Swan Song

by Elizabeth B. Splaine

  A knock sounded and the door opened. Anna appeared, her eyes scanning the dressing room. “Ursula, are you losing your mind? To whom were you speaking?”

  Ursula smiled. “I was speaking to myself, dear sister. Sometimes I’m my own best company.”

  Anna crossed to Ursula and kissed both cheeks. “I came to wish you well this evening. Yet another premiere for my esteemed older sister.”

  “Emphasis on ‘older,’” Ursula commented as she examined her visage for premature, unseemly lines.

  “Oh, Ursula, don’t be ridiculous. You’re at the height of your beauty. All of Berlin speaks of the diva who brings men to their knees. I have heard you described as a siren by none other than the Führer.”

  Ursula rolled her eyes. “A siren? I think not.”

  “What is this?” Anna asked as she picked up the letter. “Herr Ebert wants you to go to England?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I was discussing with myself when you entered.”

  “Do you want to go?”

  Ursula thought a moment. “No. I do not. I want to remain in Berlin, but I’m concerned about the Führer’s generosity waning over time.”

  Anna looked away. “You needn’t concern yourself with that.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Anna shrugged. “I believe that as long as you attend to your music, you’ll be fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  Ursula examined Anna. “You’ve cut and dyed your hair.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Does he?”

  “Who?”

  Ursula narrowed her eyes.

  “Yes, he likes it.”

  “You know, Anna, with your hair in that style you resemble Hitler’s niece, Geli. You know who I mean? She committed suicide nine years ago.”

  “I know who she is. Was.”

  “Now that I think about it, she was about the same age as you are now when she started spending a lot of time with her uncle. A lot of time.”

  Anna rounded on her sister. “What is your point, Ursula? Speak plainly or not at all, as Papa is fond of saying.”

  “Alright.” Ursula turned in her chair. “Are you in love with him, Anna? You spend every spare minute talking about him, drawing his likeness. Ever since you met him at the amphitheater two years ago, you and he have dined together on countless occasions. You attend his rallies and spew Nazi doctrine. I feel like I don’t know who you are.”

  “You don’t seem to mind dining on his food, Ursula. Besides, you don’t understand him. He’s kind and makes me feel special.”

  “You are special, Anna. That’s why I don’t want you to spend any more time with that man.”

  “He says that I’m a prodigy. A German prodigy.”

  “He is using you. Do you understand?”

  Anna set her mouth.

  Ursula sighed. “In the end, Anna, you are related to a Jew. Your relationship, or whatever you have with him, will end badly.”

  Anna smiled in triumph. “That’s where you are wrong. The Führer says that I am Aryan, and I play the violin as only an Aryan could. My fingers are exceptionally long and shapely, as most Aryans’ are. See?” She extended her hands and wiggled her well-manicured fingers.

  “What does being Aryan mean, Anna?”

  “I asked the same question, and the Führer told me that it’s not enough to be blond and blue-eyed. One must be defined by the Reich as being a member of the master race in order to be considered Aryan. It is quite an honor, especially considering that you are—”

  Ursula stood and put her face close to Anna’s. “You’re making me very uncomfortable because I’m starting to think that you believe Hitler’s vile lies.”

  Anna tilted her head. “They’re not lies. The Jews are truly ruining the fatherland. And not only Germany, but all of Europe. The United States government is run by money-grubbing, capitalist Jews.”

  Ursula grabbed Anna’s shoulders. “Stop it, Anna! Do you hear yourself? You’re no longer allowed to spend any time with that madman. I will speak to Papa and see to it, mark my words.”

  Anna smiled openly. “Papa doesn’t mind, Ursula. He understands.” Ursula thought back to Otto’s comment about remaining close to Hitler. I wonder how close he meant?

  A voice called through the door. “Ursula? It’s Hilde. Are you ready for me?”

  “We’ll finish this conversation later, Anna. Come in, Hilde.”

  Hilde waltzed in with Ursula’s costume and spread it across the chaise. “Anna, how lovely to see you! My, what a fine addition you have been to the symphony!”

  “Thank you, Hilde. I must go, sister. But don’t worry. I won’t mention our discussion today to any of my friends. Nor will I mention that you are considering leaving the fatherland for England.”

  “What?” Hilde gasped.

  Ursula glared at Anna. “I’m not leaving, Hilde.”

  “I should hope not,” Hilde muttered as she organized her hair and makeup brushes.

  Ursula said, “I’ll be speaking with Papa later.”

  Anna opened the door and gave her a smug smile. “I’m sure you will.”

  After Anna left, Ursula glanced at Herr Ebert’s letter, wondering if she should reconsider his offer. Hilde interrupted her thoughts. “Did you hear about Fritz Rosen?”

  Ursula jerked her head up. “What about him?”

  “He’s no longer at the opera house. I was told that he was classified as being ‘unwilling to work.’”

