‘We’ll discuss it another time,’ he said airily, mussing my hair as we mounted the stairs to bed. I lay awake, unwashed, savouring a redemptive odour of unearthed potatoes and imported cigars. He had assured me that, come what may, I would share his adventures.

A revelatory moment was narrowly averted at his next birthday, which my mother had taken to celebrating with ceremony, as if to represent absent family. We sat around the dining-room table for a festive tea, an Anglo-Jewish hybrid of smoked fish, hot crumpets, matzah crackers, apple strudel and marzipan-cased birthday cake. It was May 1947 and Dovidl was seventeen.

Mother was chatting away about her new mission, raising funds for the beleaguered Jewish yishuv in Palestine, which aspired to become a state. ‘We’re giving a dinner at the Savoy next month,’ she said brightly, ‘and Dr Weizmann is coming to address us. There will be a kibbutz dance troupe and Danny Kaye to compère. But I want to propose something a little more serious to reflect the solemnity of the struggle. I wonder, Mortimer, if I might ask David to perform the nigun by Ernest Bloch, which he renders so meltingly.’

‘What do you think, my boy?’ said Father warmly. ‘It’s a private occasion, around four hundred guests, and it would serve to whet the appetites of some fairly substantial supporters for your eventual début, which we must soon start to discuss.’

Dovidl chewed a smoked-salmon cracker, wiped his mouth and took a sip of tea before pronouncing his response. ‘I’m not quite in the right frame of mind at the moment,’ he said.

Mother frowned: she did not take kindly to being thwarted. Father looked quizzically at me; I glued my eyes guiltily on the marzipan cake. Mortimer Simmonds changed the subject. ‘I have been thinking, David,’ he volunteered, ‘that it’s about time we got you a decent instrument. Care for a trip to Baileys?’

Dovidl looked pleased. Baileys, in Soho, were the supreme arbiters of excellence, dealers in fine violins since the early nineteenth century and consultants to the leading performers and collectors of the almost-intractable plaything. With skills passed from father to son, they could tell a fake at a glance, an Antonio Stradivarius from a pupil’s model and a genuine virtuoso from the common run of aspirants. Choosing an instrument at Baileys was the preliminary step to launching a solo career, great or small.

We taxied to Frith Street, the three of us, by appointment. ‘I’d like you to meet Eli Rapoport,’ said my father to the senior Bailey, ‘I think you’ll be hearing quite a lot of him in future.’