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‘We’re going to have the best time, I promise. You’re going to be so happy you came.’

Except it’s been almost a week since we arrived and he said that, and I’ve not been happy at all.

Noemi didn’t have the words to admit her true feelings to Pascal – she was having enough trouble sorting them out for herself – but she knew she had to say something before he dragged her off to yet another ‘entertainment’.

She couldn’t sit through one more parade or exhibition or speech as if nothing was the matter.

And she didn’t like feeling so awkward around him; they’d never had to explain themselves to each other before.

I should have told him I was miserable from day one. And that his mother felt the same way. He would have listened; he hates it if I’m upset.

Not so long ago, before Pascal joined the Hitler Youth, telling him what she felt about anything and everything had come as naturally to Noemi as breathing.

Most of the time he already knew. In Nuremberg – where the speechmakers used words as if they were blacksmiths wielding a hammer and the crowds seemed to be permanently hypnotised – her tongue had tied.

She didn’t know how to say, ‘I don’t like this,’ in a way Pascal would understand.

And it didn’t help that he was so wrapped up in the rally’s ceremonies, he hadn’t noticed her discomfort for himself.

He’d been having the time of his life from the start.

The first day had played itself out at full volume from early morning until midnight, and that pattern had set the tone for the rest. They’d been trapped in the crowds thronging Nuremberg’s central streets for hours waiting to see Hitler’s motorcade drive past, despite the frightening crush.

Pascal swore when it was finally over that he’d seen the Führer as clearly as he could see his father.

Noemi hadn’t been able to catch even the tiniest glimpse of his car.

She’d been buried in a forest of arms which sprang up and down like maddened puppets, deafened by the shouts and the screams and the loudspeakers which blared out from every street corner, encouraging the crowd to cheer.

Not that anyone had needed the encouragement – nobody around her could stay silent or still; they shivered and shook as if they’d been plugged into a giant electric current.

Carina had been as overwhelmed as Noemi and had tried to dig them both out.

But Viktor had noticed his wife was trying to leave before she’d managed more than a handful of steps.

He’d dragged the two of them back and fastened Carina to his side with a grip that made her wince.

Noemi had been so scared of his temper after that, she’d pretended to cheer as loudly as everyone else.

The noise had been as bad as the crowds. By the time they left the cavalcade’s route, the fanfares and the drums and the never-ending tramp of marching feet had taken up residence inside Noemi’s body. And the chants and the songs had drilled into her head.

Millions full of hope, look towards the swastika.

Germany, Germany, mightier than every land.

One people, one Führer, one Reich.

Every line was a roar; every beat was an invitation to march. And the crowds had obeyed the call to do that in their thousands, tramping out of the city to the Zeppelin Field parade ground, waving their banners and singing as they went.

Noemi was swept along with the procession and into the arena in a daze, clinging on to Carina’s hand.

Her feet ached by the time they reached it; her head was a pounding muddle.

The field rippled with as many flagpoles as the city; she could barely see the tops of some of them, they were so high.

Two giant stone eagles stood guard over the gates; more eagles topped the swastika banners which surrounded the huge field.

Noemi felt as if she’d been transported to one of the Roman arenas she’d seen in her history books.

She half expected Hitler – who was fully visible now, perched on a towering platform, alternately waving and haranguing the crowds – to raise or lower his thumb like an emperor as the soldiers marched past.

And from that moment on, every cavalry parade and mock war game and every torchlight procession magnified by giant spotlights was staged on a scale that was so vast and so loud, she couldn’t think clearly.

She got up each morning with her ears ringing, dreading the onslaught to come.

But there was no possibility of slipping away and spending a quieter day in the city’s shops and cafés as Carina had hoped.

Viktor wouldn’t let either of them out of his, or Pascal’s, sight.

Noemi was exhausted; she wanted her mother.

But Pascal had been having so much fun, he was convinced she was loving every moment too.

‘Forget about the stuff you’ve seen so far. That’s been amazing, but tonight’s going to be epic. The wreaths they use are so big they take two men to carry them, and the light from the fire pits will be high enough to see from a plane. They’ll consecrate the new flags first, then…’

On and on he went – he’d become a walking encyclopaedia of National Socialism.

