Ulli was aware that some of the party had been keeping their distance from him, or casting sideways looks when they thought he wouldn’t notice. Whoever he was, whatever he thought, to them he was simply… German. Paris was nationalistic, opposed to political refugees from further east, yet also left wing; on the train he’d been reading a newspaper article about an alliance called the Popular Front which had created rare unity among the left only months ago, resulting in marches, riots and a strong presence for communism. A visiting German, however opposed he might be to his own government, was bound to sense the effects of that. He measured every word he spoke, changing the subject if a conversation sidled towards politics, for he was on edge with fear – rational or otherwise – that he might be overheard, then reported to the German authorities for fraternising with Jews. This would have been a fearsome concern in Mainz; and if Paris’s walls lacked such ears, his nerves could not quite believe it. No call-up papers had come; he should not be an immediate target, but it was not impossible, and one mistake on his part might result in just such an eventuality. He couldn’t help wondering if he had been sent here because he, rather than a company director, would then be the cannon fodder if something went wrong. Surely not? He trusted his employers not to put him in danger.

‘Relax, Dr Schultheiss.’ Moshe spotted his unease. ‘We know it’s not your fault. But I’d be telling a lie if I pretended we’re not anxious to get home to California before everything blows sky-high. This city feels like a volcano.’

‘I’m surprised you are here at all,’ George Enescu told Ulli.

Ulli nodded. He much admired Enescu as a composer, performer and conductor, and longed to tell him the truth: that despite his fears he appreciated his employers’ mercurial games and rather enjoyed engaging, together with them, in a type of passive resistance that entailed pushing as far as one could contrary to the authorities, but without shouting about it. If it were good for business, Schott’s would find a way to do it. Sometimes he wondered how close to the sun his employers were prepared to soar without singeing their wings, or his. Unless he was indeed being followed, hopefully the authorities would not know he was in Paris to meet an important Jewish musician, hoping to persuade him to play a special and newsworthy German work. But if they found out… He pushed the idea away. He was here now.

Outside, he made sure he gained permission from Moshe and Marutha to travel alone with Yehudi in the first of several cabs that were to take the family and their friends back to the hotel through pre-Christmas Paris.

‘There’s something interesting I’d like to run by you, Yehudi,’ he said.