Please, dear reader, forgive my long absence. As I write now, I can scarcely believe that over eighteen months have passed since my last entry. One factor alone accounts for my lack of chronicling – my arm. It transpired that my ‘fall’ in Leipzig resulted in both a dislocated elbow and a compound fracture. Apparently, the situation was not helped by the fact I stoically penned a number of pages on the two-day voyage from Leipzig to Bergen.

Upon our arrival in Norway, the kind and wondrous Astrid Halvorsen ensured that I received immediate care from the Haukeland Hospital. My arm was sealed in a cast for six weeks, and I was told that healing could take a year or more. Although I do seem to improve marginally each day, writing has continued to prove difficult. Many times, I have attempted to lift my elbow and put pen to paper, and subsequently given up due to the pain. However, I am glad to report that what was once a searing heat in my arm is now merely a dull ache, and therefore . . . I am able to continue my diary. What a luxury!

I will endeavour to recall events in detail, for I believe that if you are still reading this, you have a vested interest in my tale.

After walking down the steamer gangplank, Astrid had taken one look at my elbow and decreed that I would almost definitely need an operation. She was proved right, and despite resistance from the kind Halvorsen family, I had insisted that all hospital costs were paid for by myself. This, in effect, saw the end to the funds provided by Monsieur Landowski’s Prix Blumenthal.

Mercifully, the Halvorsens were beyond generous to us. In those early days, they provided us with a roof, sustenance, and countless happy evenings filled with music and laughter. Pip and his parents treated me and Elle like family (and Karine too, of course).

Pip’s father, Horst, is a fellow cellist, and plays in the Bergen Philharmonic. I have therefore received inordinate amounts of sympathy from him during my time in Norway, as I can no longer properly lift my bow arm. It is simply too stiff. I was therefore never able to engage in what became traditional post-dinner performances, featuring Pip at the piano, Karine on the oboe, Elle on the flute or viola (depending on the piece) and Horst on the aforementioned cello. Pangs of sadness would crash inside my chest like waves as I stared longingly at my former instrument.

Those first few months in Norway were just what was required after our turbulent exit from Germany. Here, Elle and I felt safe. Norway is perhaps the most beautiful country on the planet. In my short time here, I have marvelled at misty mountains and stared in wonder at waterways that drift off into eternity. One of my favourite pastimes is to hike up into the local park, the Bergens Fjellstrekninger, with a sketchbook and a set of pens to try and capture some of the natural beauty the country boasts. Even the air here has a certain purity. One can almost become drunk on it, intoxicated by the sharp, fresh chill.

I was fully aware that we could not rely on the Halvorsens forever, no matter how comfortable they made me and Elle feel. The fact of the matter was that we were not family, we were refugees. In Paris, I had allowed Monsieur Landowski to finance me, and in Leipzig, the Prix Blumenthal ensured that we wanted for nothing. I was determined that I should begin to pay the way for myself and Elle.

During my strolls in Bergen Harbour, I had earmarked a chart maker’s shop – Scholz and Scholz. From conversations I’d had with Horst, I knew that the elderly proprietor was German, and his son had recently left Norway for the Fatherland to join the ever-growing Nazi movement, which was a source of great upset to the old man. I wagered that, under the circumstances, he might be willing to take me on as an assistant, even with my bad arm. After all, my knowledge of the stars is unparalleled, if I do say so myself.

I am glad to say that my wager was proved right, and I have been working for Mr Scholz ever since. He is a kindly old man, and his wife is an expert in the dark arts of pumper-nickel baking. In truth, I do very little here. I certainly don’t bear the responsibility of making any charts myself, but merely corroborate Mr Scholz’s work. The wage is deservedly meagre, but I proved to be such an amiable presence that upon discovering my living situation, he and his wife offered me the small apartment above the shop, previously occupied by their son. I jumped at the chance, and asked if my ‘wife’ might be able to join me. They readily agreed, with the promise that Elle would help Mrs Scholz to clean.

