“Herr Ebert, what a pleasant surprise,” Ursula said. “Please forgive me if I don’t rise to meet you, but I believe that Hilde’s hairpins might skewer me clean through if I make the attempt.”
Carl waved his cane. “No need, my love. I just came to wish you the best on your opening night. I’m so proud that you’re my Adele in this production of Die Fledermaus. I could not be happier and cannot imagine anyone more fitting or talented to assume the role.”
“You are too kind, Herr Ebert. I hope that my interpretation of Adele will make Johann Strauss proud.”
“Of that I have no doubt!” Carl approached Ursula and whispered conspiratorially. “You should know, my dear, that there will be some important people in the audience this evening.”
Ursula smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
Carl withdrew and flared his eyes as he regarded Ursula in the mirror. “I mean, really important people.”
Ursula cocked her head, causing a hairpin to miss its mark. “Ouch!”
“Don’t move, Ursula!” Hilde ordered as she wound another section of hair.
“What really important people?” Ursula asked.
“President von Hindenburg.”
Ursula’s eyes widened. “I was under the impression that he doesn’t care for opera.”
“That’s true. But rumor has it that his guest is an opera connoisseur, and that his favorite opera is—”
“Die Fledermaus,” Ursula finished.
“Exactly!” Herr Ebert waggled his eyebrows. “Apparently this gentleman knows many wealthy people who funded his campaign for the National Socialist German Workers Party. Perhaps if he enjoys your performance this evening, you might meet him afterward and then, who knows? He might want to make a contribution to our humble opera house.” Herr Ebert threw his arms wide, the silver ram barely missing Hilde’s head. Hilde sniffed loudly.
“Frau Mayer, do you have something that you’d like to add?”
“We have all seen this ‘gentleman’ to whom you are referring, and he is a boob. A loud, barking boob.”
Carl leaned close to Hilde and spoke quietly. “You’re speaking ill of a powerful man who is considering running for president, Frau Mayer. Be careful. You never know who is listening.”
Ursula turned in her chair. “Of whom do you speak? You can’t be referring to Herr Hitler, as he was just recently appointed chancellor. My father says that he’s an unproven politician. He wouldn’t be so brash as to consider running for president so soon.”
Hilde grunted. “He’s more than brash, Ursula. He’s dangerous. Mark my words. There’s something about him. Although he’s small in stature, he carries himself with an air of authority and assuredness. I’m sad to say that he can be quite riveting and convincing. People are listening.”
Carl’s cane crashed against the floor, causing Ursula to jump in the chair. “Enough, Hilde! Silence!”
Ursula watched in the mirror as the two overbearing personalities faced off. She wondered who would blink first. “I will do my best, Herr Ebert. You have my word.”
The statement broke the stalemate and Carl smiled broadly. “Of course you will, my love. And you will meet him afterwards. He has followed your career closely, from your early days when you were studying with the incomparable Lilli Lehmann in Salzburg. You know Herr Hitler is Austrian by birth.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, and he saw you sing ‘Song of the Moon’ when you performed in Rusalka.”
Ursula’s mind floated away to the small apartment she had shared with her parents in Prague. Her mother, a talented singer herself, had studied music under the great Czech composer Antonin Dvorak, and she had sung “Song of the Moon” to Ursula as a lullaby. Ursula had memorized the aria before she learned how to read music. After her mother died, she and her father had moved to Berlin, where her father had met and married a talented violinist and had another daughter named Anna. Unfortunately, her stepmother had passed away two years ago, leaving her father twice a widower with two daughters to support.
“My mother taught me that song,” Ursula mumbled in Czech.
“I beg your pardon?” Herr Ebert asked.
Ursula shook her head, returning to German. “Forgive me. All I have left of my mother is songs she taught me and fluency in Czech. I haven’t been able to use either recently.”
Herr Ebert smiled tightly. “Yes, well, tonight is all in German, my dear. As I was saying, Herr Hitler has followed you since you sang in small opera houses in Austria and Germany, but tonight you make your debut as the lead on the Berlin operatic stage. It shall be glorious!” His cane swung wildly, and both women ducked to avoid being struck.