  Ursula’s mind floated back to her debut, when she’d become overwhelmed at the audience’s positive response. Fritz had been at her side, offering support and kindness. “That doesn’t make sense. He was always the first person here before a performance and the last to leave afterwards. He is a wonderful, kind man. The hardest worker I know.”

  “Yes. It’s awful. Last I heard he was on a train heading east along with some others. Who knows? Perhaps he’ll find some good work there.”

  12

  As the final chord descended with a thunderous clap, the crowd was on its feet, cheering and crying. Ursula glanced at the maestro, who offered her a tight smile. Ursula responded in kind, as they both knew that tonight’s performance had not been her best. Not even close. She had been so distracted by her conversation with Anna that she had forgotten her lines not once, but twice during the opera. She had muddled through, and the audience had been entertained, so she supposed she should be happy.

  After taking two curtain calls, Ursula stood at the top of the staircase receiving well-wishers. Despite her concerns about the wartime economy affecting opera attendance, the line snaked down the stairs and out the door, reminding her that music knew no race, color, or creed, and how its universal language could permeate all socioeconomic and religious barriers. She observed the people waiting to greet her and realized that many—no, most—were either Nazi officers and their wives or the wealthy with swastika armbands advertising solidarity with the Reich.

  With a jolt she realized that she was most likely the only Jew in the room.

  Yet, people revered her. The reviews of her performances in the Nazi newspapers were always brimming with praise such as “exquisite tone quality” and “impeccable phrasing.” She would often receive notes and gifts from up-and-coming officers who wanted to express their “undying affection” and desire to spend time with her. She would graciously accept the gifts—usually some hard-to-find food, coffee, or cigarettes—then readily give it away to Hilde or one of the other opera house staff. The officers either had no idea that she was Jewish or chose to ignore it given her celebrity, and she wondered how long she could continue taking advantage of their generosity. None of them knew about her relationship with Willy, as Hitler had mandate
d it remain a secret. Willy told her that if men thought she were available, their morale would remain high. But Ursula believed it was because she was a mischling. If it were known that Hitler paid homage to a Jewish diva, his Christlike status might be diminished. Either way, the gifts she received contributed to her community.

  “Are you ill, dear?”

  Ursula started and realized that she’d been daydreaming. A white-haired, matronly woman wearing a fox stole was smiling and holding her hand. Ursula glanced at the beady glass eyes of the unfortunate fox and felt a stab of camaraderie with the dead bauble.

  “Please excuse me. I don’t feel well.” Ursula glanced at the new opera director, then slipped through a small door built into the wall. She returned to her dressing room to find Willy sitting in her makeup chair.

  “There she is! My favorite—” Willy stopped short when he saw her face. “What is it, Ursula?”

  “I’m the hired help.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was standing on the staircase receiving patrons when I suddenly realized that I was the only Jew in the room.” Willy looked away.

  “You know it to be true!”

  Willy tilted his head at her. “That fact does not diminish how the public feels about you, Ursula.”

  Her face crumpled. “Really, Willy? You don’t think they would turn on me in an instant if they knew? I have half a mind to tell them myself!”

  Willy sat up straighter. “You wouldn’t do that. You’d be putting your family at risk.”

  Ursula rolled her eyes. “Anna would be fine. She’s Aryan. Your uncle told her so.”

  Willy approached her and brushed some hair from her eyes. “Anna is safer with Uncle than without him. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Ursula twisted her mouth, unable to bring herself to acknowledge it aloud.

  “Ursula, Anna is not Aryan. She doesn’t fit the requirements.”

  “But she told me—”

  Willy shook his head, interrupting her. “My uncle made her Aryan.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Willy shrugged. “He had her papers altered. Her status is now listed as Aryan.”

  A sudden burst of anger shot through Ursula. “That horrendous fop has altered her brain! She seems to honestly believe the filth that your uncle and his cronies are spouting!” Ursula collapsed in the chair and buried her face in her hands. Willy knelt before her.

  “Look at me, Ursula.” Ursula lifted her head. “You are the most exquisite jewel, to me and to my uncle.”

  “Then why am I not deemed Aryan?”

  Willy examined her face. “Would you like to be? I’m sure it could be arranged.”

  Ursula’s eyebrows knitted in thought and then she blew out a frustrated mouthful of air. “No!”

  “I didn’t think so. There are many differences between you and your sister, but your honor and integrity are among the most obvious.”

  “So, it’s that simple? I could request a reclassification and obtain it forthwith?”

  “Only if you have special access. Or a lot of money.”

  Ursula’s mouth dropped. “One can purchase Aryan status?”

  “Of course. Everything is negotiable these days. The Weiss family just assured their freedom through reclassification. They are now considered Aryan.”

  “Do you mean the Weiss family that lives on Petersstrasse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Herr Weiss is the brother of the rabbi who oversaw the temple on the same street, is he not?”

  “He is.”

  Ursula shook her head and stood, then paced around the small dressing room. “This is lunacy.”

