A month after their arrival in Shanghai, it was time for the Bernfelds to leave the Cathay and start life in their new apartment in Frenchtown. The porter knocked on the heavy oak door to their suite to fetch their suitcases, which he conveyed down the marble staircase to one of the shiny black Daimlers lining the circular driveway outside.

Romy stood in the lobby, watching the stained-glass ceiling glint yellow and gold in the morning light and enjoying the faint traces of vanilla and cloves that seemed to be coming from the new flower display. Today’s flowers were like delicate creamy butterflies sitting on long grey twigs. The tips of the petals looked like they had been given the faintest splatter of purple and yellow paint. She turned to her parents, eyes wide with wonder, but her father was hastily whispering something into her mother’s ear. Perhaps it was one of his jokes, because the edges of Mutti’s lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile.

It was a start.

Mutti had spent most of the boat trip in bed, drinking valerian tea and taking some sleeping tablets Papa said might help. Since they’d arrived at the Cathay, Romy had brushed her mother’s dark silky hair out every night and tucked her into bed with a kiss on her clammy forehead. Romy shared her mother’s pain, although she tried to hide it. Romy didn’t want Papa to worry his daughter was feeling sad too. His skin looked grey, and deep charcoal rings had appeared under both his eyes—rings that no amount of sleep seemed to erase.

So Romy kept moving, exploring every corner of the Cathay, sampling every pastry in the tearooms and reporting back her discoveries to her listless mother. Perhaps one of these delicacies—the pastel-coloured French macarons or the Chinese basi pingguo, delicious chunks of apple deep-fried and coated in caramel and sesame seeds—could coax Mutti out of the dim room.

Romy had always loved a sweet treat, and as she sat on her own in the salon, with its palm-tree wallpaper and white wicker and marble, it was hard not to fall in love with the titbits of dessert the waiters smuggled to her table along with the vanilla milkshake or soda she had ordered. She giggled at the translations of the Chinese names. Dishes that came from every corner of China. The soft bean paste fudge coated in crispy fried soy beans—lü dagun—became Rolling Donkeys; pillows of dough with a crunchy skin of dark sugar and sesame seeds were Laughing Doughnut Holes. But her favourite, served with a silver pot of steaming tangy black tea, was the sticky red dates stuffed with a sweetened dough made with a flower blossom syrup: Too Soft a Heart.

Romy tried to explain to her mother how the dates in Too Soft a Heart had so many textures, sticky and crunchy and squishy all at once, in the hope of luring Mutti downstairs to sit among the other women in the Cathay tearooms. The ones speaking Yiddish, Italian, French, German and Dutch, as well as the impeccably dressed Shanghainese women, who looked like movie stars with curled hair, fitted silk cheongsams, and pearl and jade necklaces around their necks or woven into a headpiece, diamonds dripping from their ears.

It felt good to laugh with the waiters during the day; it helped her to forget. And then, when night fell, Romy tried to keep her eyes open as long as possible, because when she closed them, all she saw was a line of bloody droplets. The dark hole in Benjamin’s head. When she awoke, her pillow stuck to her cheek with salty tears. But Romy thought if she could try to be happy, if she could make the best of Shanghai like Papa said, treat it like an adventure, then when she’d had enough rest, Mutti would join them. It was as if her vibrant, glamorous Mutti had been lost in Vienna with her brothers. She didn’t seem to notice her daughter at all.

So Romy started asking Papa if Nina could come and join them at the hotel.

Finally, Papa called Miss Schwartz to ask if Nina’s uncle would permit her to visit Romy for afternoon tea.

A few days later, accompanied by Eva Schwartz, Nina walked into the gold foyer, mouth agape, her skinny white legs poking out from the blue-checked smock of Romy’s that Mutti had given her on the Conte Verde, socks sagging around her ankles. As Papa made his apologies for Mutti, Nina and Romy hugged. Nina smelled of soap and something harsh—like the chemicals Mutti used to clean their apartment in Vienna.

‘Come, you won’t believe your eyes,’ said Romy as she tucked Nina’s arm through hers and hurried across the foyer to the Jasmine Lounge. Lined with dark wood, the lounge was filled with clusters of wicker chairs with bright green cushions. Potted palm trees stood in gold pots in every corner.

They sat at a corner table where they could survey the room, Nina clearly dazzled by the sight of all the elegant women, hair coiffed, necks adorned with pearls, diamonds or emeralds. Though it was well before lunchtime, some were sipping champagne.

A pianist played soft melodies and tears started to well in Romy’s eyes. Music always made her think of her brothers.

Nina reached over and squeezed Romy’s hand under the table.

‘Order anything you like the look of,’ said Papa as Nina eyed a silver tray with croissants and jam being carried to the table beside them.

After they’d had their fill of croissants, Black Forest cake and honeyed sesame seed cake, Papa said to Romy, ‘Why don’t you take Nina for a tour of the hotel while I have a chat to Miss Schwartz?’

The two girls ran back out to the foyer and peered inside the jazz bar, trying not to gag from the smell of cigars and whisky. The room was hazy and a band played ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’. Inside were Chinese faces, Japanese uniforms and English, French, German and Dutch accents. But it was mostly men in the hotel’s English-style pub; the only women present were dressed for a ball, wearing fitted satin dresses that showed off a daring amount at the front and fanned out behind them like movie stars.

