by Yehuda Avner
Dan watched the pair go through the second movement, the Allegro, with growing pleasure. Perhaps he ought to think of his life in these terms too. There was Zyklon B, but there was also love for his wife. There was Germany, but there was also Israel. Why be drawn into the horror? Instead he might focus on a better world.
When the applause for the Mozart sonata ended, Gottfried met Dan’s gaze. There was a glint in his eye that suggested he knew Dan understood his choice of music. But then he went into the demanding opening movement of Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata. The furious tempo presented a vivid contrast to the balance and contentment of the earlier piece. Then Dan saw that Gottfried had sprung a trap, designed to draw in both Heydrich and Eichmann. These men liked to consider themselves virtuosi of the violin, and of course they thought of themselves as connoisseurs of the German composers approved by the Nazi Party. Though even Hitler thought Heydrich had a heart of iron, these Nazis were stirred by the emotion of Beethoven’s music. Men who had no reaction to the most horrific of occurrences insisted upon responding to the beauty of the violin as though they were the most sensitive of souls.
Dan watched the final Presto transport Heydrich. Eichmann too appeared to have been carried to some finer place on the six-eight beat of the tarantella. Their applause, when after three-quarters of an hour the Countess and Gottfried completed the sonata, was ecstatic.
The two Nazis congratulated Gottfried as though he were not a Jew. Dan could think of no other way to describe the admiration on the faces of the two men as they pressed around the exhausted, stooped figure of the violinist.
Gottfried wiped the sweat from his brow and held his hand to his heart in acknowledgment of their praise. Around the room, the Countess’s regular guests granted themselves hard hits of schnapps to calm their nerves.
The Countess called for quiet. “We are honored to have among us such great representatives of the German Reich.” She gestured to Heydrich and Eichmann.
The applause of the group was polite, necessary. The Luftwaffe man, Schulze, stood close to Eichmann. Dan wondered at Schulze’s cheerful demeanor. The flier was deeply opposed to the Nazis and considered Heydrich a monster, but now he appeared friendly and relaxed. Dan sensed that calculations were being made around the room of which he was unaware. He grew nervous, as though the floor shifted beneath him. He sensed, also, that it was more than politeness that led the Countess to speak with such respect for the two SS chiefs. She held onto their hands, but didn’t look at them. Her eyes were far away.
“Wili and I have so enjoyed performing the work of our great German composers together. I’m deeply thankful that Wili is here in our capital city. In many ways, it’s thanks to you, Herr Obergruppenführer Heydrich. Without the work that you and Sturmbannführer Eichmann perform with the Central Office for Jewish Emigration, Wili wouldn’t have come to our beautiful city on his mission, and his talents would have been lost to us.”
Heydrich bowed.
“It is only right, therefore, that I invite all of you to return for our next performance. I have a surprise for my regular guests. Herr Obergruppenführer Heydrich has assured us that he will arrive here next time with another admirer of German music, a man of artistic soul who recognizes other geniuses such as Wili.” She gave Heydrich a great smile.
Brückner leaned against the door beside Dan. He whispered, “What’re they up to? Christ, they can’t mean—”
“My dear Countess,” Heydrich said, “it has been a wonderful evening, and I thank you for your suggestion of another charming event in the same vein. I can inform all of you that within the next several weeks, despite his very demanding schedule, the Führer himself will be delighted to attend the next performance of the Countess and Herr Gottfried here at the von Bredow house.”
“God damn it,” Brückner whispered. “This is insane.”
Schulze exclaimed with pleasure. “My dear fellows, this is wonderful news.”
Dan found the Luftwaffe man’s response baffling. Schulze detested the Nazis. He clearly had some other motive for his enthusiasm. But however odd, Schulze was only a distraction. Dan focused on Gottfried. To play his music before Heydrich and Eichmann was a kind of revenge on them for his treatment at the hands of the Nazis. But to appear in front of Hitler? It seemed to Dan that Brückner was right this time. It was insanity.
Gottfried winked at Dan. It was like the kiss of a madwoman whose disease was the very thing that made her irresistible.
