It wasn’t the only danger we had to watch for. We encountered refugees from Silesia. They had been travelling for weeks, on their way to relatives in Southern Bavaria.

‘Stay away from the road,’ they suggested. ‘We’ve seen SS patrols and Hitler Youth gangs roaming the main roads between the villages and towns that haven’t fallen to the Allies yet. You’ve heard what they do?’

Erich and I agreed that we had heard and were being cautious. I told him about Mutti’s letter, about what had happened in Windsheim. His brow furrowed with worry and he shook his head with sorrow.

‘Panic’s a powder keg for disaster. When order and calm disintegrate, chaos rules and the smallest thing can turn into a dangerous situation. Stay by my side and do what I tell you. We have to be watchful and careful at all times. I want to get you to your mother safely.’

I nodded, grateful to have Erich by my side. I felt safe with him, even if his ferocity alarmed me. He was strong, capable, practical and good company.

The first three nights we were given dinner and lodgings at farms. Erich told our hosts that we were cousins and he was taking me back home to my parents. It wasn’t far from the truth and allowed people to feel comfortable about a man and woman, not married to each other, travelling together. I was exhausted at the end of each day, barely able to keep my eyes open and my feet were a little sore from my shoes. I was thankful for the rigours of the road, too, enough to keep the immediacy of Erich and my attraction to him at bay. At times I would catch the gleam in his eye and feel my legs turn to jelly. With thoughts of Heinrich in my mind, I wondered if I would continue to have the strength to stay away from Erich.

Although I enjoyed the walking, the brisk activity keeping the chill away, I was happy to stare out at the cold mornings and nights from within warm walls and friendly company. The food was basic, soup and stew, but hot and filling. Ravenous, I unapologetically polished off every last mouthful, grateful to our hosts. The straw-filled mattresses were lumpy but warm and dry and I slept like a baby, with Erich often by my side.

The third night we sat around the table of an elderly farmer and his wife with their daughter-in-law and small grandson, the radio playing in the background. The farmer apologised for leaving the radio on, which played a selection of classical music. The presenter intermittently reported that an announcement would shortly be made by the German government to the German people. None of us had any idea what it would be about. We waited for the news and speculated that it may be the declaration of the end of the war.

The farmer’s daughter-in-law put her little son to bed while I helped his wife tidy the table. The orchestral strains were finally cut short at about ten thirty and the announcer told us that the Führer was dead. Erich and I stared at each other in shock. The report announced that the Führer had fought until his last breath against Bolshevism. I jerked as I heard what sounded like shots being fired in the studio. I frowned at Erich, unable to make sense of what was going on in Berlin. All I knew was that Germany would now fall into the abyss of chaos. Nothing would ever be the same again. The Führer, whom so many had pinned their hopes and dreams on, was gone.

I blinked the tears away, numb. The farmer’s daughter-in-law began to cry, his wife comforting her by gently stroking her back, while the farmer stared at the table. I was sure I could see relief in his expression and posture but he didn’t say a word. He rose abruptly and switched the radio off before sinking into his seat once more.

‘We are lost,’ sobbed the daughter-in-law. ‘Without the Führer, we can’t win this war. How will we manage without him?’

‘At least he fell fighting for Germany,’ consoled the wife. ‘He remained at his post at the Reich Chancellery until the end.’

The girl burst into fresh hysterics, her face in her hands.

After a few minutes of staring at the table uncomfortably, listening to the girl’s sobbing, the farmer had had enough. ‘Take her to bed,’ he said gruffly. His wife nodded and gently gathered up the girl, arms around her, and led her to the back of the house. The crying was muffled behind a closed door.

The farmer looked at us, wariness in his eyes. It was awkward to know what to say next, in the presence of strangers, people whose thoughts and feelings about the Führer and this war you didn’t know. Erich was still in his military uniform but, sensing the tension, he decided to break the ice.

‘Admiral Doenitz must surely work towards our surrender now,’ he said. I drew in my breath sharply. This was dangerous talk. ‘The Russians are in Berlin, we know that much, and it won’t be long before the Allies have all of Germany at their feet.’

