Dedication
For Gregg, the reason I write love stories
Epigraph
The time is out of joint: O cursèd spite, That ever I was born to set it right!
—Hamlet, Act I, Scene V
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue: Hanna, 1958
Max, 1931
Hanna, 1946
Max, 1931
Hanna, 1946
Max, 1931
Hanna, 1946
Max, 1931
Hanna, 1946
Max, 1931
Hanna, 1946
Max, 1932
Hanna, 1946
Max, 1932
Hanna, 1947
Max, 1932
Hanna, 1947
Max, 1932
Hanna, 1948
Max, 1932
Hanna, 1948
Max, 1933
Hanna, 1948
Max, 1933
Hanna, 1948
Max, 1933
Hanna, 1948–1949
Max, 1933
Hanna, 1949
Max, 1933
Hanna, 1950
Max, 1933
Elsa, 1950
Hanna, 1950
Max, 1934
Hanna, 1950
Max, 1934
Hanna, 1950
Max, 1934–1935
Hanna, 1951
Max, 1935
Hanna, 1951–1952
Max, 1936
Hanna, 1953
Hanna, 1936
Hanna, 1953
Max, 1937–1938
Hanna, 1958
Hanna, 1959
Author’s Note
Reading Group Guide: Discussion Questions for In Another Time
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for In Another Time
Also by Jillian Cantor
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Hanna, 1958
I haven’t told Stuart the whole truth about where I came from. Because for one thing, he wouldn’t understand. How could he, when I don’t really understand it for myself? And for another, even if I did tell him, he wouldn’t believe it. He would frown, and his blue eyes would soften, crinkle just around the edges, illuminating both his age and his kindness. Oh, my dear, he might say, as Sister Louisa once did, after I’d stumbled into the last-standing church in Gutenstat, freezing cold and sick with thirst and hunger.
Sometimes, even now, I wonder if I made it all up. If Max, too, was just a dream, a figment of my imagination. Impossible, like all the rest of it.
You have been through a trauma, Sister Louisa reminded me, after I first saw the doctor in Berlin. Your mind plays tricks to protect you.
And it was a strange thing, but when Sister said it, I almost believed her. How could she be wrong, after all? This nun with her wrinkly face, pale as snow, and light gray eyes, with her habit and her soft smile. She wouldn’t lie. Then she pointed to my violin in my hand. Can I hear you play, my dear?
She touched my Stradivari. I’d had it since my sixteenth birthday, an extravagant present from Zayde Moritz, just before he passed. I was holding it when I came to in the field. I’d held it playing for Max, in the bookshop once, too. And sometimes the only thing to me that still feels real, even now, is my violin.
I have played the violin since I was six years old, and it has always felt a part of me, another limb, one that is necessary and vital to my daily survival. My violin connects my present and my past, my dreams and my reality. My fingers move nimbly over the strings, my mind forgetting all I’ve lost or forgotten. There is only the music that is my constant companion. Nothing but the music. Not Stuart. Not Max. Not now. Not the past, either.
“Hanna,” Stuart interrupts me today. I’ve etched the date, November 6, 1958, in pencil at the top of my music, so I know it is real, so I don’t forget. I do this every single day and have since I was living in London with Julia. While I sometimes still forget how old I am now, my fingers do not move as they used to. Some days my knuckles swell, and I must cover them in bags of ice when I get home after practice. I hide this from Stuart, too, like so much else.
Today, I’m practicing at the conservatory, as I do every day after the group rehearsal. The orchestra will tour again in the spring. We’ll go around Europe this time, playing Bach and Vivaldi and Holst. London, Paris, Berlin. As first chair violinist, I must play everything right, everything perfect. Though I already know all the music well, it is not enough. I have to breathe it, too. It has to sink into my skin, into my memory, so I will never ever forget it, a sweet perfume that lingers on and overtakes all my senses.
When Stuart walks in, I rest my violin on my knee and smile at him. Dear, sweet Stuart who brought me into the orchestra’s fold five years ago. He’s ten years older than I am and would like nothing more than to marry me. Which he has told me on more than one occasion. But I laugh and pretend as though I believe him to be joking, though we both know he’s not. You’re an old soul, he told me once, as if trying to explain away our age difference. It was only then that I’d thought: Maybe Stuart really does know me?
“Hanna,” he says now. “You have a friend here to see you.”
My world in New York City is a bubble. Rehearsal and practice. I live alone in a one-bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village, and though I am friendly with nearly everyone in the orchestra, I wouldn’t call any of them dear friends. Only Stuart. And it’s only because he thinks he loves me, thinks he understands me. “It must be some mistake,” I tell him, bringing the violin back to my chin.
“No mistake,” Stuart says. “He asked for Hanna. He said the ‘girl who plays violin like fire.’” Stuart laughs. His eyes crinkle. He is both amused and stricken by the accuracy of the description.
Once, so many years ago, when I was insisting I would have to give it all up, that I had ruined everything, Max had told me that I would have other auditions. Other orchestras. And you can’t give up, he’d told me. You play the violin like fire, Hanna. You can’t give up on your fire.
