For four months Romy had not seen Wilhelm for more than snatched conversations. She’d fallen ill with pneumonia at the end of April just as the warmer spring winds started to blow through the lane houses. The summer typhoon season had been dreadful. As the winds and rains lashed the ghetto for days at a time, the drains became blocked and brown water spread ankle-deep on most streets. She was moved to the isolation hospital in the north of the ghetto and, after eight weeks of coughing and spluttering, Papa had declared her fit to come home.

But Mutti was adamant that Romy not be exposed to the dysentery, cholera, dengue fever and typhoid swirling through the flooded city.

She needed to rest and rebuild her strength. Romy had spent the long weeks in a strange solitary confinement on her lumpy mattress, reading textbooks and drinking tea and congee with a slice of liver or tongue when Mutti could get it. Sometimes she read over Jian’s notes, or placed fingertips on her arms and on her ankles, trying to remember acupuncture points. Nina didn’t visit. Delma and Wilhelm were frantically busy trying to cope with all the thousands of extra mouths that needed feeding at the soup kitchens. Their visits were few and brief.

Today she was well enough to go back to work, so she decided to surprise Wilhelm at the bakery on the way to Ward Road Hospital. As she stepped inside, she noticed he was still wearing his armband with Foreign Pao Chia Vigilance Corps stamped in capitals. Like all Jewish men under forty-five, he was forced to patrol the boundaries of the ghetto, making sure that no-one broke curfew, or came and went without a pass. Occasionally they were forced to punish their own, under the watchful eyes of the Japanese soldiers.

‘Romy!’ Wilhelm beamed. ‘You’re out and about.’

Romy smiled back, feeling a little shy.

‘It’s great to see you feeling better,’ he said as his ears turned pink.

‘I’m on my way to work but I couldn’t resist dropping by and…’ Her voice faded. And what? ‘You were out last night?’ Romy pointed awkwardly at his armband.

Wilhelm swallowed. ‘Yes.’ Swiftly changing the subject, he presented her with a warm freshly baked dense brown loaf. ‘What do you think of my Brotgewürz?’ he asked.

This was more like Wilhelm. She’d smelled the fennel from the footpath. ‘What spices have you used?’ she asked as she tore off a hunk and inhaled the spicy steam.

‘Caraway, fennel, anise and coriander seed.’

Romy tore off a second piece before suggesting, ‘Why don’t you try Chinese allspice, celery seed and cardamom.’

‘Great idea.’ He gave her a crooked smile. ‘What would I do without you?’

They fell back into their old pattern of everyday banter about Wilhelm’s plans for some new mixing equipment and his concern over whether Romy was strong enough to work full days at the hospital. She asked if he was still delivering bread to the Cathay. He said he was; the hotel was his biggest customer and Ghoya had approved another three-month pass for deliveries. ‘Ghoya can’t resist my Kaiser and Brotgewürz rolls, or my baguettes.’

‘Have you seen Li?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Her message is always the same,’ he answered.

Romy gave a small nod. She understood why her friend had cut her off, but it still hurt.

He gave a faraway look. ‘She’s really something. I’m not much of a one for music, but I could sit and listen to her all night.’

‘You’ve heard her perform?’

‘The hotel always orders a second fresh delivery for the Japanese officers’ late dinners on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. It was one of the kitchen hands who helped me find Li the first time so I could pass on your message. Sometimes, if I have a few minutes to spare before I have to be back on patrol, I’ll duck through the doorway and listen. It’s dark, so no-one notices.’

‘I’d love to hear Li sing,’ said Romy, feeling wistful and a little jealous.

Wilhelm shifted uncomfortably and closed his eyes. She eyed his rumpled shirt and tousled hair. He was tired.

Checking no-one was walking past outside, Romy reached for his hand with both of hers and took a step closer. She was about to lift his hand to her neck, when she felt his arm stiffen. Wilhelm opened his eyes and took a step back.

‘I’m sorry, Romy, it was a long patrol.’

He paused, and they both stood facing one another as the bread mixer whirred in the background. A curl fell across his face and Romy resisted the temptation to push it aside.

He looked uncomfortable. ‘Look, Romy, there’s something I need to—’

The shop bell jangled and two women walked in carrying a large basket between them.

‘Guten Morgen,’ said the women, and Wilhelm smiled.

‘I’d better go to work,’ said Romy as she brushed past the women and out the door without giving Wilhelm a chance to say goodbye.

Her months of illness had taken its toll on everyone.

Whatever they’d had between them before her illness and solitary recuperation seemed to have faded away.

With his kindness, his easygoing smile, Wilhelm had been a bright spot in this colourless world. They’d talked for hours, exchanging recipes, reminiscing about the places in Vienna they missed most. Sometimes they’d swapped stories of Louisa, Benjamin and Daniel. Nights at the opera. The roar of the Danube in spring.

How she’d missed him these past four months.

Yearning and insecurity trickled though her body—what if Wilhelm had found someone less drab and studious? That’s what he wanted to tell her, she was sure of it. Not in those words, of course. Instead, Wilhelm would look a little bewildered and upset as he broke the news. He still cared for her—he couldn’t have been faking how pleased he was to see her when she’d walked into the bakery. But Romy could smell traces of guilt and uncertainty as clearly as the roasted fennel seed.

She didn’t want to know. Not yet. Because she still had a small kernel of hope that they could find their way back to one another. She just needed to be patient.