Romy tugged the collar of her blue coat so it sat high at the nape of her neck. She was too frightened to take it off. Not until they were out of Austria. Beside her, Mutti and Papa shifted in their second-class seats as their narrow carriage rolled on its tracks through the tight turns of the Brenner Pass. When they had reached the Brenner Bahnhof, Papa had instructed Romy to pull her hat low, hold his hand and not make a peep as they quickly changed trains for Italy. She must follow the rules.

Mutti laid a reassuring gloved hand on her daughter’s leg to stop her swinging it and kicking the seat in front. Romy was frustrated and fidgety after sitting for six hours with nothing but a slice of beef sausage, a bread roll and half a hard-boiled egg passed back by the kindly old lady with the eye patch from the seat in front. She leaned against the glass to look out the window and catch a better view of the mountains.

She’d never been this far south and Romy wanted to remember every second. The grey sky was filled with swirling snowflakes and the mountains were covered with pine forests. They shot up so steeply Romy couldn’t see the peaks, not even when she pressed her cheek to the icy window and tilted her head to look up. She’d always dreamed this narrow pass would be magical—like something out of her fairytale books. With each click of the track, black shadows appeared and disappeared. Her numb ear pressed hard against the window and the jagged mountains seemed to hiss you can’t come in here. The countryside of her dreams was cold and forbidding. She felt lost.

The engine bellowed and huffed as it pulled the carriages along the tracks, through the snow. Forests gave way to hamlets dotted with small stone houses as they crept closer to the Italian border. The carriage, which had been full of nervous chatter for the past few hours, fell silent as the brakes started to squeal on the wet tracks.

When Romy was pretending to sleep with her cheek on her mother’s soft brown woollen suit, she had heard the adults’ desperate whispers, as fluttery as the snowflakes. Would they be allowed to cross into Italy?

The night after Benjamin was killed and Daniel was taken away, Herr Gruber had forced himself through the queues and chaotic crowds to the gates of the Chinese consulate. The gates were guarded by half a dozen Wehrmacht soldiers, but their friend heard a rumour that the Chinese diplomat Feng Shan Ho was issuing visas under the bistro table at a café next door as he took his afternoon coffee. Alas, the café was closed for the evening, but as he was leaving Herr Gruber saw a black consular vehicle approaching the gates. Taking a risk, he thrust the Bernfelds’ passports through the open window of the car. Feng Shan Ho stopped the car and took the papers with a tip of his hat. No words were exchanged lest the soldiers overheard. The next day at noon, as he took his black tea, Feng Shan Ho slipped a yellow diplomatic envelope under the bistro table to Herr Gruber.

Three days after Kristallnacht—the night of the broken glass—Mutti had told Romy they were going to Italy to catch a boat to the other side of the world. To China. Though it was rumoured you didn’t need a visa to enter Shanghai, Herr Gruber insisted the Bernfelds get visas—just in case there were problems crossing borders. They’d sail back just as soon as the Führer no longer governed Austria. Or, when Daniel joined them, they would apply to move to America. Because who wanted to return to a country that had told them they were less than nothing?

‘It will be soon,’ Papa promised. ‘Now the world knows about Kristallnacht, they will put a stop to this madness.’ But Papa’s voice had lifted with uncertainty.

The night Herr Gruber bought the Chinese visas, he had instructed them to pack two small suitcases of practical clothes. Thick shoes. Best coats.

‘Take ten Reichsmarks only in your wallet,’ he’d instructed Papa.

‘Ten?’ Papa objected. ‘That will not even buy the coffee and some plum jam Liwanzen at the station.’ He tickled Romy under the chin but his smile was forced. ‘They will have us leave Austria like beggars? After all we have done? Why—’

‘Hitler is a fool,’ Herr Gruber interrupted. ‘No-one will take Reichsmarks. They’re worthless. Take my camera and sell it in Shanghai.’

Papa shook his head. ‘You could be shot for helping Jews. You should come with us.’

‘My place is here. I need to keep the school running. The children didn’t start this war.’

‘You’re a good man.’ Mutti paused in her sewing and turned a tear-stained face to their neighbour. ‘Herr Gruber, why would you risk yourself to help us?’

‘We all bleed the same colour, Frau Bernfeld.’ The teacher blushed as if he realised too late the memories his words might summon. Benjamin…

Romy watched Mutti concentrate fiercely on each stitch as she sewed her grandmother’s pearl necklace and her own diamond engagement ring into the lining of the collar of Romy’s coat.

Herr Gruber turned and patted Romy on the head. ‘Your daughter has always been a good student. Like her brothers.’ He paused. ‘You need a valid ticket to leave Germany—proof of a destination. I’ll go purchase your first-class tickets for the next boat from Genoa.’

‘That’s too extravagant—’ Papa raised his hands in the air then dropped them, exhausted.