Noemi tried to pay attention as he described yet another elaborate ritual whose purpose she didn’t understand.

It was hard to focus when she’d not only had enough of the rally, but she also had other things on her mind and no idea how to talk to him about any of that either.

She wasn’t sure whether Pascal had seen how roughly Viktor had grabbed Carina on the first day.

If he had, he clearly didn’t suspect – like Noemi did – that it wasn’t the first time.

She could hardly blurt out, ‘Never mind flags and wreaths, have you seen the bruises on your mother’s arms?

Do you think maybe your father hurts her? ’ That would be impossible.

Pascal adored both his father and his mother; he would never suspect anything was wrong between them.

And he wasn’t a boy who paid any attention to clothes – he wouldn’t think there was anything odd in Carina wearing cardigans and jackets even when the sun was at its height.

Noemi had thought that was strange, but she’d only spotted the purple marks running from Carina’s wrist to her elbow because the wince and the grip – and Carina’s constant jumpiness around Viktor – had unsettled her.

Unfortunately, when she’d gone into the Lindigers’ hotel room to borrow a hairbrush and actually seen the bruises, Carina had instantly covered them up, and she’d looked so horrified, Noemi had had no idea what to do.

She’d never tell Pascal, and she wouldn’t thank me for telling him either. But I’ll speak to Mother when I get home – I have to do that. Maybe she’ll be able to help.

‘Noemi, are you listening?’

‘Yes, of course I am. Go on.’

He didn’t believe she’d heard a word, but he was too excited to get cross with her.

‘I’m trying to tell you about the ceremony at the Hall of Honour tonight, the one to remember the martyrs of the 1923 putsch.

Father’s going to be carrying the Blood Flag, the one the fighters carried with them through the streets of Munich.

It’s a huge honour. And Hitler’s coming in person to give a speech of thanks.

It’s the highlight of the rally – you have to see it. ’

She really didn’t. Noemi had heard enough about blood and sacrifice and heroic deaths in battle to last her a lifetime.

All the glorifying of war didn’t make sense to her.

She couldn’t match up the speeches about honour and the joy of dying for the good of a greater Germany with the sad-faced women who haunted Unterwald.

The ones who wore black for their dead husbands and sons even though the war had ended sixteen years ago.

Who Frieda said lived a half life. And she wasn’t sure if Pascal, who thought soldiers were the same as gods, would understand her confusion.

She’d never noticed before they came to the rally how accepting of everything he was.

I’ve never wished he was different. That he asked more questions.

The thought that her best friend wasn’t perfect was a startling one.

She doubted she would ever have felt that way at home.

Concentrating only on what was in front of him and not worrying about the next step until he reached it had made Pascal into a very good climber, one she would trust on the trickiest slope.

But it’s not so helpful here, in this place where I can’t always tell what’s real, and he doesn’t seem to care.

The longer Noemi had spent at the rally, the more she’d started to feel like the little boy pointing out the flaw in the emperor’s new clothes.

But every time she’d pointed out something that looked fake – the part of the Zeppelin Field which was still a muddy construction site, the spectator stands made from cheap splintery wood painted to look like stone, the spectacular entrance to the great hall which was actually painted cloth – Pascal had frowned and asked, ‘Why does it matter?’ And when she’d got muddled by the myth-laden rituals and questioned what they were based on – because it wasn’t the German history they’d learned in school, no matter how many postcards Pascal bought which featured Hitler’s face frowning over a parade of medieval knights – he’d dismissed her with a ‘You don’t understand’, which hadn’t convinced her that he did either.

She’d got stuck at he loves it all and I don’t, and that had become a rather lonely place to be.

So she didn’t have the energy to sit through any more ceremonies, especially if Viktor was fully occupied and wouldn’t be standing guard to make sure she did.

‘I’m sorry, Pascal, but I’m too tired. All I want to do is to go back to the hotel and read a book. You go have fun and I’ll see you in the morning.’