My name is Rebekah Himmelstein. I'm Jewish. I'm twenty-seven years old, and I live in America. I left Germany in 1932 when I was 11. The rest of my family wasn't so lucky.
When I first came over here, I spent three years tracking down my uncle, Ezra Himmelstein. When I found him, he welcomed me into his household. I started a new life. Got engaged. Josef Broder. My fiancé.
And then? Then I met Marc Angel. And everything changed.
I had been away for the week with my friends Esther and Gail, visiting their parents in New York. We parted at the train station - the other two lived in roughly the same area, but my uncle was one of the wealthier members of our synagogue, and had a rather nice house in a more expensive area of town.
I remember it was a chilly, foggy day, and I was bundled in a coat and hat. I didn't usually mind walking home on my own - goodness knows I did it often enough - but today was nasty and I was in a particular rush to get home and say hello to Ezekiel again - my cat.
I rounded the corner and saw police lights. I remember thinking it was odd, but that it wasn't anything particularly interesting or worrying. It wasn't until I drew closer that it began to dawn on me that these policemen were gathered near my house. But it still didn't occur to me that it might be my house they were interested in.
'What's going on here?' I asked, keeping my voice as steady as I could. Looking back, I think perhaps I lightened my voice too much.
'Sorry, ma'am, but that's highly confidential.'
'No, hang on a minute,' another policeman said, coming to my rescue. 'What can I do to help you?'
'I'm just interested in what's happening, that's all.' Definitely too light. 'I live in no. 57.'
The man's face darkened. 'You aren't Miss Himmelstein, are you?'
I frowned. 'I am.'
'In that case, I'm very sorry to tell you that Mr Himmelstein is dead.'