With any luck, Goebbels, as propaganda man, was less interested in the music than in how he could manipulate its story. Assuming they could pass that hurdle, what mattered longer term for Schott’s was the response of violinists and whether they would want to take it up. Jelly was a given; Menuhin was the real test. If he didn’t like it, the Streckers might consider the exercise had been pointless. And from what he could hear, through his own unsatisfactory strumming, Ulli feared that violinists might not after all flock to play this piece; it was too complex, too flawed, too unsettling. If Menuhin were to play it and enthuse about it, his approbation would encourage anyone with reservations to rethink. Yet if he received all the credit that should have been Jelly’s, then her heart would be broken – again – and Ulli would feel responsible. She couldn’t compete with Menuhin any more than Kulenkampff could. He was in no position either to prevent or to cushion that blow.

The decisive letter came sooner than he expected. In California, Yehudi was officially on holiday. A ‘sabbatical’ at the family home outside Santa Cruz. Ulli imagined the youth practising in a studio flooded with sunlight. As he read Yehudi’s words, he wondered why he had ever doubted the outcome. Menuhin understood the work straight away, as perhaps nobody else would; he saw its greater significance, too. He had played it through with his sister, Hephzibah, and found it romantic, mature, sorrowful, profound; he had no doubt that it was ‘the missing link’ in the violin concerto repertoire between Beethoven and Brahms. And of course he wanted to give the modern-day world premiere.

*

It was on the doormat with the third post. A flat parcel bearing, oddly, a set of French stamps. Jelly cradled it unopened, trying to preserve the final moment before she saw the Schumann Violin Concerto for the first time.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Adila grabbed the package and slashed at the wrapping with scissors. Out it slid: the notes on the pages shone like black pearls. ‘What are you waiting for? Let’s go and try it.’

‘In a moment.’ Jelly took a minute to collect herself, pressing the score to her heart.

Adila, though she was no expert pianist, went to the Bechstein and tried to play a skeleton of the reduced score. The first movement. A surge of energy at the opening: a taut-strung rhythm, a long, jagged theme over a tense accompaniment. ‘TAA – DAA – ta-tii – ti-daa… ’ Adila sang while her hands crashed around on the keyboard.