Swan Song

by Elizabeth B. Splaine

  “I see.” Ursula nodded as she considered the fact that two hundred less people could now attend a performance simply because one man wanted a better view.

  The minister’s eyes wandered around the reception hall. She was reminded of a hawk scouring a field for a mouse. “The Führer redecorated this space.”

  Ursula followed his gaze around the large room highlighted with embroidered tapestries, crystal candelabras, and a stunning Steinway piano. “It is lovely. He has a good eye.”

  “He’s an artist to be sure. Take the rug on which you stand, for example. It was designed for the League of Nations—”

  “The same League of Nations from which Herr Hitler resigned Germany some years ago?” Ursula asked. She caught her breath, immediately regretting her impulsive outburst. She was glad that Willy was out of earshot. He would not have been pleased at her inauspicious comment.

  The minister paused. “Yes. There is only one League of Nations. Now, as I was saying, this rug was designed for the League, but when the final payment became due, the League could no longer afford such opulence. Luckily, our Führer intervened and purchased the rug at his own expense, thereby saving the League great embarrassment.”

  Before Ursula could respond, Goebbels slapped his heels together. His entire body quivered like a hunting dog on point. She turned to find the Führer approaching, a half smile fixed on his waxen face. His eyes caressed her as he waved his hand at Goebbels, silently telling him to stand down. Hitler’s movements were graceful, almost effeminate, as he swept his bangs away from his eyes. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, brushing it ever so gently against his tiny moustache. His lewd scrutiny, coupled with that tiny gesture, made her want to flee to the restroom and wash herself.

  “Fräulein Becker, it is my honor to see you again. It has been several months, I believe, since I last gazed upon your lovely countenance. Tell me, how is your father’s health?”

  As he spoke, he raised his gaze to meet Ursula’s. In an instant, she knew that Willy’s rosy assessment of his uncle had been incorrect. Ursula may resemble the niece he loved, and he may be taken with her singing, but by raising the issue of Otto’s health, Hitler was referencing the fact that she had rebuffed his kindness five years ago. Five years ago! She had hoped they were past the slight, but clearly not. Hitler’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Ursula instinctively removed her hand from his grasp.

  “He’s very well, thank you.”

  “I trust that the new opera director is treating you well?”

  Ursula paused, sensing a trap. Carl Ebert had left Germany several years ago in response to growing Nazi extremism. Since then, a flurry of artistic and administrative directors had taken the role, vying for Hitler’s favor. Knowing that she should answer one way but wanting to respond differently, Ursula managed to find a middle ground. “Each director with whom I’ve had the pleasure of working has been more than accommodating. I miss Herr Ebert, but I understand that he has found a new opera home in England.”

  A small smile played upon Hitler’s lips. “Carl Ebert did not appreciate the perfect nature of German opera, my dear. He is better suited to a capitalist society in which he can impart his non-Aryan talent on less artistically proficient minds.”

  Goebbels snickered as Willy and another man walked toward them. Willy smiled encouragingly at Ursula, and she was reminded how much he wanted her to like his uncle. She swallowed, then smiled shyly. “You would know best, Herr President.”

  “What are we discussing?” Willy asked as he handed Ursula a glass of champagne. She took a sip and met the piercing gaze of the man with Willy. She recognized him as Heinrich Himmler, Hitler’s leader of the SS. His brown hair was tidy, and over his thin lips sat a caterpillar moustache. His weak chin and droopy cheeks gave him the unmistakable resemblance to a hound dog. His beady eyes ran the length of her form, then summarily dismissed her by turning his full attention to the Führer.

  “We were discussing the superiority of Aryan musicians,” Hitler responded. He winked at Ursula. “Despite one notable exception, it is a fact that Jewish opera singers are not as talented as Aryan singers. The Jewish musculature is different. It does not allow for the depth and breadth of tone that Aryan forms do.”

  Ursula stifled an urge to laugh out loud at such a ridiculous comment. Instead, she glanced at each member of the small group, waiting for someone to disagree with the Führer. No one did. In fact, most were nodding in agreement. Willy stared at his champagne.

