He was Jewish, from Charlottenburg, west of the Berlin city centre, he said. There, the harassment started with a beautiful rocking horse, a present from his mother to his three children. The Nazi thugs raided their flat and took it away, along with anything they could find of value, sentimental as much as financial. His wife had a fur coat, which he had given her after saving for months for it; they took that too. His children were picked on in school, first moved to the back of the class, then shunted to a different classroom, then expelled because a tiny quota had been brought in for Jewish pupils, which the school exceeded. And it went on, step by malicious step; low-level sadism, then more, then worse, whittling away at their life and livelihood chip by chip.

‘Where are they now – your wife and children?’

‘At home still. I came first to look for somewhere to live, and some work. God willing, they join me.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as I can give them a life. I am living in one room in a hostel and it’s no good for children. I am here three months.’

‘And are they… all right?’

‘My wife writes to me saying yes, they are fine. But you know, post can be intercepted and censored, so I do not know if she tells me the truth. You heard they have been burning books by Jewish authors?’

Jelly felt herself chilling from fingertips to ribcage. ‘Surely not?’ she pleaded.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the pianist – as if it were his fault. ‘But it’s true. In general, few people want to hear the truth. And really, nobody outside is interested. They think it is nothing to do with them, it’s just a problem for the Jews of Germany… ’

‘How will you get them out?’

‘I don’t know. I must find a job, perhaps playing in a hotel or restaurant, then send some money. I trust in God we will find a way.’

The musician’s eyes had a depth that reminded Jelly of Myra, her closest Jewish friend. She asked his name.

He gave a slight, stiff bow. ‘Bernhard Rabinovich, Miss d’Arányi.’

‘Ah, you’ve unmasked me.’

‘Madame, I have played all the piano works of Ravel and many of Bartók, and I would know you anywhere.’

‘Jelly! Do come and join us.’ Margareta was beside her in a bedazzlement of blonde curls and peach silk. ‘I still haven’t seen you properly and I need you to tell me everything.’ Margareta adored Jelly, as young people often did – she was one of them in all but actual years – and Jelly saw Bernhard’s eyes linger on the girl’s slender figure, her regular, wide-set features and golden Scandinavian skin: an ideal ‘Aryan’ blonde, as Ebba must have been at her age. His expression was infinitely sad. Jelly wondered if or when he might see his family again.