The farmer’s heavy brows knitted together and he nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I think you are right. There is no other way for Germany. He must stop the bloodshed and the destruction of our country. It is over for us.’

I cried in the privacy of my bed, tears of grief and sorrow for our Führer. He had been like a father to those of us who had been raised under his leadership. Now he was gone and so was all hope for Germany. I felt hollow and empty.

Erich was not so stricken. He didn’t have to tell me how he felt – he’d been trying to tell me for months that he believed the Führer was to blame for Germany’s losses both on the battlefield and of human life. But he said nothing to me, respecting my mourning.

I’d heard the rumours that terrible things had happened to those held in the prison camps – dissidents and communists but especially the Jews. Reminded of the White Rose and Fräu Andree, horror seeped dark into my heart. The doubt that Vati, Heinrich and Erich had expressed in the Führer’s decisions now made me think twice about all I had learnt about him in school. How could he have let these things happen? How could Germany have stooped so low? After all I had seen and heard, I had to accept that the Führer wasn’t the perfect man I had believed him to be. Germany was no better off. It was destroyed, its citizens left destitute, scarred and bereft. The memory of Colonel von Stauffenberg, a decorated war hero, and the ultimate sacrifice he paid because he no longer believed in the Führer came to mind.

We left the next morning and, after a couple of hours of walking, I had found my stride and rhythm. I was deep in thought, considering what was ahead for Germany with the passing of our leader, when Erich suddenly stopped.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Can’t you hear them? There are trucks and vehicles up ahead but I don’t know if they’re ours or the Americans’. We have to get off the road.’ He looked around at the meadows that surrounded us. There wasn’t much shelter.

‘There should be a rise in the road just there,’ I said, pointing to the hilly pasture beyond. ‘I’ll take a look and see if there’s somewhere we can hide.’ Erich was still in his uniform and the woman’s story about the Americans remained at the forefront of my mind.

I was worried about him. The discharge papers I carried clearly stated Erich’s rank and position. Normally higher civil service officials were mandatory members of the Nazi Party, something the Americans could be aware of. Erich received his promotion as a ‘war time official’ due to his technical expertise. He could not apply for a similar position in peacetime without the necessary university qualifications, ones he did not possess. Although not a member of the Nazi Party, I was afraid that the Americans would not care about this small detail which would exonerate him.

‘No, Lotte, I don’t know if it’s safe.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘Those trucks aren’t that close yet and we have nowhere here to hide.’ I strode purposefully around the bend in the road before he could object. The rise in the road was where I had predicted and I smiled smugly to myself. It felt good to take the lead and be right as well.

As I topped the rise, I noticed a tract of woodland to my right. With a little luck, we could hide there. If the people were Americans, we could sneak past them quite easily.

‘Fräulein,’ called a male voice.

I whirled around to find a soldier standing at the bottom of the rise. He wasn’t German. He wore a green tunic and trousers with a helmet on his head, rifle resting comfortably in his hands. I turned to run.

‘Please stay where you are,’ he ordered firmly. He spoke English, with his hand up, gesturing me to stop.

I glanced back to where I had left Erich. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want this man finding Erich but I didn’t want to stay either. Perhaps it would be better to walk towards him.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ the soldier said soothingly. Although his manner meant business, there was no malice in his expression.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ I asked haltingly. My English was rusty and basic but I was suddenly thankful for the English classes my father had insisted upon when I began my photography course.

‘I’m American,’ he said, slowly approaching me. ‘US Army.’

I was rooted to the spot, not sure I could outrun this man. He was young, fit and his eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were watching for signs of flight. Where there was one, there were surely others.

‘You speak English?’

I nodded, my throat dry. ‘A little.’ All my focus was on the soldier, my heart thumping. I was watching for any sudden movement he might make. I realised that not only could Erich be in serious danger but that I might be too. I tried to think of any stories of American atrocities on civilians but could only remember the grisly accounts on the Red Army looting, raping and killing their way towards Berlin.