“Did he say where he was going?”
“To London.”
“Good God, why London? Why not Paris or Amsterdam? What does London have to offer? The madman Thomas Beecham. Beecham waving his baton in the pouring rain for a nation of philistines in wet wool and false teeth!”
“Papa, I didn’t ask why London, but Viktor told me all the same. He thinks Paris will fall. He thinks Amsterdam will fall.”
“Amsterdam? But Holland is neutral.”
Imre thought a moment about the stupidity of what he had just said—Julius would have laughed him into blushes for that—and added, “I suppose Viktor has seen what the Nazis can do. He told me everything about his flight from Germany.”
“Me, too.”
“And the cello? He just gave you the cello?”
“Yes. He called it ‘portable property,’ but he didn’t explain what that meant.”
“I think he meant the cello was valuable. Is it worth much?”
“A fortune, Papa. It is worth a fortune.”
“Bloody hell!”
And from the kitchen her mother’s voice, “Imre! Pas devant!”