‘If he were really an artist,’ she said, ‘the world would be a safer place.’
Stravinsky shook his finger emphatically. ‘Oh no. Artists are the most dangerous people on earth. Your army general may kill a few thousand, but your artist thinks nothing of exterminating millions.’ He turned back to Rachel. ‘What about your young cousin, Fräulein Morgenstern? Is she musical, too?’
‘Masha is an amateur pianist of some talent. But she was not permitted to enter any conservatory. Also on the grounds of being infectious.’
‘Her lack of professional formation no doubt explains her dubious enthusiasm for my music.’ Having peeled the apple smoothly, he sliced it into four quarters, and gave one to each of the others. ‘If you find the time lying heavy on your hands, I have a little work for you.’
‘Work?’
‘I have with me the partial score of my symphony, but the manuscript is in rough, with all my corrections and scratchings-out. Perhaps I could prevail upon the two of you to copy the work out in fair?’
‘What will you pay?’ Rachel asked swiftly.
‘Rachel!’ Masha exclaimed in dismay, lifting her head. ‘It will be an honour to do the work – without pay, of course.’
‘You want payment in dollars, I presume?’ the composer asked Rachel, ignoring Masha.
‘Of course.’
‘Very well, I will pay fifty cents per manuscript page. There are some eighty pages. And I will subtract twenty-five cents for every error. Two errors, no pay. Three errors, you pay me.’
‘There will be no errors.’
‘That remains to be seen.’
‘And you will supply pens, ink and manuscript paper at no cost to us,’ Rachel pressed.
Masha, embarrassed by Rachel’s businesslike dealings, dug her fingers into her cousin’s arm. ‘We can find our own materials,’ she hissed.
‘I will supply materials,’ Stravinsky conceded. ‘But for any page that you spoil, you will pay me ten cents. Delivery to be before we dock in New York.’
Rachel held out her hand. ‘It’s a deal.’
They shook hands solemnly. ‘Thomas will bring the manuscript to your cabin this evening.’
‘I cannot believe, Igor,’ Katharine said quietly to him, ‘that you are entrusting your precious manuscripts to these perfect strangers. For all you know, they will sell them, and you will never see them again.’
‘Fräulein Morgenstern is completely honest,’ Thomas said sharply, glaring at Katharine. His face was now flushed with anger, rather than discomfort. ‘You have no right to doubt her.’
‘This is the first time I have heard a Nazi vouching for the honesty of a Jew,’ Katharine said in a dry voice.
Stravinsky smoothed his greasy, blonde hair wearily. ‘I am going back to bed. These guns tire my mind and make my head ache.’
As they all left the dining room, Rachel fell into step beside Stravinsky. ‘Was it your idea to send the Hitler Youth to our cabin the other night?’
‘Not at all. It was Thomas’s own idea. He’s not a bad fellow for a National Socialist.’
‘He’s infatuated with my cousin.’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as that.’
‘Haven’t you seen the way he moons over her?’ Rachel glanced over her shoulder. Thomas was walking close beside Masha behind them, listening intently to what she was saying. His face was rapt. ‘I find it repellent. Disgusting. He’s like a dog that licks one’s hand, but wants to bite.’
‘We all know that Nazis have sharp teeth,’ Stravinsky said, ‘but this one is just a puppy. You should be able to kick him away easily enough.’
‘I shall do my best,’ Rachel said grimly.
Thomas König arrived at the girls’ door, carrying a portmanteau holding Stravinsky’s manuscripts. The boy was awkward, as he always was in the girls’ presence. Rachel greeted him coldly, but Masha invited him eagerly into the little cabin.
‘Imagine, Rachel. Original manuscripts from the hand of Igor Stravinsky!’
‘Just imagine,’ Rachel said ironically. ‘Let’s hope the great man is neat in his writing.’
‘He’s always so neat in his personal appearance. Quite fastidious, isn’t he, Thomas?’ She patted the place next to her on the bunk. ‘Sit here beside me.’
The boy obeyed, pressing his hands between his knees. Rachel opened the portmanteau reverently. The sheaves of pages inside were densely written, with plentiful crossings-out and scribbled lines in French and Russian. Odd bits of paper, scraps of envelopes and even margins torn from magazines, were glued here and there with lines of music scribbled on them.
‘Oh, what a lot of dots,’ Rachel commented sardonically.
Thomas cleared his throat. ‘Herr Stravinsky says you need not copy out his annotations. Only the staves.’
‘My heart is beating fast,’ Masha said, handling the pages as though they were holy writ. ‘This is such a privilege!’
Thomas glanced at her face, and then away again. He found being in this cabin, with its scents, its articles of feminine clothing strewn around, and above all, the proximity of Masha Morgenstern, overwhelming. His heart, like Masha’s, was beating fast.
‘You have removed your swastika badge,’ Rachel said, looking down at him.
‘Yes, Fräulein.’
‘Are you disobeying your mother’s wishes out of sensitivity for our feelings?’
He swallowed. ‘I know that the Fräuleins find it distasteful.’
‘You needn’t bother on our account. We are Germans, like yourself, and quite used to seeing the thing everywhere one looks. Put it back on.’
‘It’s quite all right.’
‘It is not all right,’ Rachel snapped. ‘In Germany, we are obliged to wear a yellow star so that the world can see we are Jews. I don’t see why you shouldn’t wear a swastika to tell the world you are a Nazi. Put it back on.’
‘Leave him alone,’ Masha said.
‘Why should I leave him alone? Put it on, I say.’ She watched while Thomas, his fingers shaking somewhat, fished the pin from his pocket and reattached it to his lapel. ‘We are also obliged to change our names to “Sara” or “Israel”. I think we should call you “Adolf” from now on.’
‘He’s just a boy,’ Masha said, leafing through the manuscript, her soft brown hair falling around her face. ‘He doesn’t understand these things.’
‘He understands, all right. Don’t you, Adolf?’
‘I understand,’ Thomas said, almost inaudibly.
‘Look at the facility with which Stravinsky writes,’ Masha exclaimed. ‘It simply pours out of him, wherever he is. He scribbles on whatever comes to hand. Can you imagine having such a quantity of beauty in your head?’
‘I can’t imagine transcribing such a quantity of rubbish at fifty cents a page,’ Rachel retorted. ‘I hope you’re going to do the lion’s share. I have better things to do.’
‘But what if I make mistakes?’
‘Then you will pay for them. You heard the great Stravinsky-Korsakoff.’
‘If the Fräulein wishes,’ Thomas said in a small voice, ‘I can check the pages for any errors.’
‘You’re very sweet, Thomas,’ Masha said, laying her hand on the boy’s knee. He started as though he had been burned with a red-hot iron.
‘You’re not going to disembark – are you?’ he said in a whisper, his pale grey eyes fixed on hers.
Masha sighed. ‘I’ve been told that I can’t.’ She smiled sadly at Thomas. ‘I still have your ticket to the World’s Fair. I can’t really keep it, you know. I’ll give it back to you.’
Thomas felt a flutter of dismay. The ticket was his only, tenuous link to Masha once they arrived in America. ‘Oh no. It’s yours. I beg you to keep it. You don’t have to go with me. You can go any day you choose.’