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own.’
    ‘I’d rather stay here, to wait for him.’
    ‘It’s not practical, Katharina. They wouldn’t let me keep two apartments. Anyway, you’ll change your mind when you see this place.’
    Katharina fell silent.
    ‘I’d better go and pack,’ she said.
    ‘Good girl.’
    She closed her bedroom door and pushed against it, locking out her parents. She was twenty-two years of age. A married woman. When would they accept that and stop calling her girl? He had to come back to take her away from them, because she couldn’t bear it any longer. Being their daughter. The good girl.
    She packed her things quickly, easily, into a small suitcase, covering everything with the wet, dripping sheets taken from the side of the bath. She placed the case by the hall door and returned to her mother in the kitchen.
    ‘What are we taking from here?’ asked Katharina. ‘Plates? Cutlery? Saucepans?’
    ‘Only saucepans. The rest they leave behind. They are allowed only one suitcase. What remains is for us.’
    ‘Where have they gone?’
    ‘I don’t know. East, I think. Out, anyway. Here, take this.’
    She handed over Johannes’ favourite mug, dark brown with a heavily moustached man etched into its side.
    ‘He would never forgive us if we left it behind. And take his ashtray too.’
    The hall filled quickly with boxes and suitcases.
    ‘I think we’re ready,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘Mr Ewald is lending us his cart.’
    ‘Will you miss it, Mother?’
    ‘No. Not a bit.’
    They stacked the grocer’s cart and pushed it until the streets grew quieter and wider.
    ‘The trees are beautiful,’ said Katharina. ‘They’re huge.’
    Mr Spinell stopped the cart behind a car, in front of two enormous and elaborately carved wooden doors.
    ‘Is this it?’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘It can’t be.’
    ‘It is, my love.’
    They stepped into a large hall, its ceiling heavy with white sculpted plaster. Mr Spinell rubbed his shoes against the back of his legs and stepped onto the red patterned carpet covering the staircase. The women followed. Katharina squealed at its softness; her mother bent down to touch the rails and rods.
    ‘Solid brass, Günther.’
    They climbed, three abreast, to the second floor, uncertain whether to turn left or right.
    ‘The key is in the door,’ said Mr Spinell.
    ‘I can see it,’ said Katharina. ‘We’re on the right.’
    She turned the key and they entered a square hallway with a gilt-edged mirror and a white marble bust. Two glass doors led to the living room with polished wooden floors, a grand piano, sofas, rugs, paintings and alcoves lined with leather-bound books.
    ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Katharina.
    ‘Finally,’ said Mrs Spinell. ‘A proper home.’
    The two women threw off their shoes and rushed around the apartment, laughing as they opened doors onto enormous bedrooms and balconies. The kitchen drawers were stacked with equipment for slicing and beating, and cupboards filled with starched linen sheets, tablecloths, napkins, and huge soft towels, still perfectly white.
    ‘They had everything,’ said Katharina.
    ‘While we had nothing,’ said Mrs Spinell.
    They converged again on the living room, telling Mr Spinell about the bathtub big enough for two, but he was focused on the alcoves, cursing loudly and throwing books onto the floor.
    ‘Rubbish, rubbish. These will have to go before we can sleep a night in this house.’
    Katharina chose the bedroom furthest from the kitchen, with a balcony overlooking the small but richly planted courtyard. She opened the large mahogany wardrobe and tried on the silk dresses and linen skirts, but none would fit. The shoes were also too small, so she settled for some cardigans, shawls and a long fur coat with matching hat that she wore into the living room.
    ‘Any jewellery?’ asked Mr Spinell.
    ‘No,’ said Katharina. ‘Not that I can see.’
    ‘Bloody thieves, the lot of them. They swallow it, you know. To hide it from us.’
    He piled his