“Tra-la-la-la-la! ” Poppy continued, his voice growing louder with every note.
Soon, people gathered to listen. Poppy sang something about love, and I figured I myself could practice in front of a mirror and sing to Sophie one day. As the crowd applauded, I thought about how Poppy was able to master whatever he wanted—music, storytelling, performing. He always told me that I too could do anything. “Max, see the opportunities and grasp them. The world is a place of endless possibilities.” And I believed him.
Watching him and listening to him made me feel as though there were no limits to what a person could be and do. That was Poppy’s special gift to me. That the world could be mine. It wasn’t that different from what David always told me, I realized. Between the two of them, you could believe in anything. Even yourself. Believe in who you can be. One day, after finishing a particularly dramatic installment of “The Distant and Mysterious Man,” he turned to me and said, “Dear Max, imagine what the world could be at its best and then help make it that way. Think of the world as a Steinway that needs tuning. Do what you can.”
The vintage watch my father gave me tells me that without question, a minute becomes an hour, an hour becomes a day. In that calculus, a day became a year and for all time, I had appointments to keep. When he’d handed me the watch all those years ago, Poppy had said: “Time is the most precious thing we have, Max, perhaps the only thing. Use it wisely.” He breathed in, puffing his chest. “Be magnificent!”
Poppy surely believed in himself. And at times like these, all sadness left his eyes, and he was happy. I was beginning to believe more in myself. I had Poppy and David at my side, and the only person missing was Sophie, but she was always near my heart.
HANS KRÁSA
SCORES A TUNE
“Call me Hans,” he said when I was old enough to say “Professor.”
Like my father, Hans’s family was originally from Germany. Unlike my father, he was Jewish. Many of the people we knew and loved were Jewish. My father told me that for countless years, European Jews had made extraordinary contributions to all our lives, especially in the arts and in science. “They are part of our lives, Max, and part of you.”
I learned from David that for most their history Jews had been expelled from country after country, in the name of religion, from the Book of Exodus through the Crusades right up to now. From time to time, they had found temporary refuge in countries like Spain and France, but eventually they were always forced to leave. David told me that was why a homeland had always been so important for his own family and so many others, to return to their God-given land of Judea. It was somehow a big part of their tradition, as Sophie had written.
“What’s it like to be Jewish?” I asked Hans one day. I had no idea what it was like, but I assumed it included being well-educated, reading lots of books, listening to a lot of music.
He paused for a few seconds and then with an ambiguous smile said, “It feels pretty good.”
Sometimes Hans isn’t very helpful.
Hans was a wonderful teacher, regardless of how vague he could sometimes be. The piano seemed a good way to get kids to like me. If I could play everyone’s favorites, then I could win them over. Sophie would like that too.
After a lesson one afternoon, I asked, “Where do songs come from?”
“From an invisible sun,” Hans replied, not missing a beat. I liked that answer, even if I wasn’t sure that I really understood it then, but it came to make more sense all the time. Because I knew that Hans almost lived for music, that he couldn’t live without it, that it was his way of making sense of the world, of telling the world who he was and what the world itself really was. I could never be sure whether Hans would lose himself in composition or find himself there, but creating music was always a playful and very serious time for him.
When Hans composed music, the musical notes looked like children playing together on the page. Sharps, flats, treble, bass—patterns of sound dancing in black and white across the score. Like Hans, I could hear the music as I saw the notes, and every time I witnessed a fresh piece appearing on the page I would imagine him visiting that invisible sun.
“They’re a musical troupe, these notes, Max,” he said, talking of his latest composition. “They play right into our lives.” I nodded in agreement but even Hans could tell my mind was miles away.
“You aren’t very focused today. What’s her name?”
I hesitated for just a moment. “You know her, Hans. It’s Sophie.”
Hans had a twinkle in his eye and began running his fingers over the piano keys. Suddenly, they seemed to fall into place, playing a sweet, simple melody.
