‘We know all about that, don’t we, Masha?’ Rachel said.
‘You’ll never guess who is on the boat with us, Uncle Perelman,’ Masha said, wanting to cheer the old fellow up. ‘Igor Stravinsky. And Arturo Toscanini.’
Uncle Perelman gave a laugh that was half-embarrassed, half-deprecatory. ‘Oh, I scarcely know who such people are any longer. That is no longer my world.’
‘Are you not playing in an orchestra here in Paris?’ Masha asked politely.
‘No, no, my dear. I have not performed in many years. They took, in any case, the fiddle away from me.’
Masha recalled that Uncle Perelman had been the owner of a valuable instrument, a Stradivarius. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’
‘Yes, yes. It was confiscated by the Reichskulturkammer. They said it was in danger of being damaged, played by such bungling hands as mine.’ He laughed again. ‘And I am sure they were right, quite right. I left Germany soon after that and came here to Paris.’
‘So what do you do now?’
‘I have a facility for figures.’ He tittered. ‘I do a little bookkeeping. On a small scale, you understand. It’s convenient for my customers. I go to their shops after hours and’ – Uncle Perelman fluttered his fingers – ‘I make the numbers come out straight.’
‘How clever of you,’ Rachel said, trying to sound bright. ‘And Aunt Perelman?’
‘No longer with us.’ He laid a finger on his lips as both girls began to utter condolences. ‘Thank you, but please, not a word. Her suffering is over. I carry her precious memory here.’ He touched his heart.
‘Uncle Perelman, you look so cold. We found this scarf on the floor, being trampled on. It’s a little dirty, but it’s very good quality, and I am sure it can be cleaned.’ Rachel held out the scarf she and Masha had found lying on the deck.
Uncle Perelman inspected it wistfully. ‘It’s certainly very beautiful. But the rightful owner—’
‘I am sure the rightful owner won’t want it now that it’s dirty,’ Rachel said firmly. ‘Besides, he can certainly afford to buy another one. There are very rich people on board.’
Uncle Perelman looked as though he were going to refuse, but his bony hands acted independently of his will, taking the wool scarf eagerly, and tucking it in his threadbare coat. ‘So kind, my dears. So very kind.’ He looked around him. ‘This is certainly a beautiful ship you have got here.’
‘Trust me, we’re not in Cabin Class,’ Rachel said. ‘We couldn’t afford this. We just sneaked here from the cattle sheds to look smart for you.’
‘It was very kind of you to come and see us off,’ Masha added. ‘Please send our love to everyone at home.’
Uncle Perelman winced. He began rubbing his papery hands together again. He seemed very uncomfortable. ‘My dears, my dears. I have been asked to come to you to pass on some news. I wish there were more time for me to prepare you for it, but your beautiful ship is about to leave.’
‘News?’
‘Bad news.’
Masha had gone very pale. ‘From Berlin?’
‘It is from Berlin.’
‘About our relations?’
‘It is about your relations.’ The old man, too, had become pale. He seemed to want to lead them to guess what his news was, rather than tell them directly. Masha saw his dry lips trembling, and she burst into violent tears.
‘They are all dead,’ she sobbed. ‘They’ve been killed.’
‘No, no.’ Uncle Perelman laid his hand on her arm compassionately. ‘Not killed, not killed. Only resettled.’
‘Resettled?’ Rachel repeated. Unlike Masha, who was now unable to speak, and Uncle Perelman himself, who was weeping openly, she was dry-eyed. ‘How comfortable that sounds. Who has been resettled, exactly?’
‘All of them.’
‘Our parents?’
‘All four of your parents.’ Uncle Perelman wiped his sunken cheeks. ‘Your uncles, aunts, your grandparents, your cousins, everyone by the name of Morgenstern. They have all gone. Strangers are already living in their apartments.’
Masha had buried her face against Rachel’s breast, feeling as though her heart was breaking. Rachel put her arms around her cousin. ‘And where have they been resettled?’
‘That is not known. In the East. That was all that was said. A full report will be given by the authorities when the resettlement is complete. They were allowed to take some clothing and personal possessions.’
‘How kind of the authorities. And in the East, where one hears that the climate is so healthy at this time of the year. We must be grateful to them.’ Uncle Perelman was unable to reply. ‘Is there no one left, then?’
‘No one,’ he replied.
‘When did this resettlement happen?’
‘The day after you left Bremen.’
‘You hear this, Masha?’ Rachel said to her sobbing cousin. ‘We have missed a wonderful adventure by a bare twenty-four hours. What atrocious luck.’
Uncle Perelman stared at Rachel with bleary eyes. He seemed not to know how to respond to Rachel’s ironies. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I would not wish to be the one to tell you this, but there was no one else. I have been very clumsy, and I apologise.’
‘You were very kind, Uncle Perelman,’ Rachel said. ‘You weren’t clumsy at all. We expected this to happen. We are the lucky ones, if you can call it luck.’ Her voice broke for the first time. ‘Though what we have done to deserve—’ She could not go on.
‘I urge you to be strong,’ Uncle Perelman said, mopping his eyes. ‘To love God, and to remember who you are, and where you came from.’
‘How can we love a God,’ Masha cried out, raising her head from Rachel’s shoulder, ‘who does this to us?’
Uncle Perelman spread his hands helplessly and repeated, ‘Love God and remember who you are.’
‘I am going back to Germany,’ Masha said.
The Manhattan’s horn, fixed to the forward stack, issued a great blare of sound, loud enough to vibrate the decks underfoot and send the last visitors scurrying for the gangplank. It sounded to Toscanini like the opening chord of some terrible Prelude. A steward laid a compassionate hand on his shoulder.
‘We cast off in ten minutes, maestro.’
He nodded. The porter he had paid to carry his luggage ashore hurried up to the conductor, pushing a trolley.
‘Going ashore, maestro?’
‘Yes,’ Toscanini said, almost inaudibly. He shuddered all over, and rose slowly to his feet. The porter began loading the trunks on to his trolley. People streamed around them, shouting, laughing and crying. Toscanini pulled his fedora firmly on to his head, and squared his shoulders.
‘Okay. We go.’
They made their way on to the gangplank. It was thronged with visitors streaming off the Manhattan. The quayside was now densely packed with many thousands of people. Paper streamers and serpentines were already cascading down the side of the ship, celebratory tokens on an occasion that had little of celebration in it.
Toscanini’s eyes were full of tears, but he kept his chin held high. He did not look back at the liner he was leaving, its giant stacks pouring smoke. What would become of them now? Would they be trapped here by Hitler’s armies, after all? Were they doomed to end their days in a concentration camp, or against the pockmarked wall of a firing squad? Would they never see their children again? There were no answers to these questions. La forza del destino. It could not be resisted. He blinked away the tears.
At the very bottom of the ramp, he was confronted by a rotund little woman bundled into a green coat with fur trimmings at the neck and sleeves, about to get on the gangplank. Her Loden hat was decked with enamel good-luck charms: a cloverleaf, a white rabbit, an edelweiss. She frowned at Toscanini.