Herr Ebert stilled his cane and set his gaze on Ursula. “I know you will make us all proud. You belong to Germany now and will be considered one of its treasures once Herr Hitler deems it so.” He clapped his cane against his open palm. “I must go and attend to our guests.” He exited with a flourish, the door slamming behind him.
Ursula met Hilde’s hard stare in the mirror. “Be careful, Ursula.”
Ursula rolled her eyes.
Hilde shook her head slowly. “Do not dismiss my words, Ursula. There are rumors that Hitler has his eye on ruling not just Germany but surrounding nations as well. He believes that Germany requires room to spread out. ‘Living room,’ he calls it. He’s looking to undo the Treaty of Versailles. He’s treacherous.”
“Hilde, my job is to sing well and that’s what I shall do. When I meet Herr Hitler afterwards, I will be polite. Then our relationship will be over.”
Hilde shook her head. “I hope so, Ursula. I really hope so.”
2
The applause rumbled like thunder across the cavernous auditorium. The crowd leapt to its feet as Ursula crossed to center stage for her curtain call. Hans Schmidt, who had played the role of Eisenstein, received rousing accolades, as did Marie Geistinger, who had played Rosalinde. But it was Ursula’s interpretation of Adele that had the audience on its feet yelling “Brava!” and tossing flowers. At only twenty-six years old, she was the youngest singer to successfully present the aria “Mein Herr Marquis,” or the “laughing song” as it was colloquially known, in such a grand theatre. Ursula’s expression of genuine, grateful surprise crowned her the immediate audience favorite, and the ovations continued for several more minutes before Carl Ebert joined the cast on stage.
“Damen und Herren, please sit down.” Carl motioned with his cane for the audience members to retake their seats. “We are so pleased that you have enjoyed tonight’s performance.” The crowd rose once again as a new round of applause burst forth. Ursula laughed out loud, amazed at the enthusiasm. Berliners were known to be staunch supporters of opera, especially German and Austrian works, but the current response was overwhelming. Ebert’s cane took on a life of its own as it bobbed up and down, motioning for the group to be seated.
“As I said, we are extremely pleased that you have enjoyed this evening’s performance of Die Fledermaus. We are fortunate to be privy to established talent such as Frau Geistinger.” The audience stood once more as shouts of “Brava!” resounded against the gold-leafed dome. Ursula smiled broadly as Frau Geistinger stepped forward and raised her hands outwards toward her swooning fans. She waved and then brought her fingers to her lips, kissed them, and threw them to the raucous crowd before collapsing into an elaborate bow/curtsy combination known simply as “the Geistinger.” How wonderful it would be to be adored like that, Ursula mused as her eyes swept across the ebullient crowd.
“And, of course I would be mightily remiss if were not to mention the, how shall I say, up-and-coming talent of Fräulein Ursula Becker.” Ursula was shocked that she had been singled out of the large cast and stood frozen in place as the applause rose to a deafening roar. She glanced at Herr Ebert, who motioned with his head that she should acknowledge the adulati
on. Hesitant, she stepped forward and curtsied deeply as she bowed her head to the roaring crowd. Flowers landed at her feet and she picked them up, one by one, until she had formed a ragtag bouquet, which she cradled in her right arm like a baby. She glanced at Frau Geistinger for guidance and found a tight smile and hard eyes. As Ursula scanned the thousands of well-wishers, she realized with astonishment that she was being anointed the new grand diva of opera. And Frau Geistinger knew it. Ursula raised her head and waved to the adoring crowd before blowing a kiss and walking briskly off stage, where she dropped to her knees and started sobbing.
“Fräulein, are you hurt?” Suddenly Fritz was at her side, a concerned furrow firmly planted in his generous brow.
“I am . . . I am . . . overwhelmed,” she stuttered. Carl Ebert rushed to the wings and searched Fritz’s face for assurance that Ursula was alright. Fritz nodded, and Ebert visibly relaxed and returned to speak to the audience. Ursula caught her breath and wiped her eyes. Fritz offered her a handkerchief, which she accepted with a sigh.