  “I sang with Ali Kurtz, and I found her timbre and tone to be exquisite, exceptional even. I haven’t seen her in some time, however.”

  Hitler’s steady gaze never wavered from Ursula’s face. Goebbels said, “Yes. It is unfortunate that Fräulein Kurtz is no longer able to sing.”

  Ursula turned to him. “What do you mean?”

  Goebbels looked sad. “Well, I have heard that she fell ill. The Jews are not hearty. It is not in their natures to accommodate changes in the climate.”

  Ursula clenched her teeth. She wanted to reprimand these dolts on their bigoted views but knew it would end badly. She glanced at Willy, whose eyes held an unspoken plea. She tried to end the subject by saying, “I suppose I should pay a visit to Fräulein Kurtz, if for no other reason than to wish her well.”

  Hitler placed his hand on her arm. She glanced at it and noted that his fingernails were chewed to the quick.

  “I would not do that, my dear.”

  Adrenaline flooded her.

  Hitler’s mouth formed a moue, and his pupils flared. “It is not a good idea for someone of your exceptional talents to be associating with such swine. One might believe that you lower yourself to their mediocrity, or worse, that you sympathize with them.” He patted her arm. “We wouldn’t want people thinking that, would we?” Hitler met each person’s eyes before rounding back to Ursula. “Just think what it might do to your blossoming career and how your family might suffer because of it.” Hitler smiled condescendingly. “No. We cannot have that. Not when your star is still on the rise.”

  For the first time in her life, Ursula was speechless. She wanted to scream at him, to run from the room, to release the torrent of anger that threatened to overwhelm her. She looked to Willy. His eyes registered embarrassment and sadness as they begged for her compliance. She returned her gaze to Hitler, who observed her carefully. His veiled threat was real, she had no doubt, and she finally understood what her father had been trying to relay to her for the last five years. Adolf Hitler would stop at nothing in his quest for dominance.

  8

  Ursula rose early the following day and dressed quickly, hoping to avoid questions from her father regarding the previous evening. To her dismay, she exited her bedroom to find Otto sitting at the kitchen table, a steaming mug in his hand. The aroma filled the small apartment, and Ursula’s mouth began to water.

  “Papa, is that coffee? Where did you get it? Did you steal it?” she joked.

  Her father offered her the mug.

  “Willy dropped off some grounds this morning.”

  She inhaled the richness before taking a large gulp that burned her tongue. “Willy was here?”

  “Only for a moment. He said that you left the party quickly last night and that he was worried about you.”

  Ursula froze, knowing what was coming.

  “You told me Willy wasn’t attending the party.”

  Caught in the lie, Ursula had a choice to make—tell her father the truth or continue the deceit. Her stomach heaved at both choices, but she decided quickly. She handed the mug back to Otto and turned toward the window. “He wasn’t planning to attend but changed his mind and showed up at the last minute.” She turned around and smiled.

  The lie seemed to appease Otto’s concerns, as he settled back in his chair and wrapped his hands around the warm mug. “I see. Did you quarrel with him?”


  She turned away quickly so he couldn’t see her face. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Because he left so quickly this morning. I invited him inside, but he declined. He said he didn’t want to bother me. He seemed different somehow. What are you not telling me, Ursula?”

  She tried to hold his earnest gaze but failed. Her eyes traced a crooked gouge in the wood floorboard, created by an errant pull of a kitchen chair. “I spoke to Hitler, Papa.”

  Otto drew a quick breath and dropped his head. “I knew it.”

  Ursula sat across from him. “You’re correct. He’s not well in the head. The way he discusses the Jews . . . it’s scary. He wants to rid Berlin of all Jews.”

  Her father laughed mirthlessly. “If only it were just Berlin, my love. No, it’s all of Germany.”

  “You cannot be serious.” Ursula blanched. “What will he do with all of them?”

  “He wants them to move east, out of Germany. He’s making their lives more difficult in the hope that they will just go away. I’ve seen signs on shops owned by Jews that say ‘Defend yourself against Jewish atrocity propaganda. Buy only at German shops.’”

