Chapter 5

5.
“Requiem in D Minor, 3. Sequentia, Lacrimosa: Mozart”

Trouble arrived at the Oper early that afternoon and it was Dieter who got the call. The office of the Gauleiter was having second thoughts about permitting the performance of Davy Crockett and would be sending some officials over to discuss the choice with Streng. “Tell him not to go anywhere,” was what the man had said. So as soon as he put the phone down, Dieter hoisted up every last one of his three hundred and sixty-eight pounds and waddled down the hall to the wings, and raised a hand to stop the oboes from obeying the snap of their master’s baton. He’d worked at the Oper for twenty-seven years and it was the first time he’d ever set foot on the stage.
The whole company looked his way, musicians, singers, actors, their faces pictures of perplexity. It was as if an armoire had taken upon itself to go for a stroll in the park. It was unnatural.

Dieter was a permanent fixture at the stage door. His enormous girth was part of a desk and most probably a suffering chair, though no one had ever actually seen it. If you worked at the Oper, he was the one you signed in with. The one you said hello to in the morning and goodbye to at night. The one to whom you offered the remainder of your pastry when you’d had enough, and the one you told you secrets to, for despite his rather central position, Dieter could keep a secret better than anyone. He prided himself on it. The Oper was his home, and the people who worked there, his family. So naturally he took their well being very seriously. If one of them was being threatened, it became his business, and if he was up from behind his desk it must have been for a very good reason.

Dieter had dealt with the offices for years. Back in ’33, a few months after the Nazis won the election, he was the one who got the call deposing Herr Block, the theatre’s manager, according to the new laws of racial purity. It wasn’t just Herr Block who went. The office sent over a list of all the people who for one reason or another, either religious or because of questionable affiliations before the election, could no longer be employed by the state funded Oper. Oddly, Maestro Streng’s name was not on the list. He was not only a Jew, but also an advocate of and contributor to bourgeois culture, not to mention his personal friendships with the likes of Bertolt Brecht, Max Reinhardt, Erich Korngold and Dmitri Shostakovich. It seemed that someone, somewhere along the line, someone with rank and position, deemed him indispensable and he was therefore not dismissed.

Joshua refused to acknowledge this mysterious decision as anything but ordinary. He was Joshua Streng, Berlin’s favorite son. Of course he was exempt from the rules. He wasn’t a Jew, or a bourgeoisie, or a Communist; he was a German musician, in his eyes, like Bach. Would they actually consider arresting Bach? He thought not. Joshua placed himself on the other side of the line as if he had a right to be there. It wasn’t that he was insensitive as his friends and colleagues were slowly picked off one by one--he felt a deep sympathy and concern when someone emigrated or was arrested--but he didn’t display the emotions of a man who felt he could be next. He would pause, reflect, mourn a little, and then it was back to work.

This was a hot topic of behind his back conversation. Most people thought that Joshua remained as a lure. He was a social magnet, but he was also an odd duck, an artiste, a romantic, an eccentric, someone who didn’t pose a specific threat because he didn’t care about politics, but someone who would provide endless amounts of information on the whereabouts of his colleagues who did, simply by being allowed to go about doing his work. Other theories were that Joshua himself was an active informant, a turncoat for the Gestapo. And others still, were that it was a clerical oversight, a mistake. Some even believed the occult was involved. But whatever the reason, Joshua had not been so much as looked at funny by any member of the National Socialist Party since the whole mess began. This is why everyone froze when Dieter took the stage. Something was up and no one wanted to miss it when the mysterious shoe finally dropped.
Joshua, always the consummate professional, didn’t climb up from the orchestra pit, as most would have, he took the longer more civilized way around, using the stairs.

“Dieter, what is it?” He asked, his coat tails billowing around him.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Maestro,” it seemed the long walk from stage door to stage center had winded him, “it is with deepest regret that I must advise you to leave the Oper at once, sir. There is no time to lose.”

All eyes were on Maestro as he pondered the doorman’s words. He addressed them; “This feels like a private conversation. Get back into it. Max, take them through the Overture, measures one through one-forty-six please, while I have a word with Dieter.”

Max rose from his seat. He wanted to run, to grab Maestro and run home as fast as he could, but he knew that was not an option. He set his violin down on a chair, dropping the bow in the process, and went up to lead the nervous orchestra.

Backstage, Joshua listened as Dieter relayed the details of his conversation with the Gauleiter’s office.

“And you think they mean to arrest me?”