Chapter 29
Brückner drank steadily as the guests left the Countess’s soiree. He barely managed to salute when Heydrich gave him a stiff Heil Hitler. Dan watched the Führer’s adjutant descend from rage into self-pity. He seemed to be slipping out of his crisp uniform and polished jackboots into the lederhosen and sandals of a young boy. He was, after all, not much more than that, Dan thought. No one was truly equipped to be around senior Nazis like Heydrich. The menace they carried with them would have crushed the toughest man. Poor Brückner faced the daily presence of the arch-lunatic himself, ranting hysterically or droning monologues about his own genius. The adjutant dropped his head back onto the couch and closed his eyes, seeming to be almost in tears. The Countess sat down beside him, whispering and stroking his hair. Gottfried watched them from the piano, tripping out some dreamy jazz and waving farewell to the departing aristocrats.
Schulze, the Luftwaffe officer, was the last to leave. His collar was open and his face was filmed with a perspiration that must have been at least sixty percent alcohol. He put his arm over Dan’s shoulder. His breath was whisky and garlic. “When the day comes, I will fly you,” he said. “Fly you out of here and take you to Israel.”
“What day is that?”
Schulze squeezed Dan’s shoulder. “Herr Ambassador, with me you have no need to pretend. I despise these Nazi bastards. They’ll bring this country to absolute ruin. They don’t care about Germans or Germany.”
“Then why don’t you leave now?”
“Because then there would be no one to fly you to safety when the day comes.”
Dan felt toyed with, almost mocked. “You care so much about Israel?”
“Don’t be angry with me. I’m quite drunk, but I’m also quite serious. My father was a Lutheran pastor. One of his posts was at the Church of the Redeemer in the Old City of Jerusalem. I spent a few years there as a boy. I treasure the Bible and the Holy Land, and I want to do my part to save its historic people from our damned Führer—and from the Heydrichs and Eichmanns.”
“Then why were you so friendly with Eichmann? You more or less hugged him goodbye.”
Schulze’s smile was filled with secret knowledge. Dan watched his flushed, gentle face. He had been sure that not all Germans could adore the raging demagogue who lived in the Chancellery, and he had seen this man mock the Nazis at the Countess’s soirees before. Schulze’s words represented an expression of genuine love for Jews. Still, Dan was wary. On a night when his first secretary had agreed to perform on the violin for Hitler, the last thing Dan needed was to be caught plotting against the regime.
Then the Luftwaffe man closed his eyes and spoke with a low, firm voice, full of wonder. “‘Saneti kehal mere’im, ve’im resha’im lo eshev.’ I hate the assembly of evil-doers, and with the wicked I shall not sit.”
The words of the Hebrew Psalm from the mouth of the German officer shocked Dan. Schulze opened his eyes and smiled wanly. “My undergraduate studies were in biblical Hebrew. I find it’s a perfect qualification for flying a war machine while keeping a pure heart.”
Dan laughed. “Perhaps that’s the source of the Bible’s power?”
“The sense of righteous spiritual behavior alongside all the smiting and dashing out of brains? I’d better hope so. I’ve marked up sixteen kills in my Messerschmitt. I’m in need of forgiveness.”
“Then let me quote to you now. ‘Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft.’”
“Ah, Samuel. That book seems to me to be opposed to the idea of mona
rchy and of holding up any man as better than others. In any case, what if the rebellion is against an evil magician who’s determined to take everyone around him down to hell with him?” Schulze rubbed his face. “I have to go, Herr Ambassador. I simply ask that you remember who I really am. Do not imagine that there are no Germans to aid you, in whatever project you embark upon.”
With sudden gravity, Schulze reached out his hand. Dan took hold of it, feeling the steadiness and determination in it that allowed Schulze to shoot Spitfires and Shturmoviks out of the sky. Schulze went down the stairs, whistling the new Duke Ellington hit, “Take the A Train.” Dan shook his head wonderingly. In Hitler’s Berlin, whistling jazz was only a little less risky than reciting the Bible in Hebrew.
