Turning to Viktor the Guide, after surveying her surroundings, Anna announced, “I’ve made the right choice!”
“Very well, madam,” Poppy replied, taking off his hat and resuming the role of my father. Hans and I sighed in relief.
Lucie had set the round dining table in true Czech tradition, on a lace tablecloth, with five different dishes. The eggs à la russe sprinkled with paprika were my favorites, and her chocolate torte was a prize. I remember that the conversation led to the current events on Anna’s mind.
“I’m so glad you came, Anna. I didn’t think you would, and well, you have made us all very happy.”
“You said that Prague would be waiting for me. I didn’t want to disappoint.”
“Hans plays your song every day, has you on his mind, Anna. I can see why!”
The tables were turned so Hans, for a change, didn’t mind when the conversation moved to politics. Anna said, “You must all be worried about your ambitious neighbor, that endless desire to expand in all directions.”
Poppy replied in a deliberately lighthearted tone, “I don’t think returning historic lands to the Germans is a terrible thing, they were mostly German to begin with.”
“And you’re sure it will stop when those lands have been regained? I wonder. Anyway, it’s Hitler I worry about.”
“We’re living in troubled times,” David said. “Much is happening, and there’s trouble marching in.”
“How do you know?” Anna asked.
“I’m a journalist,” David said proudly.
“And a pretty good one,” I added.
David blushed a little but quickly mentioned Konrad Henlein, an official making fanatic demands, calling for freedom to profess Nazi ideology. Land for the Germans.
“Nazi ideology?” I said without even thinking. I needed to make sense of all of this. As ever, I had to catch up with David.
“It’s a way of thinking,” David said. “It’s the way of dictators and of oppression. One that will destroy free speech, and I suspect will affect us all.”
Hans looked uneasy in the face of all of this, but David continued: “The Germans believe they are a super race, and Jews are inferior.”
How could anyone believe this? I thought. How can any of this make sense? But somehow it had to, and I had to understand it all.
“Should we discuss politics on such a lovely day?”
“You can’t just ignore it, Hans,” Poppy said. “Being Jewish, I thought you would have a stronger opinion.”
“We should read Mein Kampf, ” David said.
“It’s a piece of trash, the ranting of a crazy man,” Poppy replied.
Crazy or not, it was a book that David had written about in the paper. He had quoted Hitler talking of how Jews were the scourge of mankind, how they must be eliminated, how any kindness toward these people was cowardly stupidity. “Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer! One people, one country, one leader!”
“President Beneš is not going to let Germany hurt the Jews, or take over Czechoslovakia as they did in Austria,” Hans said.
That’s what happened in Sophie’s country. I couldn’t shake it off. It was already changing the lives of people, people we knew. And it was getting closer, with the flags everywhere, the violence, the stories that I overheard, the kids in my school. Maybe it wasn’t just getting closer? Maybe it was here already? All of this was running through my head, and I was lost in my own world for a while until I was shaken from my reverie by my father’s attempt to reassure us all: “Those Germans are a bunch of rowdies.”
But Poppy is German. Do Poppy and Germany belong together?
Leaving the subject and raising his glass, my father toasted, “Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?”
David chimed in: “Alfred, Lord Tennyson. ‘I am a part of all that I have met.’”
Anna smiled.
“David has read everything, Anna. He’s a Topper!”
“I’m among a community of poets.”
Before lunch was over, I knew what was coming. I went to the drawing room to make sure the ladies were in perfect register. I took out my red felt ribbons to make an adjustment, which demanded striking a few notes, over and over.
“What’s that?” Anna wondered, evidently hearing notes in the distance.
“It’s only Max,” David replied with casual understatement. “He’s also a piano tuner and, I must say, one of the best.”
I suspected that bit of news came as something of a surprise to her.
After dessert, everyone gathered in the drawing room for coffee. Anna looked at me with what I took to be fondness and admiration. Then taking a seat at one of two grand pianos, Poppy asked, “Do you play, Anna?”
“I took lessons as a girl,” she began. “I love to listen more than I like to play.”
Standing between the two pianos, with a wide band of light pouring in between them, the Great Viktor Mueller pronounced, “Then you and Max shall play together. Take a piano, and Hans and I will take the other.” I had seen all this before, seen my father and Hans fight it out so many times over the keys, their rivalry as intense as it was competitive. But here they would be sitting together.