“It would seem so, sir. They’ve been plucking our legs off for years, we knew the day would come when they would go for the head.”

“Yes,” Joshua pictured his head, rolling down the isle and felt a flush of fear, “good analogy.”

“If you have a plan, Maestro, I’d put it into action now.”

Joshua had a plan, the piece of bread in the kitchen, and he’d cut that down. “Thank you Dieter, I appreciate your looking out for me.”

Dieter nodded solemnly and left Joshua alone in the wings with the firing squad of his imagination. It had finally happened, a bullet had grazed him, but he didn’t feel any different. He was still standing; he wasn’t in any physical pain. He needed time to think, but for the first time in his life he felt acutely aware that there was no time. Some kind of action needed to be taken and soon. That was if he could force himself to believe it, to go. Isaac would know what to do. That was one option. He could go to Isaac. He could go to Isaac or he could wait. It wasn’t the first time that he was spoken to regarding content, but an arrest? That would be bad. But would it be worse to be a fugitive? And why hadn’t Max started the overture?

He walked out onto the stage. His entire orchestra, his friends, some who had been friends for years, was staring up at him, waiting. He thought of the way Hanna looked when he left her that morning and was seized with one of his usual pangs. Only this time, instead of steadying himself, instead of riding the feeling till it drained from his body, he bottled it. Corked it. And was moved to action. “My friends…”

Max dropped the baton and leaped onto the stage with only one arm as leverage.

“My friends…” He had no idea what he was saying. He looked at Max who was halfway out the back door.

“Maestro, hurry.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

Three minutes later they were in the alley behind the Oper. The costume staff wasted no time finding them tattered coats to wear that would make them look as inconspicuous as possible. It was easier if you looked poor, they were told, it made you less of a target to the SA, they didn’t waste as much time on you.

One of the veterans, a woman called Judit, had produced a razor and told Joshua that it might be a good idea to shave his beard. It was surreal. He had no idea what he was running from, a few minutes ago he was working with a sloppy oboe section, and now? Shaving in the alley? He had that beard for as long as he could remember. Only once did he shave it off, for Hanna after they had been married a month or so. She wanted to see what he looked like without it. Once she knew, she made him grow it right back.
He put the razor in his pocket. He would keep his head down on the way to Isaac’s office; he would keep to the back streets. And Max? Max would go for Hanna. Once they were all together they could figure out what to do next. His family would know what to do. They would explain to him why the world had gone suddenly mad.

“Tell her to pack a small bag, just a change of clothes and the jewelry. That’s all. We can get the rest later.” He didn’t like the words that were coming out of his mouth but they seemed appropriate, shadows of conversations in which a horror story had been related to him about someone having to flee. That’s what they had said, so that’s what he said. Get the jewelry. Bring clean clothes. No more than you can carry. Dress warm. Bring cash. Hide it in your shoe. Pack a picnic lunch. No. This was not happening.

“Maestro?”

Max. Max was looking up at him with those big blue eyes. It was wrong that he be part of this. As soon as this final duty was done, Joshua planned to set him free, to sever the catgut attaching them, and let his little Aryan bird fly, fly away. He would take Hanna to Argentina and give Max his symphony, that way when the Socialists were out, he could return and everything would be as it was. This ugliness was temporary.

“What?”

“Shall I get the Lion?” Max was referring to Joshua’s priceless Stainer violin with the lion head carved above the scroll. It had been a gift from Archduke Ferdinand when he played for him at the age of nine, back in the good old days. He should have mentioned it but it wasn’t in the script of things people say, so he didn’t.

“No, no, Max, you watch the Lion for me. Keep him safe till I return.”

“Yes, Maestro.” Max stood staring at him with a forlorn look in his eyes that was making Joshua nervous.

“Go,” he ordered.

And Max bounded down the alley. When he was gone Judit started in on him again, this time with a scissors.

“At least let me trim it.” And without waiting for an answer, she got to work on Joshua’s beard.

“I’m horribly ugly under this thing,” he joked.

“Better ugly then dead,” was Judit’s humorless reply.

Temporary, he reminded himself as she hugged him goodbye, this is all temporary.
In a shabby coat, expensive shoes, and sporting a bad proletariat beard, Joshua headed off towards Isaac’s office. The afternoon had turned gray which he didn’t really mind. Had it still been sunny, his covert escape would have seemed even more clownish and ridiculous than it already was. He walked the entire way without incident, as he expected he would, and when he got to the building that housed Isaac’s office, he walked right in.

