“Me? Oh, no. My artistic talent doesn’t extend to singing.”
The composer smiled. “Then we’re agreed. Choir rehearsals begin in September.”
The summer passed in a blur of work and personal rehearsal. Ursula would complete her required duties and then report to the Magdeburg basement, where she and Schächter would rehearse the soprano solo until the curfew horn sounded. She would rush back to Dresden and fall asleep humming, only to awaken and do the same thing all over again. The weather had turned sunny and warm, matching her disposition perfectly. If it weren’t for missing Willy and the constant hunger pangs that punctuated her day, she would have said she was content. She hadn’t even noticed that every woman and child in Dresden, to a person, had been shipped east within the last few months until Addi pointed it out to her.
“You really didn’t notice, Ursula?”
Ursula gawked at the strange faces surrounding her. There were far more people in their bunkroom than she remembered ever seeing. She recognized none of them. “I really didn’t.”
Addi shook her head. “Well, I’m glad you’re happy, all things considered.”
September finally arrived. The day of the first rehearsal lasted forever as Ursula completed her kitchen duties and attended an art class with Addi. She kept glancing out the window to determine the time, and when the sun finally fell prey to darkness, she could no longer contain her excitement. Addi had to remind her to maintain her composure lest the guards become angry.
Later that evening, after the children had fallen asleep and most of the guards had withdrawn to the outside walls of the ghetto, Addi and Ursula crossed the compound to Magdeburg barracks. They slipped through the open door and down the stone stairs to the basement, where they found a large group quietly performing vocal warm-ups. Ursula’s heart raced as she scanned the crowd, noting only a few familiar faces. As she joined in, she found that she couldn’t stop smiling.
Schächter waved his hands as he conducted and then suddenly closed his fists. The group ceased singing and the maestro smiled.
“Ah. A group that is already well-trained. I appreciate that. Now to business. We have only one copy of the music, so we must all memorize our parts via rote repetition. As the Requiem is sung in four parts—soprano, alto, tenor, and bass—we will divide and conquer. Basses, please come to the piano to review your part with me while the other three sections rehearse as best you can.”
Ursula walked to the corner of the room closest to the stairs. She turned around and was shocked to see a group of women approach and stare expectantly at her.
“Fräulein Becker, will you please lead us in the opening of the piece?” someone asked.
Ursula opened her mouth to protest when someone else added, “Please, Fräulein?”
Not knowing how she could gracefully decline the request, she nodded with much more confidence than she felt. Singing required a certain skill. But conducting was a different animal altogether. However, Ursula’s insecurity fell away as she led the sopranos through the beginning of the Requiem. Like a steady flow of water gracefully wends its way around bends in the riverbed, voices swelled and lowered as the music demanded.
By the end of the first movement, tears of joy streamed down her face. She smiled, proud of her talented group, and noted tearful faces grinning back at her. The maestro had been correct in pushing forward in this endeavor. Oh, but how I have missed music! she thought gleefully. As she glanced at the undernourished, unwashed prisoners in the other vocal groups, she felt herself coming alive again. Embers of hope were stoked, motivating her to promise herself that she would persevere, survive, and find Willy, no matter the odds. She had forgotten what it felt like to be happy, to be lost in the music. She had forgotten the joy of working with others to create a work of art that was so much bigger than herself. “Persist,” she heard Marika whisper. Ursula smiled. “I will,” she whispered back.
A hacking sound in the tenor section drew her attention. All eyes turned to see a man sink to the floor, wheezing and coughing up blood. His brown, burlap shirt hung on his wasted frame and his pants were held up with a tightly knotted rope. He turned toward her as he coughed, and she noted that he was missing two teeth and had crepe paper arms. She walked over to him even as the others were backing away, putting distance between themselves and the ill man. As she knelt next to him, his rheumy eyes focused and came to life.
“Fräulein, it’s nice to see you again,” he wheezed.
Ursula’s breath caught. “Fritz?”