  “It’s going to get worse, Ursula.”

  Ursula stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it, but the war is going well in France. Paris should fall any day.”

  Ursula winced. “Just like you said.”

  “His chess game continues. Soon Paris will be part of the Reich. Rumor has it that all anti-Semitic decrees will be enforced there as they have been here.”

  “Where will all of the Jews go? Many of the German Jews fled west and now they’ll be displaced again? Where will they go?” she repeated.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about the United States? Surely that country would authorize admittance?”

  “Apparently, their Congress has not altered immigration laws, so at this point no more immigrants are allowed entry.”

  “Even if they are desperate and have nowhere else to go?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “Willy, what does it mean when someone is labeled as unwilling to work?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because Fritz Rosen, the wonderfully kind property custodian, was labeled as such, and now he’s no longer employed here. Hilde said that he’s taken a train east. Do you know anything about that?”

  Willy sucked air quickly and then exhaled slowly.

  “Willy?”

  “Ursula, sit down.”

  “Why?”

  “Just . . . sit down.”

  Willy’s eyes traveled the room, searching for the right words. “There are camps that were created for political dissidents.”

  “Camps?”

  “Yes. Places where political dissidents are housed. They’re put to work there.”

  “Doing what?”

  “All sorts of things.”

  “Who are these political dissidents?”

  “People who have spoken out against the Führer and the Reich.”

  “And these camps . . . the guests are treated well?”

  “They are fed and housed.”

  “Are they allowed to come and go as they please?”

  “No.”

  “So, it’s a prison.”

  “Of sorts.”

  “Have you seen one of these camps?”

  “In photographs.”

  “I see.” Ursula nodded and looked at her hands. One of her nails had broken, she noted absentmindedly. “And you’re telling me this because you believe that Fritz was sent to one of these camps?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “For what crime? He wasn’t a political person, or even an outspoken man. My goodness, he had trouble looking in my eyes when we spoke.”

  “If he wasn’t a political dissident, maybe he was sent to a ghetto.”

  “What’s a ghetto?”

  Willy’s shoulders dropped. Ursula could tell that this information weighed heavily on his mind, but she had to know.

  “A ghetto is a place where enemies of the Reich are sent to live.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “Ursula, there’s a ghetto in Poland that’s about three-square kilometers but houses four hundred thousand people. They are confined to that small area. If they try to leave, they’ll be killed.”

  Ursula shook her head. “That many people in such a small area is impossible. They would be on top of one another.”

  “Living conditions are very bad. Food and medicine are scarce.”

  Ursula’s eyes narrowed. “Willy, Fritz was not the kind of person who would ever harm a fly. He is, in fact, the exact opposite of that. So, tell me, Herr Hitler, how could my soft-spoken friend ever be considered an ‘enemy of the Reich’?”

  “He’s Jewish.”

  Ursula burst out laughing. “You’re joking! That is utterly ridiculous! I understand that the Nazis hate the Jews, and they want them out of Germany. But being Jewish is not a crime for which he should be imprisoned. Stealing is a crime. Murder is a crime. But being Jewish is not a crime.”

  Willy grabbed her shoulders. “Look at my face, Ursula. I have never been more serious in my life. People keep saying things will get better
, that the restrictions on Jews will be lifted and everything will go back to normal. Honestly, I can’t even remember what normal looks like.”

  “I can,” Ursula whispered, suddenly sober. “Normal is a place where I could walk the streets without fear of seeing someone stomped to death. It’s greeting my neighbors without fear of being reported. Normal is being able to speak my mind without fear of being killed, and being able to purchase goods from anyone, even if they’re Jewish.” Tears ran down her face, tracing crooked lines in her makeup. “I remember normal, Willy. It was a beautiful, warm, calm place that all of us took for granted.”

  “Oh, Ursula.” Willy gathered her in his arms.

  “You say that things will get worse. What is to become of me, the only Jew in this entire opera house?”

  He didn’t answer. He simply held her tightly against him. She wished that they could remain there, wrapped in the glorious color of their love, while the drab, gray outside world faded away.

  “What if you weren’t a Jew?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes smudged black with mascara and eyeliner. “We already discussed this. I will not be reclassified on principle. So many people are worse off than I am. I shouldn’t receive special treatment.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “How else could I become . . . not Jewish?”

  Willy knelt and took her hands in his. “I was waiting for the right time to do this, but I don’t believe that there will be a better time.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Ursula Estelle Becker, since the day I met you I have been hopelessly, desperately in love with you. It would be the greatest honor of my life to call you my wife. Will you marry me?”

  13

  Ursula stood frozen in place, her face a mosaic of smudged makeup and her mouth forming a small ‘o.’

  Words poured from Willy’s mouth, as if pent up too long and finally finding release. “Ursula, I love you. I think about you all the time and when I sleep, you’re in my dreams. We’ve been dating for two years and I cannot imagine spending my life with anyone else.”