It was with risk on his mind that Dan turned again toward the trio in the salon. Brückner shook himself awake and hauled himself to his feet. He brushed off the Countess’s solicitous caresses.
“Leave me alone,” he growled. “If you want to stroke someone, you’ve got your Jew over there at the piano.”
The Countess touched her hand to her heart. Gottfried stopped playing the piano abruptly. He spoke sharply to Brückner. “You should go to your room now, Hasso.”
“So that you can slink off to bed with my aunt? Don’t you know the racial laws of this country? Don’t you know the trouble you could cause her?”
“I know the laws perfectly well. I was one of their first victims.”
“You seem determined once more to be a victim, only this time you want my aunt to go down with you.”
Countess von Bredow reached for Brückner’s arm. “Please, Hasso. Don’t fight with Wili.”
“Wili? You call him Wili, as if he were still a German. You know he’s Israel now. Every Jew must take the name Israel, and the women must call themselves Sara. How does it feel to take Israel to bed, Auntie?” The young man sputtered like a child in his rage.
“How dare you?” Gottfried spoke quietly, but Dan saw what was building in him. He approached the musician, but Gottfried waved him away. “In this house? How dare you, Hasso?”
“How dare you call me Hasso? I’m Herr Hauptmann Brückner to you.” The adjutant reeled toward the piano, his aunt grappling with him as he went. “You’re going to bring the Führer here to listen to your damned music. The Führer, in the name of God. In my aunt’s house. To listen to a Jew. It’s insane. You’re going to get her killed, just for the sake of your shitty career.”
“My career? That isn’t why I’m playing for him.”
“Then for what? For some kind of revenge? You’re sick. Heydrich and Eichmann are mad about music. They detest Jews, but they’ll use you to wring a little bit of favor from the Führer. For them it’s worth the risk. That’s how things are with that gang. For the Nazis it’s all about infighting and gaining any advantage over the other thugs and bullies who lead the party and hold ministerial positions. But Hitler doesn’t have any limits and he doesn’t need to mark up any points. If he finds out you’re a Jew he’ll send you to your death for the insult of being in his presence and my aunt will go with you. You old bastard, don’t you care about my aunt?”
Gottfried slammed the lid of the piano down and yelled, “She’s not your aunt.”
“Wili.” The Countess rushed to Gottfried. “Please. Don’t.”
Brückner grabbed wildly at Gottfried’s lapel. “What did you say, you shitty old Yid?”
The Countess pushed between the two men. Dan hurried toward them. He reached for Brückner, but the captain slapped his arm away. “Shitty Yids,” Brückner muttered. “Get your hands off.”
“She’s not your aunt.” Gottfried struggled forward against the Countess’s body, pulling Brückner toward him. Over the shrieking protests of his lover, he bellowed, “She’s your mother.”
The wrestling stopped. Brückner stumbled backward. The Countess collapsed, sobbing, against the top board of the piano. Dan stood, rigid, feeling like an intruder.
Gottfried spoke quietly now. “Thirty years ago, it wasn’t illegal for a Jew and an Aryan to be in love. It was frowned on, particularly if the Aryan happened to be an aristocratic Prussian. But illegal, no.”
Even had Brückner been sober, he might have found it hard to take this in. He was so shaken by Gottfried’s assertion about his aunt that he didn’t realize the full implications of what he had said. His befuddlement seemed to overcome his entire muscular system. He dropped onto the sofa, shuddering.
“Hannah became pregnant,” Gottfried said. “She left Berlin, went to the estate in the Sachsenwald where her married sister lived. When she gave birth to you, she left you there with her sister. Maria raised you as her own.”
“No, this is not true.” Brückner begged the Countess. “Aunt?”
The Countess wept. Gottfried went to her. He laid his hand on her bare shoulder.
“Don’t touch her, you shitty Yid.” Brückner struggled off the couch, fumbling with the holster on his belt.
“Hasso,” the Countess screamed, as the young man brought out his pistol.