  “I’ve seen those signs as well.”

  “He’s rebuilding the army, and now that he’s invaded Rhineland, the Jews are no longer welcome there either.”

  They sat quietly for a moment, taking turns sipping from the coffee mug. “So, if you and Willy didn’t quarrel, why did you leave the party so quickly?”

  Ursula looked at her hands, which picked at a small tear in her light blue dress. “You won’t like the answer, Papa, but you’ll be proud of me.”

  She stole a glance at Otto and saw kindness and concern. She took a deep breath. “I stood up for a Jewish singer who is no longer performing due to illness. You know her. Ali Kurtz.”

  Otto narrowed his eyes. He stretched his fingers and then folded them into fists that he rested carefully on the tabletop. They reminded her of a coiled snake whose latent power was deadly when unleashed. “Go on.”

  Ursula swallowed, then described the evening, starting with her initial lie and finishing with the quiet walk home. Following her discussion with the Führer, Ursula had quickly excused herself and Willy had followed, trying to engage her in conversation, but she had remained mute. There had been nothing to say. Well, that wasn’t quite true. There was a lot to say, but she didn’t want to quarrel with Willy, so she had remained silent.

  After hearing the entire story, Otto leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Ursula, you lied to me. I understand that you were trying to spare my feelings, but please don’t do that again. It’s imperative that we remain honest with each other. You and your sister are all I have. I cannot lose you.” His voice caught.

  She reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “Please forgive me, Papa. I won’t lie to you again. It was wrong of me. Immature. I should have trusted that you have my best interests in your heart.”

  He gazed at her with such unconditional love that she thought her heart would break.

  “Always,” he whispered. “I always have your best interests in my heart. Your colleague, Ali Kurtz. I’m sure that she’s not ill. She’s most likely not allowed to perform anymore because she’s Jewish. I’m proud of you for standing up for her, but you must be more careful. The Führer might tolerate your insolence if he believes that your voice is a benefit to Germany. But do not be fooled. The second you become a liability you will be expendable. Do you understand?”

  Ursula nodded and wiped away tears.

  “This is a dangerous time to be alive, and you’re walking a tightrope. It’s not just you on that rope, Ursula. It’s Anna and me as well. Please don’t forget that.”

  Hitler’s words ran through her mind. How your family might suffer. An involuntary shudder shook her. “I’ll remember, Papa.”

  The sound of breaking glass drew them to the window where they watched in horror as an elderly man was dragged into the street. Two SS officers screamed questions at him, and each time he tried to answer, they kicked him. Ursula turned away and returned to the table, where she lay her forehead on her arms. “We should help him,” she whispered.

  “We cannot. If we do, we will be laying in the street as well.”

  “What’s happening, Papa? The world has turned on its head.”

  Anna emerged from the bedroom, escaped strands of plaited blond hair standing on end. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Who is screaming?”

  “It’s of no concern to you, my dear. Go back to sleep,” Otto said.

  Ignoring her father, Anna crossed to the window and observed the wretched scene unfolding outside. Ursula noted that Anna didn’t flinch or turn away. It saddened her to realize that her younger sister had seen so much violence that the spectacle of a man being beaten meant little. “That’s Herr Liebovitz,” Anna noted dully. “Oh. Someone is coming to help him. A woman.”

  Ursula stood and placed her arm around Anna’s shoulders, pulling her close. Together they watched the woman approach the SS officers. One of them rounded on her and slapped her hard enough to send her reeling backwards, where she landed hard on the cobblestones.

  “Oh, my God,” Anna whispered.

  Otto ordered, “Anna, step away from the window!”

  “That’s Frau Bergmann!”

  Ursula squinted to better see the woman’s face. “Your violin teacher?”

  “Yes. I must help her!”

  Before they could stop her, Anna bolted out of the apartment and down the stairs. They watched from above as she rushed to Frau Bergmann and knelt beside her, gathering the small woman in her arms. Anna touched her left hand to the back of Frau Bergmann’s head, then looked at it. She turned to Ursula and Otto framed in the upstairs window and held up her hand toward them. It was covered in blood.

