He spent an hour and a half cleaning and tidying his flat. He made sure that the books were in alphabetical order; that the sheet music was flat and organised among its dividers; that his Bechstein was closed and covered with a protective blanket. The piano nearly broke his heart. He thought of its voice silenced, its strings untuned; were he never to return, it might be discarded and broken into pieces. Perhaps someone would look after it, though, and save it, and one day he could have it rescued and shipped to… well, somewhere. With evening the electric light inside seemed harsh, the windows and beyond blacker than ever.

He sat down at the table to write to his mother.

Dearest Mutti,

If you are reading this, it means that I am far away and sending it from my destination.

I know how much my decision will hurt you. Please know that I am thinking of you with all my heart.

Aside from living with other people, we have to be able to live with ourselves. I have to feel I can do that. I have tried always to be a person of honour, as you taught me and as my father was. I don’t want to disgrace his memory, or you, or my own conscience.

I feel I have recently let down someone who depended on me to help her, and in doing so, let down my own profession, which I can roughly describe, even if it sounds pretentious, as bringing music to people. I want to make amends of some kind to this lady, who has inadvertently changed my life. This is not what you may think, but it’s no less crucial to me for that.

I need to recapture anything that remains of my own integrity. That’s all we have in the end, the only thing that can steer us through, no matter what the world throws at us. When the tide turns, if we are still on this earth, I will come back to you.

Please grant me your blessing and your forgiveness.

He just had time for a quick sandwich before the train. He was smearing on the last of the butter when the telephone rang. He paused, heartbeat choking him. Would it look more suspicious to answer it, or not to? He picked up.

‘Nah, Ulli!’ His mother, after all.

Somehow he managed to feign normal conversation. She told him about her lunch with her sister, wondered what to cook for Sunday lunch, wanted to know if he would be there. ‘I can’t,’ said Ulli. ‘I have to go to Frankfurt.’

‘When are you going?’

‘Actually, now. My train is in one hour.’

‘When are you back?’

‘I don’t know exactly.’ That, too, was true.

‘Phone me when you can, then,’ said his mother.

‘I will,’ Ulli promised, trying not to think or feel or fear.

‘All right, dear, ’til soon, then.’ A click. Silence.