In Another Time

by Jillian Cantor

  “I made up the guest room for you,” she said. “You can stay as long as you like, until you get back on your feet.” Before she put her key in the lock she turned back to look at me, and she grabbed me hard in a hug. Julia was never affectionate, and she hadn’t hugged me back at the rectory in Berlin. The shock of it now nearly knocked me off balance.

  She held on to me for only a moment, then inhaled, straightened the wrinkles out of her blue dress, and smiled. “The boys are excited to meet you. They’ve never had a tante before. Friedrich’s sisters didn’t . . . well. You are the only one left.”

  It was hard to take in the enormity of it. That I had two nephews I’d never met, that I was the only family, the only auntie, they had left.

  I clutched my violin in my hand as I followed Julia inside her house. There was a large open parlor in the front, with high ceilings, marble floors. This was nice, much, much bigger and grander than our apartment on Maulbeerstrasse growing up. Julia inhabited a different life now, one I could barely imagine or dream of, one that felt far from everything else in my heart, Germany, the bookshop, Max.

  Two boys, well dressed in matching navy knickers and pressed white shirts, ran down the stairs at the sound of the door. Julia scooped them up into a hug, and the older one, Levin, squirmed out quickly, while Moritz pressed himself against his mother. “Oh, I’ve missed you,” Julia said. “Were you good for Papa?”

  “I was,” Levin said pointedly, staring at his brother. Moritz shrugged sheepishly and I liked him instantly.

  “This is Tante Hanna,” Julia said, looking from the boys to me. I held up my hand to wave.

  “What’s that?” Moritz pointed to my violin in my other hand.

  “It’s my violin,” I told him. “And it’s very special to me. Your great-grandfather gave it to me when I was sixteen. I believe you’re named after him.”

  “Can you play it for us?” Moritz asked. His eyes widened a little, and I wondered if he’d ever heard live music before. The frown on Julia’s face told me no.

  “Not now,” Julia said. “Tante’s tired. It was a long trip.”

  But I ignored her, took my violin from its case. I put it up to my chin, closed my eyes. I could see the Mahler in my mind, all the perfect notes on the sheet music. The music had been with me that last night in the bookshop and my eyes had been closed then, too, as I’d played. The music already ingrained.

  It was still there. Nothing else was left in my memory but the Mahler. And Max. With my eyes closed now, I could almost still feel him, real and breathing and just out of reach.

  Max, 1931

  For the next few weeks all Max thought about was Hanna. He rode the train to the Lyceum each morning before opening the shop, bringing her books to read, lingering in the auditorium and listening while she practiced. And then he eagerly awaited those few times a week when she would finish the books and bring them back and they would talk about them.

  She was reading Shakespeare now. She had missed it in school because she’d been taking violin lessons during the literature course. She’d recently finished Romeo and Juliet, and she’d hated it, telling Max the ending made no sense, that she would’ve liked it much better had Juliet decided to move on with her life rather than stabbing herself when she thought Romeo was dead.

  He’d laughed. “They’re star-crossed lovers,” he told her. “That’s what has to happen.”

  “Oh please.” She rolled her eyes.

  He’d asked her if she was done with Shakespeare then, but she told him she would give him another try. And now she had moved on to Hamlet.

  On a Friday morning a few weeks after her recital, Hanna invited Max to go to a movie with her after the Sabbath ended on Saturday. He not only quickly agreed but also completely forgot about his standing date with Johann until he got back home after the movie and found a note on the door of his shop, saying Johann had come to meet him and had missed him.

  Hope you’re okay . . . I’m worried about you.—J

  But Max’s lips were still tingling from the good-night kiss he’d given Hanna as he’d left her in front of her apartment on Maulbeerstrasse, and he read Johann’s note with only the smallest pang of guilt.

  The next afternoon, though, Max walked the six blocks over to Johann and Elsa’s. They lived in a small two-bedroom house near the train station, which Johann liked because of the convenience. The proximity to the train made it quite easy for him to get to school and to his job at the law firm in Berlin. Elsa, on the other hand, hated it because she said the noise of the trains woke her before dawn each morning.