It was quiet, very quiet, and all the doors were closed. Usually the hallway was alive with energy and people. All the different businesses, most of them financial like Isaac’s, would keep their doors open wide creating an ever-present feeling of dialogue and movement. Today was different and Joshua felt it.

When he got to the door of the office containing Isaac, he knocked, but there was no answer. After a moment he tried again, that was when he noticed a folded piece of paper, probably a memo, sticking out from under the door. He opened it.

Familia-
Venga al lugar donde cenamos en el padre de la noche muerto.


He laughed out loud for a brief second before suppressing it. Isaac had taken the word enigmatic to a whole new level. Now it was to be code, was it? He could have just as easily written his little note in German. It didn’t matter since the message itself was only decipherable to him and Hanna. They were the only ones who knew the location he was referring to. Joshua imagined some plucky SA brown shirt pouring over a German-Spanish dictionary for hours only to realize that he couldn’t crack Isaac’s infuriating code. Josh would’ve bet that Isaac loved every second of intrigue, playing out one of his childhood spy fantasies. Still, the sound of his laughter in the empty hallway was unnerving. He slipped the note back under the door so Hanna would find it, and set off for the home of Ingrid Hoppe, Isaac’s long time companion who had been kind enough to cook dinner for the bereaved family on the night his father-in-law passed away.

Just as Joshua was setting off for Ingrid’s across town, Max was approaching the Streng house. He had spent much of the trip there looking at his feet, trying to walk at a brisk German pace, not to fast, not to slow, but in a way that expressed confidence, humility and normality all at the same time. It was exhausting. So exhausting, that he almost didn’t notice the difference, but he did notice. It was impossible not to.

When he looked at the house, his heart sank, and--he didn’t know why at first--he was overcome with a nightmarish sensation, like a dream in which something very familiar changes fundamentally. It terrified him. Something was different, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He stopped in the middle of the street and absorbed the familiar image of the house. It only took a second or two to figure out what had changed, and when it hit him, when he was finally aware of what he was looking at, he ran as fast as he could toward the front door. It was the curtains. Every curtain in the house was open wide.

Max tore through the house. It looked so naked to him, so exposed, Hanna would never have done this on purpose; those curtains had been closed since 1933. She closed them on the day of the first boycott and had kept them closed ever since. It was her message to Joshua, her silent protest, but did he notice? No, he liked living in the dark. When he got home from the Oper, he would stretch his arms wide and yawn.
“Cave sweet cave,” he would say.

Max had started to weep; the living room was so dusty; he’d never noticed that before. And the rug in the hallway was actually dark rose in color, not brown like he thought. Colors assaulted him, but none more violently than the red. He saw Helga first. He backed away, falling over his own feet in the process. When he hit the floor, Max was able to see into the kitchen. He was able to see Hanna. He closed his eyes and crawled into the living room. He couldn’t look anymore; he knew she was dead even though all he had seen of her was the bulge of her belly cresting between the chair and the door. He knew he should go and check but he couldn’t. He was paralyzed on the couch, and for a good long time he could do nothing at all but sit there and sob. Bruno would have been so pleased, but Max wasn’t thinking of Bruno. Bruno hadn’t yet occurred to him. All Max was thinking about was the sickening feeling that eclipsed all other feeling, how it was nothing short of a living nightmare. In order to survive it, he had to pull himself together and get back to Isaac’s office soon as possible.

He approached the kitchen and focused his mind on remaining detached. He had to see her; he had to absorb it all for Maestro, because after this there was no going back. He stepped around Helga, covering her face with his jacket as he passed, and stepped around the table to get a proper look a Hanna. When her saw her he ran from the room, leaping over Helga’s body, and bounding up the stairs, three at a time, like a cat with its tail on fire. He sat on his cot shaking like a leaf, covering his face with his hands, and trying to block out what he had seen. It was her face. It was gone.
Max had to escape, so with a deep breath he went to the wall safe. He had to try the combination three times before finally opening it and he grabbed the case containing the Lion with none of the reverence it deserved. Then he went down the hall to the master bedroom, sobbing a fresh batch of tears when he saw, quite clearly in the afternoon light, the cradle waiting anxiously in the corner. This rush of grief took him down onto the bed for a good few minutes, where he could still smell Hanna on the pillow. This drove him up again and into the jewelry box. He grabbed a handful of whatever was there and shoved it in his pant pockets, swearing and muttering the whole while the way Maestro would have, even perhaps because Maestro would have. And when it was done, when it was all truly done, he descended the stairs and left the house, closing door and gate behind him without looking back.