Max, 1931
Max heard Hanna before he saw her. Rather, he heard her violin as it pierced through the empty auditorium at the Lyceum: sharp and bright, passionate and enormous. He’d never heard a violin before other than maybe once on a record playing on his mother’s phonograph when he was a boy. And the sound in real life, echoing in the large empty room, was so beautiful and intense that, for a moment, Max froze.
Max had opened the door to this particular auditorium quite by accident. He’d been looking for Herr Detweiler’s lecture on economics, which, as it turned out, was taking place in a different auditorium, in a building across the green. The Lyceum in Gutenstat was large, sprawling. Max had read the schedule wrong and had reversed his course, landed himself exactly opposite where he’d intended, here, instead, where Hanna was practicing onstage.
He walked toward her, toward the music. Her eyes were closed, and she was small but her body swung with the notes she played, a force like a giant gust of wind that bowled her back and forth, and yet would never topple her. No. She was in control of the music, of the instrument. That much was clear to him. Even knowing nothing about music, about the violin. This woman possessed this music. Not the other way around.
She finished with one hard downward sweep of the bow, and then she opened her eyes, saw him standing there, not ten feet from the stage now, because he’d walked closer and closer as he’d been listening. She put her hand to her mouth. Shocked? Alarmed? Angry?
“I’m . . . I’m . . . sorry,” he stammered. “I’ve gotten the wrong auditorium.” He suddenly felt fooli
sh for having invaded her space. It wasn’t a performance; her music this morning had been meant to be private. And feeling like an intruder, he turned and ran out.
It wasn’t until he was across the green, walking into the correct building, that he realized he should’ve introduced himself, that he should’ve asked her name. Because the sound of that violin, her violin, he could not get it out of his mind.
Max’s father had owned a small bookshop in the center of Gutenstat, and when his heart stopped last spring, suddenly and all at once while he was in the middle of a conversation with a patron, Max had taken over the shop. His mother had died when Max was only ten, and so after his father’s death, there was no one else. Max had no choice but to continue running the shop. Even if he had, he would’ve chosen what was handed to him: he loved his father’s shop—the smell of the books, ink, paper, and binding glue, the patrons in the town who came in looking for stories and suggestions. Max felt a comfort in this life, the familiar town of Gutenstat where he’d grown up, just an hour train ride west from Berlin. But the bookshop was quieter than it had once been, and that was why Max had enrolled in Herr Detweiler’s economics lecture. It had occurred to him more than once that he might not be able to run the bookshop forever, that he might need to learn something else. And an economics class had felt like a good place to start. At the very least it might give him some help in keeping the bookshop afloat.
He slipped into the correct auditorium in the middle of Detweiler’s lecture, trying not to draw attention to himself now. Most of the seats were taken, and in the front of the room, Detweiler—an older, overweight balding man with spectacles—was talking animatedly, scribbling an equation on a chalkboard. People all around Max listened intently, took notes. And he tried to follow the lecture. It had been a few years since he’d been in school, and truth be told, he’d always enjoyed literature so much more than math and science. His mind drifted back to the woman across the green, playing the violin. If he went back, could he still catch her? He wanted to ask her name, ask her if she liked books, or coffee. Yes, he would invite her to coffee.
He slipped back out of the lecture, ran across the green and back into the auditorium where she’d been playing on the stage. But now the room was empty; Max had lost his chance.
Max lived a ten-minute train ride from the Lyceum on Hauptstrasse in Gutenstat, in a tiny three-room apartment above the bookshop. The apartment still contained many of his father’s things and some of his mother’s things as well, though she had been gone over ten years now. What was their life had become Max’s life, with the exception of the dull ache of loneliness that came over him each evening. The bookshop was in the shopping district of Gutenstat and sat next to Feinstein’s bakery shop and across the street from Herr Sokolov’s Fischmarkt. Between the two he was never wanting for anything fresh to eat, though, since his father’s passing, he was often wanting for company in which to eat it. His parents had never been alone here—first they’d had each other. Then his father had him. And though Max had friends in Gutenstat, it wasn’t the same.
When he got home from the Lyceum that morning, Max searched through the closet in the bedroom until he found his mother’s old phonograph and her records. It was dusty from lack of use, and he wasn’t sure if the records would still play. He tried one, and out came an operatic voice, high and distant and scratchy. It was nothing at all like the violin music he’d heard. Not even close. And he felt it again in his stomach, an ache, an emptiness.
Max opened the bookshop at noon (as he did every day now but Sundays), and as he straightened up the shelves, still feeling quite lonely, he glanced again toward the closet at the back of the store. His father had hung a sign on the door and installed a lock years ago, cautioning patrons to stay out: achtung! The sign still hung there now, but it wasn’t visible because Max had moved a bookshelf in front of the closet door a few months earlier.
He had opened the closet door only once, in June. It was just a month after his father had died. Max’s heartache had felt so fresh and painful, and business in the shop was already slowing. The economy was bad, and people who were worried about buying food did not have enough money for books. On top of everything, his girlfriend, Etta, had just broken up with him, and he’d been feeling quite sorry for himself. He’d wondered: Is this it? Is this all he could expect for his life? Or is there something else?