  “Max!” Elsa exclaimed when she opened the door. Her belly was so large and round that his eyes went to that first, not her swollen face. It still seemed strange to him that there was a person in there, a baby. Part Johann, part Elsa. “It’s been a while. Come on in. I’m making Gemüsesuppe. There’s plenty, if you want some.”

  “Thanks, Els.” He leaned across her giant belly to kiss her cheek. “But I don’t want to intrude on your Sunday supper.”

  “Nonsense, Max. You’re never intruding. You’re family.” Elsa was a far better cook than he’d ever be. Most of the food he cooked for himself tasted bland. Sustenance, not a meal. So he was quite thrilled by her offer. “I’ll set another bowl at the table. Johann’s just getting changed from church. He’ll be right out.”

  A moment later, Johann walked out from the bedroom. “I thought I heard your voice, Max.” He smiled, grabbed two ales from the small icebox, and kissed Elsa quickly. “Max and I are going to go out on the porch,” he said. And Max followed Johann out front.

  They sat down on the stoop and Johann handed Max one of the ales. “Sorry about last night,” Max told him. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  Johann looked at him, then took a drink. “Everything okay?” he asked carefully.

  “Yes,” Max said. “Really. I just went to see a movie with someone, and I lost track of time.”

  Johann smiled. “Ahh. The girl you wanted to notice you. You’re succeeding, I see. And what is her name?”

  “Hanna.” He broke into a smile at just the mention of her name. He couldn’t help himself.

  “Hanna,” Johann repeated. “Well, I’m glad that’s what it was and not . . .” Johann’s voice trailed off, but Max knew exactly what he was thinking, why he was concerned. He had disappeared for a week in June, somewhat unintentionally, just after his father’s death, worrying both Johann and Elsa. Especially Johann, who still remembered what had happened to him after his mother’s death. And he wished he’d remembered to cancel with Johann beforehand, so this wouldn’t have come up again.

  But the truth was, he hadn’t thought about the closet in the bookshop in a while, since he’d met Hanna. “I told you,” Max said again. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.”

  Johann took another sip of his ale. A train was coming, and the whistle grew louder and louder, until it reached the station and the brakes squealed. “When can I meet her?” Johann asked, and Max was happy he’d changed the subject back to Hanna.

  “Meet who?” Elsa waddled out onto the porch. Then added, “Soup’s ready.”

  Johann stood up and kissed Elsa on the top of her head. “Our Max has met someone.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful news.” Elsa grabbed him in a hug, or she tried anyway. She was all belly, and she moved awkwardly. “Yes, we definitely need to meet her. Bring her over next weekend. I’ll bake pfeffernüsse for the occasion.”

  Johann laughed and rubbed her stomach softly. “You can think it over, Max. Elsa’s really making the cookies for this one in here.”

  She swatted his hand away. “Well, of course, he doesn’t have to commit right now. But the offer stands. And you know my pfeffernüsse are the best on this side of Berlin.”

  Max left with a belly full of soup, his head reeling from all Elsa’s questions about Hanna. Everything was new still. Could you really be in love with someone you had only known a month, had only been
on one real date with (well, two if you counted the apple strudel and the bakery-shop kiss, which he did)? And it was strange, but Hanna almost didn’t feel real to him when he wasn’t with her. That someone so bright and beautiful and talented as her might want to be with him felt almost like a dream.

  But it was real. He knew it was. As he headed back to the shop, his mind drifted to the dark auditorium where he’d watched the movie with Hanna the night before. The way he had put his arm around her and she had snuggled in close to him. He had stopped paying attention to the movie altogether and had spent the time enjoying being close to her. That was real.

  “Herr Fruchtenwalder says maybe next year I can try for the symphony,” she’d told him, on the walk back to her apartment. “But I will have to practice extra hard, even more.” She let go of his hand, stopped walking, and turned to face him.

  “Am I distracting you?” He said it lightly, joking. But he worried that was how she saw him, as a distraction, and she would decide he wasn’t worth her limited time.