I couldn’t help smiling as I hummed along with the tune. “That’s very pretty. What’s it called?”
Trilling over the last ivory key, Hans announced with a grin, “‘Something for Sophie.’”
Poppy always said that Hans was hopelessly romantic.
Then Hans began to make a few musical notations for a concert he was preparing. Verlobung im Traum, his opera based on a novel by Dostoyevsky, was awarded Czechoslovakia’s highest honor not long after its premiere at the German Theatre in Prague under the baton of Georg Szell. After the opera and other works, he gained European attention and recognition, and was invited to conduct in the United Kingdom. He told me that he would be gone for a few days.
A LONDON CONCERT
London had not yet taken news from the Continent seriously, and was still dancing in the heady, sparkling bubbles left over from the twenties. Theaters thrived in the Strand, charity balls at the Savoy were in full swing, the economy was encouraging, and on Sunday afternoons, sunbathers with their wooden, pale-blue-and-white-striped folding chairs were out in the city’s parks in full force. Anna enjoyed shopping at the boutiques on Beecham Place instead of the larger stores like Harrods and Harvey Nichols, the stipend she inherited from her grandfather complementing her modest salary. She wore smartly designed suits, preferring crisp, freshly laundered white cotton blouses with round collars, showing off her slender frame and ample chest. She was what might be referred to as a Dorset beauty, soft blond hair, clear blue eyes, a peach-like complexion, and not a blemish to be found.
Arriving on the overnight train at Waterloo Station, Hans took a cab across the river and checked in to Claridge’s. Having slept well in his carriage, he was refreshed by a shower under an oversized chrome shower
head that produced a flow that felt like a heavy summer rain. Nothing worked in Britain better than hot water and baths, and he took full advantage. After laying out his things, he ordered up a full English breakfast.
Sunday afternoon in London was slow and drowsy, languid. Hans had corresponded with Sandy MacPherson, who, as a director of the Royal Academy of Music, had arranged his concert. Feeling alone in an unfamiliar city, Hans found a piano in the hotel ballroom and started to practice. He thought, if only he had had Max to fine-tune it, but it would do for now. He started to play and at once felt at ease, at home.
Across the city, on Fleet Street, it wasn’t unusual for Anna to take the desk on weekends, and MacPherson (the staff was always referred to by last names in the editorial trade) noticed she was one of the few people around.
“Working on the weekend? You should be out, Kingsley. All work and all that. The desk will survive a few hours. Come with me, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Having studied music, Anna had already noticed the adverts in the paper announcing Hans Krása’s performance at Royal Albert Hall. She conjured up an image of an older man with flying gray hair and really had no idea what to expect.
“Keep me company. I’m just going over to say hello.”
When they arrived at the deco-appointed hotel, the porter announced that Mr. Krása was “producing uncustomary sounds” in the ballroom one flight up.
With each stair, Anna heard rippling piano music floating d
own the stairwell. Entering the room, she saw an attractive man in the center, sitting, seemingly unaware that he was illuminated by the dancing rays of dusty sunlight, like some holy figure from a Renaissance painting. He was tall and graceful and she immediately noticed his elegant hands, how gently they touched the keyboard, and wondered if this was the man she had come to meet. In truth she hoped very much that he was.
Hans had been so completely absorbed in his playing that he hadn’t noticed that they had slipped into the room, and when he finished, he was surprised by applause coming from two figures sitting in a pair of Chippendale chairs. He was also clearly pleased, this evident in the broad grin that stretched across his face as he approached them.
“I’m Sandy MacPherson, and this is my colleague Anna Kingsley. Hope we are not intruding.”
“Not at all, just practicing. Thank you for your invitation, Mr. MacPherson.”
“May we sit in and listen?”
“Of course.”
“Afterward, we can show you around a bit, if you have time.”
