Romy followed her father out of the operating theatre, pulling her bandana from her hair, desperate to change out of her scrubs and wash. She wiggled her toes, a trick Papa had taught her in surgery to help her concentrate, and noticed the sole of her shoe peeling away. Papa had sutured the edges last month, joking he’d stitched the legs of tougher patients lately.

That morning Delma had rushed in an eight-year-old girl from the Heime who’d woken during the night with a boil in her armpit.

‘Look,’ said Delma as she tugged away a shawl to reveal an angry red shoulder.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Romy as she gently probed the child’s taut, burning skin.

‘Rachel,’ the child replied, wincing.

‘Will she be okay?’ Rachel’s mother asked anxiously. ‘We hoped it would just go down by itself. We didn’t have—we don’t—’

‘Don’t blame yourself,’ said Delma gently as she looked around at the peeling walls of the hospital and staff crossing the corridors in all directions. ‘The important thing is to make Rachel well again, and Dr Bernfeld is just the person to do that.’ She tickled the girl under the chin and gave her a reassuring smile.

Papa pulled up his mask and leaned towards the girl. Her shoulder was so red and swollen they couldn’t see the line of it and Papa worried she may end up with blood poisoning and lose the arm, or worse. That week they’d already had to amputate the infected thumb of the local mushroom seller and the gangrenous foot of a carpenter. The carpenter hadn’t made it through the night.

Both Romy and her mother had assisted Papa in this surgery, holding Rachel down by both arms under the lights so he could lance the boil, scrape away the rotten flesh with a sterilised spoon and clean the wound. The hospital was out of anaesthetic and low on equipment, so they’d just had to make do. As the child writhed and thrashed her head from side to side, Romy tried to soothe her. Finally the child went limp, and Papa was able to pack the wound with gauze—but Romy found herself wiping away her own silent tears with the back of her sleeve.

Perhaps she would consult Jian’s notes and go to the spice stall at the market to see if they could recommend a decoction. It was just a tiny stall selling chillies and spices, but the woman served anyone who needed more traditional treatments. Last week the old lady helped Romy treat a child recovering from stomach cramps with an acrid blend of dandelion, peach seed, red peony root and rhubarb. The child had gone home yesterday.

After the boil surgery, Romy and her parents had had to go straight into delivering twins. The mother’s blood pressure was creeping up, and Romy thought of Nina, standing on the deck of the Conte Verde all those years ago, watching the bodies of her mother and baby sister, wrapped in bedsheets, being dropped into the ocean. The passengers standing shoulder to shoulder, reciting the Kaddish.

May there be abundant peace from Heaven.

Romy sighed. Dear Nina. Her red lips and makeup couldn’t hide the sad brown eyes of the child who had lost her mother.

When she had finished cleaning up, Romy would hurry across to the nursery to spend some time with little Shu—singing to her, feeding her a bottle, or just tracing her fine fingers and kissing each fragile joint one by one—as she did on every break. She was trying to fill this tiny baby with enough love for Li and Wilhelm. And Jian. Given her premature birth, it was remarkable how Shu had thrived. Papa called her their tiny miracle. Each day Shu looked a little pinker and a little stronger. Yesterday, she had gripped Romy’s index finger and opened her eyes—Romy was unprepared for the jolt of love this miniscule gesture sent right through her body.

Papa and Mutti had just finished delivering the twins, and walked outside to sit beside Romy under the big sash windows for some fresh air and a break. All three had been lost in their own thoughts, stretching their legs, when Delma came down the long corridor towards them, pulling an envelope marked Dachau from her pocket.

‘I’ve been meaning to give you this, but there hasn’t been a quiet moment this morning.’

‘It must be from Daniel!’ said Mutti, sitting up straight, eyes filled with tears. ‘At last!’ They’d heard nothing for almost five years.

Papa took the envelope, a smile forming on his lips as he tore it open, removed a sheet of paper and began to read aloud.