“Ja.” His smile was interrupted by a new round of coughing that left the area around him stained red. Onlookers stepped back farther.
Ursula’s expression betrayed the dismay she felt at seeing his unhealthy state. Willy had told her that Fritz was in Dachau. She wondered if he’d been mistaken or whether Fritz had been moved. In the end, it didn’t matter. He was here now.
“I know that I look a fright.” A shaky hand reached atop his head to smooth what remained of his wiry, unkempt hair.
Ursula shook her head. “No, Fritz. You look ever the man you always were.”
“Danke, Fräulein.”
Ursula smiled as a tear ran down her cheek. “I asked you to call me Ursula, remember?”
Fritz started coughing again. When the fit had subsided, Ursula stood and faced the crowd.
“This man is one of the most important people in the Berlin opera world. He single-handedly ensured that the opera house was impeccably clean and that the productions were carried out to his high standards. Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who don’t know him, this is Herr Fritz Rosen, and he is my friend.” She leaned down and wrapped her arm around his wasted body, then hoisted him to his feet. “I will walk you back to your barracks, Fritz.”
The gratitude in the old man’s eyes pained her as she maneuvered him up the narrow stairs. As they exited the building, he staggered and fell to the ground. She leaned down to retrieve him but stopped when she saw the look on his face. Following his gaze, she looked upwards, directly into the face of Commandant Siegfried Seidl.
37
Willy completed the first document in the enlistment packet and slid it to the side. In his peripheral vision, he saw the captain pick it up. He was so intent on his task that he didn’t notice Hicks’ expression as he reviewed it.
Hicks stood suddenly. “Is this some sort of joke?”
Willy looked up. “Excuse me?”
Hicks slapped the paper with the back of his right hand. “Hitler? Your last name is Hitler?”
Willy held his stare. “That’s right, sir.”
From Hicks’ disgusted expression, Willy could tell that he’d truly believed it was a bad joke.
“You’re serious. Please tell me that you’re not related to him.”
Willy remained silent.
“Oh, my God. Is he your father?”
Willy stood. “No, no, sir. He’s my uncle, and I’ve just spent several years with him in Germany—”
Hicks’ entire body tensed, and he raised his hand. Willy thought he might strike him, but Hicks pointed to the door. “Get out.”
Willy was speechless. “But sir, I’m serious about serving my country. You see, my fiancée is being held in one of the camps you mentioned, and I need to get to her—”
“Get. Out.”
Willy stopped speaking and gently placed the pen on the desk. “You’re making a mistake, sir. I could really help England in the war.”
“Yes. About that. How is it that you’re so certain about Hitler’s battle plans? Are you some sort of spy that plans to work both sides?” Hicks crossed from behind his desk and approached Willy.
Willy unconsciously stepped backwards to create more space between them. The office was so small that his back touched the wall. “No, sir. Of course not. I’ve spent a lot of time with my uncle over the last few years
and I can be of service in terms of intelligence.”
“I bet you can. Why didn’t you tell me your surname in the beginning? Why did you hide it?”
“I didn’t hide it.”
“But you didn’t say it either. Why not?”
Willy laughed bitterly. “Because I was concerned that I’d be received exactly like this.”
“Well, maybe if you’d been more forthcoming, I might have seen things differently.”
“But you need soldiers, sir, and I can fight. I want to fight!”
Willy’s chest heaved with suppressed frustration. Hicks glared at him for a moment, then suddenly his posture relaxed, and his eyes softened. He sat on the edge of the desk, crossed his arms over his chest, and sighed heavily. “Listen to me, son. The fact is that even if I approved your enlistment, my superiors wouldn’t. You’d be hounded by your fellow soldiers. Everyone would constantly question your loyalty. Can you imagine the field day the papers would have with the headline ‘Führer’s nephew joins the British army’? It just wouldn’t work.”