  She shook her head. “No. You make me want to work harder,” she said. “You believe in me.”

  “Me and Herr Fruchtenwalder,” he reminded her.

  “He believes in all his students.” But Max was pretty sure that wasn’t true.

  “You are destined for greatness, Hanna,” he told her, and he truly believed that. Though he wondered when that greatness came, if she would leave him, just an ordinary shopkeeper, here, behind.

  Max unlocked the shop and walked inside now. He didn’t open to customers on Sundays, and he planned on choosing a book and going upstairs to his apartment to read it. He felt full and tired and vaguely happy. Maybe he would even take a nap.

  But something was off inside the shop. He felt it right away. Something in the air that made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Something was different, out of place. The front door had been locked, so no one had broken in, and he tried to shake the feeling away. It was the feeling of happiness, the feeling that things now were too good. He was looking for something wrong, his mind playing tricks on him.

  But then he saw what it was: the bookshelf he’d moved in front of the closet was pushed to the side, the door to the closet slightly ajar. The achtung! sign hung just a little crooked, having been somehow knocked askew while he was eating soup at Johann and Elsa’s.

  It suddenly was hard to breathe, and he sat down on the floor, forcing himself to inhale, exhale. Maybe he’d forgotten to lock it? Perhaps a great gust of wind had blown through the shop and pushed the bookshelf aside, the door ajar while he’d been out. But it wasn’t windy outside. The cool December sun shone against the front windowpane, and the mulberry trees lining the street were perfectly still.

  Hanna had just finished Hamlet, and they’d discussed it earlier this week. It was sitting there still on the counter where he’d left it, untouched. A line from it came to him now: There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

  “Hallo,” he called out now into the dark shop. He felt a sudden, overwhelming longing for his father. The back of his neck tingled and he began to sweat. He switched on the light and walked around. But the shop was perfectly quiet, perfectly empty. No one was here but him.

  He shut the closet door, fastened the lock, and pushed the bookshelf back in front of it.

  Hanna, 1946

  “A woman? In my orchestra?” Maestro Philip pulled at the ends of his handlebar mustache and raised his bushy gray eyebrows like he thought I was insane. The Royal London Symphony was holding auditions—I saw the advertisement in the newspaper over breakfast this morning, and I’d come straight over to inquire about an audition of my own. Julia had been pestering me to go out and interview for a job, but this, of course, was not what she meant.

  After staying with her for three months, Julia’s patience—and mine—was wearing thin. Her only solace, and really mine, too, was that I picked Moritz and Levin up from school each day and spent time with them until supper while Julia ran out to do various errands. I loved my nephews, who were smart and funny, and especially Moritz, who enjoyed disobeying Julia at every turn. Zayde would’ve loved that about his namesake. He’d always teased Julia for being much too uptight.

  “Well, why not?” I asked Maestro Philip now. “I made it into the symphony in Berlin before the war.”

  “That was a long time ago,” he said. It was, though it didn’t feel like it to me. It still felt like months, not years, and as hard as I tried, nothing about the ten years I’d lost would come back to me. But I practiced my violin each afternoon, giving performances for Moritz and Levin after school, and I felt confident that my playing was nearly as good as it had been then. That with more practice still, it could get even better.

  “Just give me an audition,” I implored him. “If you don’t like my playing, you can say no.” He frowned and pulled at his mustache again. “Come on, what have you got to lose?”

  Friedrich had told me that the Royal Symphony had closed down during the war, after too many of their members left to go fight. “No one cared about music during the war,” Friedrich had said, matter-of-factly. But to me it seemed that people would’ve needed music more than ever, and it depressed me to think of an entire city without it. Friedrich continued by explaining that now, the orchestra was probably like so many other things in London, only half staffed, too many of the former members recovering from injuries and unable to play as they once had, or worse, dead. That must be why they were holding auditions. “But there are many things more important than the symphony,” he’d said. “You do know thirty thousand people were killed here by bombings and a million buildings were destroyed. And that’s not even counting the soldiers who were fighting.”

