‘No,’ said Willy, taking the packages from him. ‘A friend of mine happens to be going by train to Metz tomorrow.’

‘France?’

‘You see?’

Ulli saw. Interception in the post of a great German concerto heading out of its home country to some Jewish recipients could prove a risk too far, even for them.

*

Later, he took the third copy home on his bicycle. After a quick supper of soup, bread and cheese, he closed his windows and curtains and sat down at his Bechstein. If only he had a violinist – well, Jelly – to read the concerto with him. Some of his colleagues had attended a private run-through at Dr Lenzewski’s house and came back raving about the piece’s depth and beauty, insisting that Joachim must have been out of his mind to agree it should be put away. Ulli had been ill in bed and missed the evening. In his more morose moments, he felt he missed life’s treats a little too often.

While he played, he tried to sing the violin part, or whistle it; the score was intense and full of counterpoint. He hadn’t been practising enough. If he could accompany Jelly, he’d practise four hours a day. The concerto’s substance was another matter. He had worked on the edition in such detail and for so long that he had lost perspective on it; playing through from start to finish might restore that, with luck. Deep, yes; beautiful, yes; but if Goebbels thought this would be a replacement for everyone’s favourite Mendelssohn, he might need to think again.

Mendelssohn’s concerto flowed naturally and felt effortless; Schumann’s didn’t state, but searched. Mendelssohn flew and dived and looped the loop for his audience; Schumann plunged off the forest path, lost in contemplation. Ulli sensed, through his long and deepening acquaintance with the piece, that it could burrow into your soul and steal it. But he could not help wondering how it would strike those encountering it for the very first time. What if Goebbels did not consider it strong enough? What would be the repercussions for those at Schott’s who had thought it was?