Elle was initially concerned that Karine might be jealous. She and Pip had announced their intention to marry a few months after arriving in Bergen, and Karine was desperate to move out of the Halvorsen household.

‘They need their own space,’ Elle had sighed.

‘I am sure they will have it soon enough,’ I replied. ‘If Pip passes his audition, he’ll join Horst in the Bergen Philharmonic. They’ll soon have enough money for a house of their own.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’ She took my hand. ‘Do you think that, one day, we might . . .?’ Elle hesitated. Since the announcement of our friends’ engagement, there was an unspoken sense of sadness that we were not yet joining them on the journey of matrimony.

I grabbed her hands. ‘My love, the only thing that is certain in our lives is that we will be together forever. We will marry as soon as we have the funds together, and a place of permanent safety. I promise.’

So, just like that, Elle and I have been living as ‘man and wife’ for eighteen months. It has been, in a word, blissful. We spend the evenings in our tiny apartment huddled around a wood-burning stove, staring out across the water at the little houses which climb the hill. At night, the windows glow a warm yellow, the colour of melting butter. With just the two of us cocooned away from the rest of the world, it is all too easy to forget what we have run from.

I do my best to live in the present, as do our friends. Pip and Karine were married a year ago, on Christmas Eve 1937, with Karine ‘converting’ to Pip’s Lutheran faith. She had discussed the formality with Elle, stating that, ‘A few drops of water and a cross on my forehead do not make me a Christian in my heart.’ Nonetheless, her new surname and documentation provide a buffer of protection should the Nazi threat one day arrive on Norway’s shores, which remains a possibility.

Pip was successful in his audition, and now sits alongside his father in the Bergen Philharmonic. Any hint of jealousy I may have harboured at his success is overridden by the fact that he is my saviour – not to mention that he is deserving of his position. Alongside his commitments to the philharmonic, Pip continues to work furiously on his debut concerto, refusing to share the results with anyone until it is complete. He says that when it is finished, he will dedicate it to his wife. I do not doubt that my friend will produce a masterpiece.

In the spring of 1938, Pip and Karine were able to scrape enough funds together to rent a house on Teatergaten, just a stone’s throw away from the Bergen concert hall. Karine had asked if I would choose a piano for the living room, and I went to great lengths to ensure that the finest instrument within her budget was procured. The housewarming gift from me and Elle was humbler – we presented the couple with a handmade stool for the new piano, which I carved and Elle upholstered. Although it was not the world’s most expensive piece, it was made with a great deal of love.

Not long after that, Karine announced that she was expecting a baby, and in November, little Felix Halvorsen was born. When we met Pip and Karine’s baby, I noticed the wistful, longing look Elle had in her eye. I took her hand.

‘One day,’ I assured her, kissing her lightly on the forehead.

Neither of us are naive enough to believe that safety from Kreeg and the Nazis will last forever. How could it, given all we have been through? We are merely waiting for disaster to arrive on Norway’s shores, in the form of war, or a man who wishes me dead. Perhaps both.

The newspapers make for particularly grim reading. Tensions in Europe are escalating by the day. Back in March, Germany annexed Austria. There had been a brief glimmer of hope in September that conflict could be averted. Britain, France, Germany and Italy all signed the Munich Agreement, which conceded the Sudetenland area of Czechoslovakia to Germany, in return for a pledge from Hitler that he would make no further territorial demands. But now, just three months later, there are few who truly believe the agreement will hold.

With our philosophy of living in the present, Pip, Karine, Elle and I are booked aboard the Hurtigruten ship, which will take us up the magnificent western coast of Norway to celebrate the arrival of 1939. It was my own suggestion, for the journey will take us past many breathtaking landmarks, including, most tantalisingly of all, suspended on the edge of the Geirangerfjord, the Seven Sisters waterfall.