‘You know, Charlie Chaplin stays here,’ boasted Romy. ‘The doorman, Mr Khaira, told me.’

While the men conversed loudly in their deep voices, the ladies with them didn’t talk; they just sat demurely, sipping cocktails and occasionally pulling compacts from their bags to powder their already perfect noses.

‘They’re beautiful,’ Nina said wistfully.

A rotund man in a three-piece checked suit, who was talking to a Japanese soldier, turned to look at the girls. He had an angry red scar down his left cheek. His eyes narrowed as he looked the girls slowly up and down before smiling to reveal a gold front tooth.

Romy grabbed her friend’s hand and started to inch away from the doorway and the cruel gaze of this ugly man.

‘This is not the place for little girls!’

Romy and Nina jumped as the doorman, Mr Khaira, spoke quietly but firmly behind them. He moved forwards to usher them away.

Romy bit her lip, hoping he wouldn’t send them back to the Jasmine Room. She was reluctant to interrupt Miss Schwartz and Papa. They had been talking about making a list of hospital equipment and drugs—she was hoping it would prove to be a long list so she had more time with Nina.

To her relief, she saw Mr Khaira’s eyes were twinkling. ‘Follow me,’ he said. He led them across the foyer, heels clicking on the marble, until they reached the beginning of the corridor, where he pulled a lever to one side of the wooden panelling. The wood slid open to reveal a dark tunnel.

‘Step inside, Miss Bernfeld. And you are…?’ He looked at Nina questioningly.

‘Miss Milch,’ answered Romy for her friend, who was peering around nervously. She pulled Nina into the tunnel and Mr Khaira flicked a switch.

Romy saw a dim corridor leading up a set of stairs.

‘Perhaps we should go back,’ said Nina, her hands scrunching the hem of her dress.

‘No, let’s see where this goes!’ Romy whispered over her shoulder as she raced after the pressed white pants disappearing up the stairs.

They walked past a row of unmarked cedar doors.

‘This is the service entrance in and out of the building,’ the doorman explained. ‘These doors lead to the kitchen. And up here…’ Without finishing the sentence he bounded up another flight of stairs and the girls followed him into a dressing room with a teak-lined sitting room attached. The club chairs and lounge were upholstered in gold velvet, twin chandeliers sparkled over marble coffee tables, and the Persian carpet was plush underfoot. Romy wanted to take her shoes off and curl up and read a book, but she wouldn’t dare.

A peacock-blue feather boa was draped over a chair and Nina reached out and stroked it as if it were a cat.

‘This is a special room,’ said Mr Khaira. ‘Secret. Writers such as Mickey Hahn like to stay here. Charlie Chaplin too. Sometimes their dressing rooms get too busy and the singers like to warm up here.’ He smiled. ‘This is the perfect place for curious little girls. But you mustn’t tell anyone I brought you here, Miss Bernfeld, or I’ll lose my job.’

Romy and Nina spent the next hour in the dressing room, taking it in turns to wear the boa and swing and tap like Ginger Rogers to the other’s Fred Astaire. When they thought it must be nearing Nina’s time to leave they hugged each other tight—each trying not to cry—before hurrying back to rejoin the adults.

Romy had returned to the secret dressing room every afternoon since, sometimes with a plate of dates or slices of jackfruit. She would stretch out on the sofa and write to Daniel. On her last day, she carved her initials on the outside doorframe in the hallway with the nib of her pen: RB 1939.

As they waited to check out of the Cathay, the lobby echoed and filled with words of every language as women in fur coats, their servants pulling trunks big enough to fit a bathtub, clicked across the marble in their high heels. Men greeted each other with firm handshakes before retiring to the cigar lounge. Inside the entrance to this grand hotel, buzzing with joy and possibility, it was easy for Romy to forget about the pogroms and the growing control of Hitler in Europe, to forget that she and her family were not welcome in their own home. She leaned into the flowers, made giddy by the spicy pollen. She lifted a finger and tapped one of the petals, a butterfly wing.

Mr Khaira walked towards her, seemingly delighted by the interest in his prized centrepiece.

‘Orchids. Grown specially.’ He plucked one of the smaller butterflies and placed it behind Romy’s ear, causing her to blush. ‘Ah, this flower, it suits you. Orchids are a most noble flower, Miss Romy.’ He leaned in and said in a low voice, ‘An orchid in a deep forest sends out its fragrance even if no-one is around.’

Romy blinked at him twice, uncertain how to respond.

‘Confucius.’ He grinned, as if that explained everything.

Romy traced her finger along the orchid behind her ear. It felt like silk and smelled a little like cinnamon.

‘You remember: noble.’ He pointed at the flower in her hair with a nod. ‘Enjoy Shanghai, Miss,’ he said as he opened the door with a flourish and walked her to one of Sassoon’s waiting cars. As she stepped outside into the freezing winter air, she was momentarily shocked by the biting chill, strange smells and sounds on the breeze. She slipped into the back seat of the car beside Papa and wound down the window even though the cool air stung her cheeks.

Romy was finally on her way to her new home, and she didn’t want to miss a second.