The bell over the shop door chimed now, bringing Max’s attention back to the front of the store. And much to his shock and delight, there she was, walking into his bookshop: the beautiful girl who’d been playing the violin at the Lyceum earlier.
He stared at her, his mouth slightly agape. She was taller than he’d thought from seeing her up onstage, only a head shorter than him. Her brown hair was in a knot behind her head, but wayward curls escaped in front and fell across her heart-shaped face in misdirected wisps. She pushed them back, absentmindedly.
“You left this,” she said, her tone brusque. “When you were . . . what was it you were doing exactly this morning? Spying on me or something?” She held up a book, and it was only then that he remembered he’d had it in his hand earlier when he’d walked in on her playing violin. He’d taken it to read on the train. He must’ve put it down in the auditorium and he’d forgotten all about it until now. Like all the books they sold in the shop, this one, too, was stamped with the store’s name and address in the very back, a way, his father had always said, to remind their patrons to return for more after they’d turned the very last page.
Max took the book back and thanked her. “I’m Max,” he said. “Max Beissinger.”
“Ah, so this is your store?” She ran her fingers across a row of spines on a shelf. Beissinger Buchhandlung—the words that had been stamped inside the back of the book were also painted on the shop’s glass front window.
“Yes, it was my father’s, but he recently passed.”
She looked up from the bookshelf, and her face softened. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She walked toward him and held out her hand. “Hanna Ginsberg.”
He took her hand, shook it. Her fingers were tiny, thin, but felt quite strong. “I didn’t mean to intrude earlier. I stepped inside the wrong room by accident. But your violin playing . . . it’s, it’s so beautiful.”
She smiled a little, pulled her hand away. “Well, that’s very kind of you to say, but Herr Fruchtenwalder—he’s my instructor at the Lyceum—says it’s not good enough for the symphony yet.”
“Not good enough? Is he mad?” Max said quickly.
She laughed. “And you are a violinist too?”
He shook his head. “But your playing . . . it’s amazing. I’ve never heard anything like it before.”
“There are hundreds of violinists in and around Berlin. There’s nothing special about me,” she said.
“I disagree,” Max said. “I think you are special, Hanna Ginsberg.”
She laughed again and then told him she had to go, she was late.
“Will I see you again?” he called after her, but she didn’t answer. She held up a hand to wave behind her on the way out.
The bright butterfly pin she had in the back of her hair, holding her knot of curls together, caught the late afternoon sunlight and glinted, momentarily blinding him. He blinked, and then she was gone.
Hanna, 1946
When I opened my eyes, I was in a field. The sky was black. A million stars glittered above me, and my first thought was how beautiful they were. How the night was diamonds and Beethoven’s Concerto in D Major. And then I realized I was holding my violin. I clutched it in my right hand, my fingers numb and cold, and shaking. My hands vibrated so much that the violin was hitting my leg, the hard wood bruising my kneecap.
“Max,” I called out. “Max?” My voice quivered, and the words echoed back at me. No response. Only silence and night sky and stars. And my violin?
I was just in the bookshop. I was playing Mahler, and Max was sitting behind the counter, reading a book. Play me the fire, H
anna. And he looked at me that same way he did when we were lying next to each other in bed, his green eyes ablaze, like music and desire were the same thing. Fire.
I’d smiled at him, closed my eyes to play, and the music had taken over me. But then there was that horrible sound: pounding against the glass. Men’s voices. The SA. They were shouting to open up. Shouting that we had broken the law. What had we done?
The store was closed for the night; Max had the front door locked. But I liked the acoustics in the shop, so I often practiced there at night. The men rattled the door, pushing on it. The lock wouldn’t hold out much longer.
You have to hide, Max said, running toward the back of the store.
More banging against the glass storefront, and I ran to where Max was standing. He grabbed me, pulled me close, and hugged me so hard.
And that was the last thing I remembered before now, the starry night, this field. How in the world had I gotten here? And where was here, exactly?
“Max,” I cried out again, softer this time. Because the SA. What if they were still looking for me?
But the field was open, quiet; the night air, crisp and cool. I shivered. I heard an owl hooting somewhere in the distance, but that was all. I pinched myself on the arm, and it hurt, but nothing changed. I wasn’t dreaming. I was here, wherever this was. And I was all alone.
I began walking. Because, what else could I do? I couldn’t stay in this field, waiting for Max, or for those horrible SA who wanted to, what? Arrest me? Murder me? And what was my crime exactly? I shivered again, but I clutched my violin and kept walking.
I walked and I walked and I walked, and the sky began to turn from black to pearly gray to orange blue. In the distance, there was a cathedral. I saw the steeple first, rising above the hill, and as I got closer the structure looked vaguely familiar, like the cathedral I would see from the train window riding from Hauptstrasse toward the Lyceum. But that church was white; this one was brown. My legs were so tired, but I would just make it there, and surely someone inside could help me get back to the bookshop. And Max would know what happened. Max would remember. Max. What if something had happened to him?
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