The truck bearing Nina had disappeared and it was starting to drizzle. With the rain had come a discontented wind, rushing under Romy’s coat, stinging her wet cheeks and causing the chickens and roosters in the lines of cages to cluck and caw, as if begging for mercy from this bitter cold. Mutti gathered her fur tighter around her neck with one hand while Romy allowed herself to be pulled along by her mother, jumping over puddles and out of the way of rickshaws appearing from nowhere as the runners in blue rags shouted, ‘Aya!’ She turned her head every which way as she took in these dark Shanghainese people and the lingering scents of stock and spices before the wind whipped them away. Romy had never seen so much business and bustle or so many animals and fish in a street before, and she was enthralled. What a filthy, strange and fascinating place Shanghai was.

How could this new place become home? She wondered what Nina’s Heime was like and how soon Papa could arrange a visit.

Papa, Mutti and Romy ran quickly in single file, luggage banging against their knees as they dodged more rickshaws and a steady line of flashy cars across the boulevard of the Bund. Romy’s coat chafed the back of her neck as they at last arrived at the opulent entrance to the hotel.

A brown-skinned doorman wearing a white turban, a smart button-up white suit with polished gold buttons and white gloves greeted them with a gleaming white-toothed smile.

‘Good evening,’ he said in the same round English accent as the unhelpful official in Vienna’s British consulate as he clasped the gold handle of the door and swung it wide.

Inside, three more men in white silk turbans rushed to greet them and take the bags from Mutti and Papa. Mutti was too busy gaping and wouldn’t let go of her suitcase handle, and the man looked at her in kindly confusion.

He bowed. ‘Madam. May I?’

‘Darling,’ said Papa as he touched Mutti’s arm gently, prising open her fingers and passing the suitcase to the man.

Romy swivelled on her heels, almost falling sideways as a jazz tune was belted out on the black grand piano in the far corner of the lobby. She recognised the melody; it was ‘I’ve Got a Pocketful of Dreams’, a song Daniel used to play for her, shoulders loose and relaxed, as she sat on the stool beside him, avoiding her own practice. Romy drew a sharp breath when she caught sight of the pianist. He was as dark as the baby grand.

Never had Romy seen so many people with different skin colours. Certainly not at home. What would the Führer make of this strange new land where people came in every hue? She had an uneasy feeling these people would be as unwelcome as she was in Vienna. What no-one could explain was: why?

She must remember to tell Daniel about this strange city. She would write to him as soon as she had the chance. Her brother would be just as fascinated as Romy. Perhaps when he arrived, he could get a job playing piano. Go back to studying. Mutti was going to write a letter and organise official paperwork to get him released from that horrible-sounding camp in Dachau. Romy couldn’t wait for him to join them so the family would be together again…what was left of their family.

While Romy had been taking in the people and listening to the music, her mother was standing in the middle of the soaring two-storey atrium, staring up at the ceiling. Following her gaze, Romy saw that at the apex of the ceiling was a dazzling modern jigsaw of yellow- and gold-stained glass. They had stepped from a slum straight into a golden jewel box. In the middle of all this geometry sat a giant bronze flower.

Mutti turned to Papa with a frown. ‘But, Oskar, how can we possibly afford—’

Romy froze, her collar tight at her neck.

‘It’s only for two weeks, Marta,’ Papa assured her. ‘Mr Sassoon insisted we recover from our journey.’ He tapped his pocket. ‘Then one of his staff will come and take us to our new apartment.’

‘But—’

‘Marta, please.’ He wrapped his arm around her waist. ‘I will start at the hospital and we will pay him back. Every penny.’

‘Herr Sassoon is a good man.’

‘He is.’

‘Will we meet him?’ asked Mutti.

‘He’s travelling for business. But I’ll certainly be in touch on his return.’

Mutti rested her head on Papa’s shoulder with the beginnings of a smile. The late-afternoon sun streamed through the patchwork of stained glass, making the striped marble floors and walls look like liquid gold. In the centre of the room stood a dark wooden table with straight modern legs topped by an octagonal slab of marble as thick as a mattress. Mutti’s eyes were wide, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. It was such a contrast to the chaos outside.

Taking Romy’s hand, Mutti led her over to the decadent floral centrepiece on the table and drew a deep breath, inhaling the scent of white lilies bunched in vases of every height.

Romy was reminded of their Wednesday visits to her mother’s favourite Blumenhändler on Wipplingerstrasse, filled with buckets of tight red and pink roses smelling every bit as sweet as they looked. Or the delicate white buds of edelweiss from the Alps with which Mutti filled the house in the late summer and autumn.

As mother and daughter purged the filth, salt and smog from their lungs, the doorman approached and plucked a lily from one of the vases. A few of the petals were dusted with yellow pollen and he gave it a shake before he presented it to Romy with a deep bow.

‘Welcome to Shanghai, Miss,’ he said, beaming. ‘Will you be staying long?’