  Friedrich’s numbers were enormous and terrifying, and I murmured that it was all very sad. But I was going to audition, no matter what. “We still need the symphony,” I told him, and he had frowned.

  London was so different from Berlin, or maybe it was just that the war had changed everyone but me? In Berlin, when I’d studied at the Lyceum and when I’d auditioned for the symphony, no one had cared much that I was a woman. They cared how well I could play, and then later on, that I was a Jew. But here, Maestro had no notice or care for my religion. It was that his orchestra was a boys’ club, and I would break that tradition. Would it always be something? Religion, gender, wrong time, wrong place? Would I ever escape all these uncontrollable factors that would keep me from playing onstage, with a real orchestra? “Please,” I begged him now. “If you don’t think my playing is good enough, I’ll leave you alone, I promise. But at least give me a chance to prove myself. Just give me an audition.”

  “All right,” he finally said. “Tomorrow morning here, promptly at nine. But I’m not going to promise anything.”

  I waited for Moritz and Levin out on the sidewalk in front of the steps of Carnaby Academy at three o’clock, as I’d been doing for weeks. But today my mind was somewhere else. Back in the Lyceum with Herr Fruchtenwalder, debating which piece would be best for my first symphony audition. He’d wanted me to play Beethoven, the first movement of the Kreutzer Sonata, but I argued for something more daring, something that would make me stand out, Ravel’s Tzigane. And in the end, as I was the one who’d had to perform it, my piece had won out. But Maestro Philip, who could not imagine a woman in his symphony, might not look so kindly on any act of daring. I would play the Beethoven.

  Standing outside on the street, I hummed a few bars and closed my eyes. I could see the notes on the page in my mind, but it had been a long time since I’d held the music in my hand; I began to second-guess the nuances, the fortissimos and andantes. There was a music shop on Denmark Street, only a few blocks out of the way, and I could stop with the boys on the way home.

  “Tante, you’re singing to yourself.” Moritz yanked on my hand, and I opened my eyes.

  “You look like a twit,” Levin said, his voice low. Other children swarmed out o
f the Academy and went to their mothers and nannies waiting on the sidewalk near me. I was embarrassing him. He was so much Julia’s child.

  Moritz punched his older brother in the forearm. “Lev, be quiet. Remember what Mother said.” Lev rubbed his arm and looked sheepishly at his shoes. I could only imagine what Julia had told them about me.

  I ignored the exchange and grabbed each of their tiny hands. “Boys, come on,” I said. “Have you ever been into a music shop before?” They shook their heads. Of course they hadn’t. Who would’ve taken them? “Well, we’re going to one now. I need to buy some music.” I had a few pounds in my handbag that Julia had given me in case of emergencies. This wasn’t the kind of emergency she’d meant, of course. But I really needed the music to make sure my audition would go smoothly.

  “You’re going to pay money, for music?” Lev asked skeptically, sounding exactly like Julia.

  “Yes,” I told him and Moritz both. “Music is very special, very valuable.”

  “Like gold?” Moritz asked, his eyes wide with wonder. He would truly believe me if I told him music and gold were one and the same.

  I laughed. “Not exactly. But after we buy the music, we’ll go home and I’ll play it for you so you can hear how wonderful it is. I’m going to go on a very important audition tomorrow morning. Don’t you boys want to help me get ready?”

  Lev shrugged, like he knew we were about to do something his mother wouldn’t approve of and didn’t want to commit to enjoying any part of it, and Moritz nodded eagerly and squeezed my hand.

  In my bedroom at Julia’s house later, I etched today’s date on the top page of my music in pencil, not wanting to forget, to lose any more time. I had played through the first movement of the Kreutzer Sonata once for the boys before dinner. Moritz had told me my playing was more beautiful than gold, and I’d hugged him for his sweetness. But it sounded and felt sloppy to me. After dinner, in my bedroom, I played it over and over again. I knew all the notes; I still remembered them all, but it wasn’t enough. I had to make sure it would be perfect, that there would be no question in Maestro Philip’s mind, that he could not say no to me. As a Jew, as a woman, I had to not just be better than any man or Christian, but I had to be the best.