“I’d like that very much.” Hans took notice of Anna. “Very much indeed.” She had eyes that were dipped in ocean blue, a refreshing porcelain complexion that surely commanded a pause in a summer stillness.
Beginning at Nelson’s Column, towering above Trafalgar Square, a triumphant symbol of England’s past, to the Palace of Westminster on the Thames, and then over to the Admiralty courtyard behind Pall Mall. At Speakers’ Corner, where eccentric Londoners proclaimed their views with conviction, Anna casually remarked, “I’m not sure you’d find such free speech in Berlin today.” Hans nodded gravely but said nothing. A short while later, they ducked into a workingman’s pub called the Swan.
“I thought you might like one of our ales,” Sandy said, settling onto a wooden barstool beside Hans. “Not as good as pilsner, I admit.”
Hans was cosmopolitan and accomplished, and Anna noticed how elegant and easy he was in everything he did. He walked lightly, with purpose, control, and grace, so different in every way from many of the men she had known, who were as heavy on their feet as in their emotions. His accent was amusing and endearing, very European.
He took easily to a classic pub lunch of cheese, a loaf of fresh crispy bread, and salad when Sandy surprised Anna, announcing that he had work to finish. “My son Andrew has just come down from school. You two carry on. Hans, you will be in good hands. Anna knows London well.”
The idea of spending time with Hans certainly did not disagree with her, but she wondered if Sandy was playing matchmaker. Was it all a setup, or was she expected to interview the man from Prague? This must be a social rather than a working engagement, she quickly concluded.
But that thought was quickly contradicted. “Anna, I forgot to mention, Sarah Lloyd won’t be back in time for the concert tonight, please cover for her, won’t you.” He walked out, leaving her bewildered.
A setup, she confirmed to herself.
“I’m not a music critic, but I adore music, and I’ll try to do you justice.”
“That’s very brave of you.”
What to do? Anna decided to take her newly appointed charge to a part of London that was a little different and headed to Lambeth. Taking a double-decker bus to the streets of dancing buskers who performed for a sprinkling of tossed shillings, they went to a two o’clock matinee at the Rose and Crown, where Gracie Fields belted out the World War I hits “It Wasn’t the Yanks Who Won the War but My Son Billy” and “Wish Me Luck as You Wave Me Goodbye.”
Hans confessed that he enjoyed every music-hall minute. “Every country has its own songs and stories, drawn from the people’s own experiences,” he commented. “America has vaudeville, France has its sultry, smoky songs, Berlin its raucous cabaret. London still struts with good humor.”
Anna nodded. “But for how long?”
Hans looked suddenly serious, and in truth Berlin was the operative word for Anna, but she decided not to go too far with her reporter’s curiosity just yet. “Not too lowbrow for you? I thought a musical introduction to London might be fun. We haven’t produced as many great musicians as you have in Europe.”
“Oh, I think you have,” Hans replied. “I just heard them.”
Looking down at her tank watch, something she always wore, a vintage model from the first war, bought at a Christie’s auction, she announced, “Just a few hours before your concert. I should be returning you to your hotel.”
“If you are coming this evening, and if you are free afterward, would you have dinner with me? I very much enjoy your company.”
Anna took a moment to pause before she answered. Would it be unprofessional to review his concert and then have dinner with him? It wasn’t a difficult decision. It wasn’t as if she nurtured dreams of life as a music critic, so why not? Besides, she had no other plans and, more importantly, no man in her life.
The Royal Albert Hall was a treasured, round, redbrick building with a dome that had, through its sixty years, aged into a green patina. The lights dimmed, the applause subsided. Anna forgot about taking notes, and the reporter’s pad sitting on her lap remained empty and untouched. Hans Krása’s music spoke to her quietly, and she was overwhelmed by the restrained intensity, feeling at times as if Hans was addressing her directly through his music. She was almost shocked to be reminded that she was not alone when suddenly the house resonated with appreciation, standing as one to acknowledge the simple, expressive beauty of the performance. Hans selected two encores.
