle, making it look chic. As Carla put on her knitted wool cap, she wondered whether she would ever have Mother’s sense of style. Mother looked like a goddess of war, her long neck and chin and cheekbones carved out of white marble; beautiful, yes, but definitely not pretty. Carla had the same dark hair and green eyes, but looked more like a plump doll than a statue. Carla had once accidentally overheard her grandmother say to Mother: ‘Your ugly duckling will grow into a swan, you’ll see.’ Carla was still waiting for it to happen.