“You are very kind, Fritz. A true gentleman. I don’t believe there are many of you left in this world.” Fritz blushed. On stage Ebert was informing the audience about a reception in the lobby, an opportunity to meet the cast. Ursula dabbed at her eyes, certain that her heavy makeup had melded with her tears to form a colorful, grotesque mosaic.
“I must look a fright, eh, Fritz?” She laughed as she considered her pitiful bouquet of wilting flowers—fresh roses that had sat on the warm laps of patrons for several hours before being hoisted through the air to land with a thump on the hard, wooden stage floor.
“You look beautiful, Fräulein. Always.”
Ursula smiled at Fritz, who immediately averted his eyes. “You are too kind, Herr Rosen.”
“Let me help you to your feet, Fräulein. Your public awaits you at the reception.”
Fritz extended his arthritic, calloused hand to help Ursula stand. At her full height she towered over him as she straightened her wig and smoothed her dress.
“I’m going to hug you now, Fritz, whether you like it or not.”
Before he could protest, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tightly. “Thank you for being my friend.”
Fritz grunted and cleared his throat as Carl Ebert appeared. “Ursula, what on earth are you doing? Come. We must go to the lobby. There are literally hundreds of people waiting to meet you.”
Ursula allowed herself to be led away and placed atop the grand staircase that greeted operagoers as they entered the remarkable building. A line snaked its way down the Italian marble stairs and out of her sight as she shook hands and accepted accolades, repeating “thank you” and “you’re so very kind” over and over again. After what seemed like an eternity, Ebert appeared at her side and ushered her away, leaving many attendees frustrated that they didn’t have the opportunity to chat with her.
As they passed Frau Geistinger, Ursula smiled and received a frosty glare in return. Ursula noted that the line of people waiting to meet the aging diva was only one third of the length of her line. She felt a rush of sadness for the singer, appreciating the swiftness with which tastes can change. Now it was Ursula’s turn to shine. But before too long she realized, even in this most precious of moments, that her starlight would wane, and she would be regarding her own replacement with a quizzical tilt of her head, much like Frau Geistinger was doing now. Ursula decided that she must cherish the fleeting moments. She understood that everything can change in an instant.
Ebert guided her to a large, ornate door. Although Ursula had never entered the room, she was aware that receptions for dignitaries were often held there. Ebert knocked twice. She noted that he was sweating as he smoothed his suitcoat and hair. His posture was stiff, and his grip on her elbow had tightened.
“You seem tense, Herr Ebert.” He threw her a stern look as a voice ordered, “Enter!” Standing a full inch taller than usual, Ebert switched his cane to his left hand and offered his right arm to Ursula.
“Don’t be flippant, my dear. Just be your mesmerizing self.”
She looked at him. “I don’t know what that means, Herr Ebert.”
The door opened slowly to reveal a group of about twenty people, the men in crisp Party uniforms and the women wearing gowns and silk gloves. Upon the newcomers’ entrance, all heads swiveled appreciatively toward Ursula. The group broke into polite applause, stifled by the fact that each person held a champagne flute. A man emerged from the group and fixed his gaze on hers. He approached and raised Ursula’s right hand to his lips. He kissed her hand, then openly evaluated her round face. His deep blue eyes settled on her warm brown ones.
“Fräulein Becker. Your performance this evening was simply astonishing. Your interpretation of Herr Strauss’s glorious Adele left me speechless.” He leaned forward and stage-whispered, “And that is saying something, my dear.” Polite chuckles rippled through the onlookers.
“Thank you, Herr Hitler.” Hitler’s probing eyes examined Ursula’s face, as if he were trying to memorize the details. His eyebrows came together, and, to her surprise, his eyes became dewy. The moment stretched for so long that she glanced to Ebert for guidance. Hitler broke the silence. “Your hairpiece must be itchy and warm.” Ursula paused. His reaction to meeting her was confusing and bizarre. His stare was disconcerting, heavy with familiarity, yet they had never met. She didn’t know how to respond, so she offered a half smile, revealing a dimple on the right side of her mouth. Hitler’s eyes jumped to it.
“Yes. The wig is warm.”