Willy’s shoulders sagged. His brain struggled to find words that would convince Hicks he was wrong, that Willy would be a strong asset to his fellow soldiers. But in the end, he simply held out his hand. Hicks took it. “I wish you the best. I really do.”
Willy nodded dejectedly and exited the office. He entered the cavernous foyer, and Nigel called out from the reception desk, “See you soon!” Willy didn’t look at him. He didn’t want the sergeant to see his tears. He held up his hand in good-bye and remained silent as he trudged slowly home.
He entered the empty house and collapsed on the settee. He sat hunched over, his head in his hands. Months had passed, and he was no closer to discovering Ursula’s whereabouts, much less being able to rescue her. Hicks’ comments about the work camps floated through his mind. Was Ursula scared? Was she being fed and clothed properly? Was she still alive? The final thought sent him reeling, and he raked his hands through his hair.
The jarring ring of the telephone jolted him from his nightmarish reverie. He stared at it, then reluctantly picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
Silence. Crackling.
“Hello?”
Breathing came across the line.
“Who is this?”
“Meet me in ten minutes at the Rusty Scupper.”
“What? Who is this?”
“You want answers? Meet me there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you have the wrong—”
A growl came through the phone. “Stop playing around! Meet me if you want to learn anything about Ursula.”
The call disconnected. Willy sat frozen, the receiver against his ear. He wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Then his mental fog shattered, and he was on his feet. He grabbed his coat and ran out the door, down the street, and across the small common. As he ran, he wondered how he would recognize the man on the phone. His voice had been unfamiliar, with an East London accent.
He arrived at the Rusty Scupper, threw open the door, and stepped down two stairs to the stone floor. The abrupt change from light to dark momentarily blinded him. In that moment, the voice from the phone mumbled, “Follow me.” As Willy’s eyes adjusted, the man turned away and walked to a small, sticky booth. Willy took a seat in front of a mug of warm ale. The man pointed to it, then took a swig of his own, half-drunk glass. Willy scanned the pub’s patrons. Overweight, middle-aged men circled the bar, glued to a football match on the tele. The dingy atmosphere reflected Willy’s sour, dark mood.
“Thank you for coming.”
Willy focused on the man seated opposite him. He was about Willy’s age but was prematurely balding and had a scar that severed his left eyebrow. “It’s not like I had a choice. If you have information about Ursula, I need to know.”
“You’ve been busy, that’s for sure. You must really love this girl.”
Willy’s eyebrows came together. “You’ve been following me?”
“For some time. Sorry about the enlistment. Rough one, that.”
Willy looked away. “How did you know?”
The man shrugged. “You don’t have to be a brain surgeon to know that the army wouldn’t accept a lad with your surname.” He finished his beer and pointed to Willy’s. “Are you going to drink that?”
Willy shook his head and slid it across the table.
“You need to stop searching for her, Willy.”
Willy’s anguish instantaneously dried up and became a solid nugget of anger. “Never.”
The man shook his head. He struck Willy as being genuinely sad. “It won’t end well for you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No. It’s a fact.”
“Where is she?”
The man’s eyes became hard. “This isn’t a game, yet you treat it like one, attempting to outsmart the Führer like you did. You shouldn’t have defied him, Willy. No one defies him and lives to talk about it.”
“Another threat.” The man held his gaze. “Tell me, how do you sleep at night knowing that you’re a traitor to your country?”
“My country betrayed me a long time ago. Besides, Hitler pays better.”
They locked eyes. “If he hurt her—”
The man chuckled. “You are so naïve, Willy. He is the Führer. He can do anything. Literally. How do you think the letter from Alois arrived? He has people everywhere. Watching. Waiting. He obviously knows your address. He knows that Otto lives with you. He knows . . . everything.”
Willy’s vision narrowed. He refused to be baited when Ursula’s life was at stake. “What did he do with her?”