Herr Gruber reached over and gently squeezed Papa’s hand. ‘Trust me. It’s the only way. You can convert your ticket at the port in Italy, cash them in for second- or third-class before you board. You can’t get money out of Austria. You’ll get caught and it will be confiscated. You’ll be punished…’

Mutti touched a gold button on Romy’s coat and whispered a prayer.

Daniel had been transported to a concentration camp at Dachau, Herr Gruber had discovered. Herr Gruber wasn’t entirely sure what work Daniel had been assigned, but said he would do his best to find out. He had contacts in Germany, and it might be possible to get some release papers using the Chinese visa once the Bernfelds had reached Shanghai.

Mutti’s eyes had flickered with hope, before dimming like a broken lamp.

The train’s steam whistle blew and the train shuddered, and Romy rocked against her parents as they pulled into Brenner station. The carriage doors were flung open and several Wehrmacht guards with guns invaded the cabin and stood in the aisle, ordering all the passengers off. Papa reached for their suitcases and, petrified, Romy tugged at her collar.

Mutti shot her a quick reassuring look and narrowed her eyes as if to say don’t touch. A guard shoved Papa in the back with a gun as he stumbled onto the platform, following the crowd to the next platform where the smaller train for Italy sat with the engine running.

A guard yelled: ‘Juden. Emigranten. Da drüben.’ Jews. Emigrants. Over there.

Papa ushered Romy and Mutti away from the queues for customs to where a nervous circle of weary passengers stood shivering, despite their fur coats and leather gloves. They all had their felt hats pulled low, as if trying to make themselves inconspicuous.

The rest of the train’s passengers had their passports inspected and stamped, but the circle of Jewish passengers were surrounded by more guards with guns and ushered away from the train.

The remaining passengers—those without a large red ‘J’ stamped on their passport—clambered onto the waiting train with their luggage, casting furtive looks over their shoulders. Some appeared cold and defiant, others apologetic. The engine blew three deep whistles before chugging away from the platform and into Italy.

A man with a grey beard and a narrow face yelled out to one of the soldiers: ‘Stop! What about our tickets?’

He was answered with a swift knock in the back of his head with the butt of a rifle. He fell to the ground, unconscious. The guard who had hit him took the man’s suitcase and threw it to another guard, who took it inside the station.

‘Anyone else have questions?’ The guard smirked. ‘Line up your suitcases on the platform and open them—now!’ he barked.

Papa placed their two small leather suitcases on the platform and flicked open the lids, baring Mutti’s silk petticoat and three pastel cashmere jumpers. Mutti tucked Romy under her arm, like a hen with her chicken, and Romy could feel the individual pearls pressing into her neck. The guards rummaged through each suitcase, tossing out silver candlesticks, jewellery, cutlery and any other valuable that could be sold or melted down. The bitter wind roared up the valley pass, stinging their cheeks.

Shivering, Romy looked through the white lace curtains into the platform café where a fire burned in a neat black hearth, making the apricot walls glow with warmth. There were round marble tables just like in the café on Wipplingerstrasse. She longed for a hot chocolate. Would they be allowed to go inside to get out of the icy wind when the inspection was over? She groaned as she spotted the sign on the door.

Juden verboten. Jews forbidden.

Her stomach gurgled and her mother tugged her closer.

They were poking through Papa’s suitcase. A watch, a stethoscope and Papa’s gold-and-black fountain pen—a gift from the medicine department in Oxford—were extracted. His medical textbooks were ignored. Papa pursed his lips, but said nothing. Romy swayed on her feet. Why weren’t they allowed to sit on the wooden benches under the station signs? It was so unfair. The next gust of icy wind threatened to knock her over.

‘Close them.’ The guards pointed at the suitcases and everyone rushed over to reclaim their own.

‘Place your suitcase in front of you and stand up straight until the next train.’ The guard raised his voice as he pointed his index finger at the straggly line of weary travellers. ‘Do not move. Do not sit down.’

Romy crossed her legs; now she needed to pee.

The guard looked at his watch. ‘The next train to Genoa will be in exactly three hours and fourteen minutes. If you Jews—’ he paused to spit before continuing ‘—so much as blink in the wrong direction then you will not board that train. Have I made myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Papa spoke clearly and looked the guard in the eye.

The man raised his arm and shouted, ‘Heil Hitler!’

‘Heil Hitler!’ the other guards repeated with a stomp of their black boots as they saluted in return. Then they swivelled on their heels and marched down the platform in neat pairs into the café.

As the door to the coffee shop swung open, the scent of baked apple, cinnamon and coffee wafted across to the passengers before being whipped away by the wind.

Romy tried to stand perfectly still by focusing on a single spot. It was a trick she’d learned at ski school when they were learning to balance on one leg. She stared hard at a sodden brown leaf being lifted and tossed against the iron track. As she concentrated, she felt a warm trickle slide down the inside of her stockings. But she didn’t even flinch.