For Anna, the experience was magical, transcendent, taking her briefly away from the hall to another, ethereal realm.
Hans had been advised by the hotel’s concierge to dine at the Mirabelle in Mayfair. The supper club featured a new French chef. More than a trendy gathering place, it was an elegant setting with a formal garden at its entrance. Unwittingly, he had taken Anna to one of her favorite restaurants. In a quiet corner, Hans ordered a bottle of Roederer Cristal, bottled in clear glass, showing a pale blaze. She thought he looked smart in black tie, and so comfortable in the surroundings, with her, with himself. Anna wore a pale-blue gown, a favorite that had her personality written all over it.
“It was a lovely concert,” Anna said softly, trying to downplay the effect that she could tell she was having on him.
For a moment, Hans was silent, looking for a way to enter the conversation.
“Hans, is anything wrong?”
He smiled. “Quite the contrary, it’s been a special day for me, thank you. And it’s nice to be with you.”
“I imagine you play all over Europe. Did you find our English audience any different?”
“Audiences are much the same. Music transcends borders, don’t you think?”
“Borders?” Anna knew that she had not expressed herself particularly well and began asking questions with a reporter’s verve. “Speaking of borders, any thoughts about Germany?”
“You mean Berlin? I think it will pass. Don’t you?” Hans clearly didn’t want to discuss politics.
“I think Hitler is mad,” she continued, but saw at once that it would be best to drop the subject, if only for good manners. The invitation was for dinner and not an interview.
A menu brushed against a silver spoon that dropped to the floor. Embarrassed, he leaned over and quickly returned the errant utensil to a waiter.
After some consideration, Hans said, “Surely not all Germans are mad, Anna. Just listen to the music of Bach and Brahms.”
“Yes, but what about Strauss?” Anna countered.
“Richard or Johann?”
“Yes, music does cross boundaries.”
Hans shared a smile. “Shall we dance?”
Anna crossed her long legs and leaned back in her chair for just one last question. “You studied in Germany?”
“Paris suited me better.”
Hans talked of how h
e admired a group of composers in Paris, where he was influenced not only by its music but by Parisian style. He began a carefree, sometimes lazy life there, spending most of his time walking the great boulevards, visiting French brasseries. Anna found herself imagining that he had a grand time courting French ladies, who, engaged by his polite manners, must have fallen for his well-tailored good looks and his music. She reminded herself that it was the music that was important and that it made no sense to be jealous of a man she had known for just a few hours.
“And Prague?”
“Prague is my home.” She caught a glint in his eyes. They were deep, dark brown and romantic, even a little mysterious. Returning to the menu, he said he was contemplating a Gruyere cheese soufflé. In an awkward intermission in the conversation, a waiter arrived serving a platter of fresh vegetables, delicately arranged on a silver tray. Petits pois, small honeyed carrots, young green and white asparagus flavored in a lemon sauce, and slim slices of garden zucchini topped with butter.
“They are grown on our farms.” Anna admired the assortment.
“I’ll have to get a Land Rover and a pair of Wellingtons!”
“A country farmer now?”
“Do you think I could fit in?” His eyes sparkled as he smiled.
“I suspect you might prefer Prague. Has the country changed with so much happening in Germany?”
“Prague is much the same.” He paused for a moment. “I think we’ll all be safe.”
“Forgive me for being rude, but aren’t you Jewish?” The pages of her imaginary reporter’s notebook kept turning in her inquisitive mind.
“You know more about me than I know about you, Anna. My faith comes from my music. Perhaps my piano is Jewish.”
She smiled at the remark, almost a metaphor.
“Don’t you think the Munich Pact is a marker? Prime Minister Chamberlain is a pandering fool. We published a photograph of him with Daladier, Mussolini, and Hitler, standing around a table at the signing, and I just can’t think of that scene without a sense of shame.”
While the Music Played Page 5