The man suddenly leaned forward and spoke quickly. “I’ve been kind and patient but hear me when I say this: Every word of this exchange will make its way back to him, so I strongly suggest that you rethink your tone.” He leaned back, seemingly spent, and finished his ale in one massive gulp.
Anger twisted into terror that gripped Willy’s head in a vise. His voice sounded desperate to his own ears. “Did he hurt her?”
The man’s eyes settled on the football match. “Did you really think he would let you waltz away from the Reich with Ursula on your arm? Your actions gave him no choice. Did you honestly believe that he knew nothing about the false documents you obtained, or the plan to relocate?”
Willy fought the urge to cry. He pictured his uncle, seated in the Berghof by a roaring fire, caressing Blondi’s head. Then he pictured him at the height of anger, breathing heavily with spittle covering his lips. Willy had seen his fury many times but had never been its recipient. Understanding Hitler’s capacity for ruthlessness, terror for Ursula’s safety engulfed him.
The man removed a piece of paper from his pocket, then leaned forward again, his voice calm and quiet. “These next words are directly from your uncle, Willy. Listen carefully. ‘You came to Germany with nothing but my surname, and I opened my home and my heart to you, nephew. You have repaid me with disloyalty and treachery.’”
“I have not—”
“Silence!” the man ordered. “You have turned your back on me and the Reich. Therefore, you are no longer welcome. Ever.”
Willy’s entire body became numb. He was being excommunicated. The evidence lay in the finality of Hitler’s declaration and his curt manner of speech. Excommunication meant that his chances of finding Ursula dropped almost to zero.
“What of Ursula?” Willy whispered.
The man sighed deeply. “You’re single-minded, aren’t you? Here’s the rest of your uncle’s letter. ‘Like Geli, Ursula belongs to me now. Forever. You won’t see her again.’”
Like Geli. Willy’s head felt like it would explode, and he choked back a sob. When he spoke, his voice sounded otherworldly. “Is she alive?”
Seconds ticked by as the man stared at Willy. His fac
e was expressionless. A cheer went up from the bar as the favored team scored. The man’s eyes fell to the letter. He spoke so quietly that Willy strained to hear. “Ursula is dead.”
38
In a matter of seconds, Seidl’s face registered shock, happiness, then confusion upon recognizing Ursula.
“Fräulein, you are out past curfew.”
Being found outside after dark had resulted in several fatalities in the last few weeks. Ursula fought the panic that rose in her chest and offered her best smile. “Yes, Commandant. You see, we were downstairs rehearsing the Requiem, when I realized that my friend is ill and needs care.”
“Ah, yes. Verdi. A beautiful piece of work. I’m glad that you’re singing with the group. It thrills me actually.”
Ursula glanced at Fritz. Seidl’s lip curled upwards as he examined the ill man, who lay on the ground wheezing unevenly. Ursula wasn’t sure he was even conscious, as his glazed eyes were open but exhibited no fear given their current predicament.
“You can’t expect him to be taken to the medical facilities here. You know that medical care is for the guards only.”
“Yet I was seen for my nose upon arriving in the ghetto. You saw to it personally if I recall.” She smiled again and touched her healed nose for emphasis.
Seidl narrowed his eyes at her. “You are a clever one.” His gaze traveled along the lines of her body before settling on Fritz. “What’s wrong with this man?”
“I’m not sure, but he coughs blood, and his breathing is labored, as you can hear.”
Seidl stepped back, withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, and held it against his nose and mouth. “We have had many cases of illness such as this. It’s probably acute pneumonia or tuberculosis. Either way, it’s usually fatal.”
“Not if he receives treatment.”
Seidl’s eyes moved slowly from Fritz’s emaciated frame to Ursula’s hopeful face. She felt the hair on her arms stiffen.
“You are correct, Fräulein. Not if he receives treatment. But what are we to do? What kind of agreement might we strike in order to aid your dying friend?” He withdrew the handkerchief from his nose and wiped the corners of his mouth before meticulously folding the hanky and replacing it in his breast pocket.
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