  Ursula’s hand flew to her mouth. Until this moment the Nazi movement had been an abstract thing, an ugly monster that had affected others. A plague that had mercifully avoided her family. An inconvenience in terms of roadblocks and curfews. But Ursula knew this woman who now lay unmoving on the street for attempting to aid a man who was treated unfairly. Frau Bergmann was a pillar in the community. She had four children of her own and a husband who was bedridden due to a muscular disease. She worked tirelessly, for her family and for her community. Ursula ran toward the door.

  “Do not leave this apartment!” Otto’s voice thundered through the small space. Ursula froze in mid-stride. She turned to argue but stopped short when she saw her father’s face. His eyes were wild, and tears flowed freely down his cheeks. She had never seen her father cry, not even when her mother and stepmother had died.

  “Papa, I must help Anna and Frau—”

  “I cannot lose you too! I could not bear it, Ursula. I cannot lose my two girls. If you go out there—” Sobs burst from his mouth, uncontrollable ejections of sound and spittle. Otto collapsed into a chair as Ursula looked on helplessly, torn between her father and her sister. After a moment of impossible, frozen indecision, she whispered, “I’m sorry, Papa, but I must help Anna.”

  She took the stairs three at a time and exited the building to find Herr Liebovitz cowering against a fallen bicycle. He was desperately trying to make himself less of a target for the black leather boots that continued to find their mark. Ursula winced as another blow landed, but she hurried over to where Anna knelt.

  “How is she?”

  “Still breathing. Can we carry her to our apartment?”

  “Yes. You take her arms and I’ll take her legs. Come on.”

  It took them three tries before they maneuvered the unconscious woman into a position that allowed them to securely transport her. As they passed the two Nazi soldiers, the smaller one sneered and narrowed his eyes.

  “Halt!” he ordered in a clipped tone. Ursula and Anna stopped and cast their eyes downward. Frau Bergmann’s body sudd
enly seemed very heavy and hung low between them.

  “Schau mich an, junge Frau,” he ordered. Ursula obliged and raised her blazing eyes to meet his. He evaluated her for a long time before breaking into a smile.

  “Ich kenne Sie.”

  “You know me?” Ursula asked. “I don’t believe that we’ve had the pleasure of meeting, mein gutter Herr.” She offered a winning smile, acutely aware of how bizarre it was for the two of them to be conversing over an unconscious body.

  “You are the opera singer, Ursula Becker!”

  “You are correct. And you are?”

  The soldier lowered his rifle and placed his right hand on his chest, bowing formally. “Heinz Braun. I enjoy your singing immensely. Might you sing for us, Fräulein?”

  “Right now?” Ursula asked as she looked at Frau Bergmann and then back at the soldier.

  “Of course, you cannot. You are busy. Perhaps another time then?”

  “I would love to sing for you, Herr Braun.” She smiled. Ursula’s eyes flitted to the beaten older man. “Might you do me the favor of allowing Herr Liebovitz to return to his family?” Ursula’s arms burned from the strain of holding Frau Bergmann. Anna remained silent, but her arms shook from the strain.

  The soldier glanced at the broken man curled in a protective ball and spat on the pavement. “Gehen! Judisches Schwein! Get out of here!”

  The older man threw Ursula a grateful look and then stood slowly and limped away, cradling a dislocated arm. The second soldier joined Ursula and Braun. He leered at Anna in her nightgown. “Is this your sister? She is very pretty.”

  Ursula raged inside but smiled serenely. “She is my sister. Only eighteen years old, sir.”

  He leered at Anna while sucking on rotting teeth. “You should be careful, Heinz.”

  “Why?”

  “Do not become enamored with the elder Fräulein Becker. There is a rumor that she is on the mischling list. We must leave. Come.”

  The younger soldier’s eyebrows came together, and he examined Ursula with renewed interest. “That would be a shame,” he mumbled as he sauntered away.