Dan leapt at Brückner. He shoved the German’s arm down. The pistol fired into the piano. The bullet sheared through the wires of the highest notes. He grappled with Brückner, trying to wrestle the gun from him.
The Countess moved swiftly toward the man who now knew he was her son and stood before him. “Don’t do this, Hasso.”
“I’ll kill the Yid bastard.” Brückner swung his arm against Dan’s grip. He hammered the butt of the pistol onto Dan’s head. The pain was sharp, but Dan held on.
“You can’t, my darling. Haven’t you been listening? Don’t you understand what he’s telling you?”
Brückner snatched his arm away from Dan, then elbowed him on the nose. This time the blow sent him to the floor. As he fell, he smacked the back of his head against the raised marble of the hearth. His vision exploded into bright colors. He blinked hard and opened his eyes to see Brückner raise his pistol.
Gottfried stepped toward the adjutant. He stood before the gun unafraid, as if he knew there existed some natural law to protect a father from death at the hands of his son. Brückner’s face contorted. He stared into the calm face of the man he intended to shoot. His hand shook, and then it was no longer rage that twisted his features.
Gottfried reached for the pistol and took it out of Brückner’s hand. The officer doubled over as though he were retching. He pounded his fists against his thighs and bawled his frustration and loss.
Gottfried put his hand on the young man’s pomaded hair. “Don’t worry, my boy,” he said. “My son, calm down.”
Peace came over Gottfried’s face. Dan had seen that expression on his friend’s face only in the moments during which he played the violin. He had never seen it otherwise.
The Countess took Gottfried’s hand and kissed his fingers.
But Brückner wasn’t quite ready to accept such a parentage. He wrenched himself away from them and wiped his sleeve across his tearful face. He shook his head, disbelieving. “I won’t…I can’t—”
“Hasso, it’s true,” the Countess said. “My sister wanted you to know the truth before she died, but I was too much of a coward. I begged Maria not to tell you.”
“Don’t call her Maria. You must call her Mamma. She’s still my Mamma.” He wept. “Mamma.”
The Countess moved toward Brückner, but he held up his hand. “Stay away from me.” He drew himself straight and shrugged his tunic back on his shoulders. “I refuse to accept this. I am more determined than ever to serve my Führer.”
“Hasso, you can’t possibly—”
“You’re a whore who sleeps with Jews. You should be made to stand in the street with a placard around your neck so people can see you for what you are. I am the Führer’s adjutant and I shall do my duty, regardless of the slurs you cast on the name of my mother, may she rest in peace.”
“Maria would rest a lot easier if you’d accept who you really are.” Gottfried’s calm was gone. Now
that Brückner had reverted to the posture of a stiff Prussian officer, Gottfried trembled as the young man had done moments before.
“Are you going to ask me to immigrate to Israel?” Brückner snorted a contemptuous laugh in Dan’s direction. He had picked himself up from the fireplace and stood, wavering, against the mantel.
“I’m asking you not to play a role in the destruction of your people.”
“I am not a Jew.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Gottfried’s voice was raw. “Hitler will destroy the Germans. Within a couple of years, your mother’s Germany—whichever mother you choose to accept—will be no more. It will be buried in the shame of Nazism. Perhaps it will even be overrun by Bolshevism. Surely you can see that? The attempt to invade Britain failed. Now look how the campaign in Russia is collapsing.”
“The Führer will be victorious in Russia, and lead the German people from strength to strength.” Brückner spat on the carpet and sneered at his father. Then he turned and stamped down the stairs to the front door. It slammed behind him.
The Countess sobbed quietly on the sofa. Gottfried reached for her arm and helped her to her feet. Their son’s rejection must surely have devastated the two old people, Dan thought. Gottfried touched the Countess’s cheek and she laid her head on his shoulder. They left the room without a glance at Dan.
Dan took a shot of schnapps to clear his head. The sudden silence in the room disturbed him, as though he might be caught alone there and blamed somehow for the lies that had been exposed. The soundboard of the piano tinkled lightly as the tension of the instrument worked at the shattered bridge. He put his shot glass on the coffee table and left the house.