7 May 1945

116 Evacuation Hospital

Dachau

Germany

Doctor Bernfeld,

I was asked to personally oversee the posting of the enclosed letter by my patient, Daniel Bernfeld.

I am a surgeon with the 116 Evacuation Hospital at Dachau. We have been moved in to help care for the people liberated from this concentration camp.

It is with great regret that I must inform you Daniel passed away this morning from a combination of typhus and extreme malnutrition.

Though it may be of little comfort to you, we were able to make his last hours bearable, and the rabbi sat with him throughout the evening, reciting the Kaddish and holding his hand to provide some small human solace.

I am most sorry for your loss. Daniel was buried this morning in a shroud, in accordance with the requests made by the team of rabbis working with us in the camp.

I’m most upset to confess our unit was unprepared for the devastation at Dachau. This letter is not the place to dwell on the horror and squalor I have encountered here. It is true, however, the atrocities committed by the Nazis defy comprehension. It is testimony to your son’s fortitude and endurance that he was able to survive such trying conditions for years. I will remember Daniel and his fellow prisoners for the rest of my life.

As one medical practitioner to another, and as a father even more so, if I can offer any consolation it is that Daniel’s passing was peaceful and without pain.

Before he lost consciousness, he asked me to transcribe the following few lines for you.

Herewith find the final words of Daniel. His love and thoughts were with his family until the end.

Sincerely,

Dr James Webber

Dear Mutti, Papa and Romy,

I may not be making my passage to Shanghai, Mutti. Your unwavering love has kept me focused and strong.

When there was only stale bread and gruel, I would fill myself with the words in your early letters. Even in the darkest times, it is possible to feed oneself with hope.

When this war is finished I hope that the three of you find a safe place to call home. I wonder will Vienna open its arms to you once more? Or perhaps you will travel to America.

I’ve not had much thought for God lately. In Dachau, He seemed so absent. But then I look into the kind souls of the men in my gang, the ones who gave me their shoes when I had to walk extra miles, those who shared their portion of bread and soup when I was ailing to give me strength, and I see His goodness.

My hands are calloused and scarred from lifting rocks and using a pick for almost six years. They are far stronger than the fine fingers of the pianist who left you and I’m not sure you would recognise them. I barely feel they belong to me, so long is it since I played. But the Nazis cannot take the music from me. At night, as it rains outside, I lie on my bunk and drift to sleep listening to the jazz of Django Reinhardt in my head.

I sing for my roommates.

Sometimes, when I am too tired to move my jaw, my body sunk deep in the mattress, they sing to me. Music soothes, takes us beyond these walls and prepares me for the next day. This has been my unexpected gift in the camp.

Pray for me, but do not weep for me, Mutti.

Papa, you were the most tender father, a great leader. In all my time here, I strived to make you and Mutti proud. To make the best of my circumstances. Every day I asked myself: what would Papa do? It helped on the most bitter of days when my bones ached and my stomach screamed for a decent meal.

And to dear Romy—your descriptions of life in Shanghai have brought me such joy. I see from your letters you have lost none of your sparkle, nor your kindness. I wish you all the best with your studies. I am so proud of what you have become in the most difficult time. I can be sure that you will make your life happy. Remember what I said in my last letter.

It is up to you, Romy, to carry our legacy. To meet evil with kindness.

That is what I wish for you all: peace and happiness.

My love and blessing to you always,

Your Daniel

Papa hunched over. He rocked, eyes wide and mouth open as if to scream—but instead his body shuddered, betraying him with silence. It was almost too much to bear.

Mutti dropped her head into her hands and sobbed. ‘If only I’d managed to get his papers to exit the work camp sooner. This is my fault.’

Romy wrapped one arm around her father to soothe his shaking and felt the corrugations of his ribs. He dropped his head into both hands and moaned. They sat in a wounded circle Romy never wanted to break.