Without removing his eyes from the indentation, he said, “I have seen your real hair in a production in Vienna. It is a glorious brown that draws attention to your eyes.” His unsettling gaze moved to her eyes once more, and she found herself mesmerized by his intense stare. Hilde’s words came back to her. He can be quite convincing. People are listening. Hilde was correct. He commanded attention and respect without demanding it. His expression was austere, and his small moustache twitched. His pupils flared and then became pinpoints as he awaited her response.
Ursula held his steady gaze and smiled demurely. “My father refers to my eyes and my hair as mud brown.”
For several moments time slowed. The stillness and silence in the large room closed around her, and she felt her pulse quicken. She glanced at Herr Ebert and then at the man who stood unmoving before her. Eventually, a small smile played on Hitler’s lips, and he dipped his head forward to adorn her hand once more with a kiss. “On the contrary, Fräulein. Your bright eyes are riveting.” He turned so the crowd could hear him. “And how refreshing it is to meet someone who speaks her mind so plainly and without remorse. Much like myself,” he added as he winked at Ursula. “Will you dine with me this evening, my dear?”
“Thank you, Herr Hitler, but I cannot. I must return home to attend to my father. He’s ill.”
“Oh, my dear. I am so sorry to hear that. I shall send my personal physician to see him tomorrow.”
Ebert cleared his throat. “I’m certain, Fräulein Becker, that you can spare an evening with Herr Hitler if he’s willing to send his personal physician to see your father tomorrow, can you not?”
Ursula turned to face the director. “Unfortunately, Herr Ebert, I would be remiss if I didn’t return home immediately, per my father’s instructions.”
She turned back to Hitler and offered her most winning smile. “I’m sure an important man like yourself will understand that I cannot disobey my father.”
Hitler’s eyes burned brightly as he patted her hand. “Oh, my dear. Germany should have more women like you. Intelligent, talented, and simply breathtaking. Of course, you shall return home per your father’s directive. Expect Dr. Brandt in the morning.”
“You’re too kind, Herr Hitler. Thank you for your generosity.”
He inclined his head. “I wonder, though, if I might have the pleasure of yo
ur company on another occasion? Perhaps a small dinner when I am hosting some close friends?” His intimate gaze lingered on her lips.
Ursula paused as Hilde’s concerns ran through her mind. Although his overtness disconcerted her, he had been nothing but kind. “I thank you for your gracious invitation.”
“Perfect.” His piercing stare went through her, as if he were gazing into the past. “I shall have my personal secretary be in touch, my dear. Until then.”
He kissed her hand once more, released her, and the room came back to life. She realized that no one had moved during her interchange with Hitler, as if the crowd were hanging on his every word. Indeed, when he had spoken to her, everything else had seemed to fall away, as if she were the most important person in his world. Ursula understood why Herr Ebert was so impressed with Adolf Hitler. He had a charisma about him that drew people in. She couldn’t wait to tell her father about the kind man who was sending his personal physician to her home tomorrow.
3
“Absolutely not!” Otto Becker thundered. “Under no circumstances is anyone affiliated with that crazy man allowed in my house!”
“Papa, how can you say that? You bleed when you cough. You’re unable to take care of Anna and me. We need help, and Herr Hitler has offered it. How can we possibly turn his physician away?”
Otto stood with the aid of thirteen-year-old Anna. Leaning on her thin arm, he rose to his full height. His clear blue eyes were wide as he shook his crooked finger and spoke with great clarity of tone. “Ursula, I have known men like Hitler before. Nothing good will come from associating with him.”
Her father turned toward the small kitchen in their two-bedroom flat. Using the sparse furniture as touchstones, he slowly made his way to the kitchen table and sat down heavily in a wooden chair that groaned under his weight. Ursula watched him wince as pain shot up his back and settled into his neck, which sat at an awkward angle against his left shoulder. A bullet from the Great War had lodged against his spine and was slowly putting pressure on the surrounding nerves. That, combined with a phlegmy cough that had recently turned bloody, left him unable to work consistently. Ursula looked on mutely, afraid to intervene lest he lash out in frustration. Her heart sank as she watched Otto remove a small flask from the windowsill and toss back its contents. He held the flask aloft and shook it to ensure the last drops fell into his mouth, then turned suddenly to Anna and ordered her to get him some more.
Swan Song Page 2