“That’s not fair,” I piped up, “you two are professionals. David is a much better musician.”
“I play violin, Max. You’re the pianist, and you have perfect pitch.”
“Yes, there seems to be a lot of perfection in your team,” Hans added. “So, I would think you two would make perfect companions!”
I grinned, Anna blushed, and we agreed to do our best.
The battle of two pianos and eight hands started with Beethoven’s “Für Elise,” and I can tell you now, it began in 3/8 meter, arpeggios in the left hand, which I could play; then Anna took over the modulation to A minor and E major. She really played well. But when the next section advanced to relative major chords C major and G major, Hans and Viktor took over, then back to us for a lighter section in F, to a few bars in C, then back to Hans with a gauntlet of chords that returned to the main theme. We all ended the game pounding the pedals.
I realized I was showing off, but Hans was a great teacher and he often said I was a pretty good student. Sometimes when I played, I stopped and stuttered, but that day, a more confident Anna pulled me through the afternoon. She was so beautiful that at times I couldn’t concentrate on the keys. Who was this other person that had suddenly appeared in my life?
We found the office on a narrow lane that had once been reserved for carriage houses. Anna had invited David and me to visit The Observer news offices in Prague. One of David’s articles in the school newspaper had caught her attention. It was called “Lebensraum, the Expansion of German Lands,” and Germany was indeed on the march. It was part of David’s file. He knew and read the papers. He had collected news and facts.
“Don’t be alarmed, David, but someone is following us,” I said. “Large black overcoat, hat …”
David looked around and caught sight of the man, studying his every move and gesture, before he hid in a doorway. After a moment, he looked out again. What did he want? One thing was for sure: the black overcoat was not far behind.
“We saw him at the demonstration.”
“You sure that’s him?”
“How many men in black overcoats can there be? I’m sure. He’s up to no good.”
“Let’s find out.” David ran after him. I trailed behind, leaving Anna in the lurch.
As we reached the corner, the man turned and ducked out of sight. We looked down a few narrow alleys. Gone.
David gripped his satchel, a look of determination etched on his face.
We walked back toward Anna and apologized for leaving so abruptly.
“Whoever that guy is, I don’t like it. He’s obviously keeping an eye on us, seeing what we’re up to.
Not to worry. We haven’t done anything to deserve his attention. Well, not yet at least,” David muttered, almost to himself.
The Anglo-European Agency was my introduction to the news business, and it was just one in a series of surprises and revelations that day. The offices were housed in an enormous newsroom with green machines clattering away in a musical rhythm, starting, pausing, and tapping away again. There were men and women crowded around desks, with hundreds of newspapers scattered in front of them. Each had their own typewriter, each represented a news organization in some corner of the globe. They were writing about the world at work. Collecting information, filing stories, discussing topics, agreeing and disagreeing, making news. Facts were flying around the room, getting ready to land back home on an editor’s desk. It was a gathering place, a place of safekeeping for a collective sacred trust, and I felt lucky that we had been invited. David was at home. I loved it all immediately. It felt reassuring. As long as there were places like this, ensuring that the truth was alive, then how bad could things be, how bad could they get?
“Welcome to Prague, we’ve been expecting you. My name is MacDowell,” as he introduced himself to us and to Anna. “You working on the Kindertransport project?”
Kindertransport? More research for me, and judging by his slightly confused look, for David too.
The Observer bureau chief showed Anna the office, and David and I followed behind. “You’re just in time for the action.”
“Have I missed anything?” Anna asked.
“Some of the boys are on their way back from Berlin. I’ll introduce you and fill you in, but in the meantime, have you had lunch?”
“Mind if I invite two friends?” Anna asked, pointing to me and David.
“Are you journalists?”
“I am,” David said right away.
Anna smiled. “And Max is on his way to a typewriter if a piano doesn’t find him first.”
“Are you from London, Mr. MacDowell?” I asked.
“I lived in London for years, but I was born in Scotland. Do you hear the echo of bagpipes, lad?” The bureau chief gave a hearty laugh.
“Are they difficult to play?”
“Not bad, once you get the hang of it,” MacDowell replied with a grin. “If you visit, let me know, and I’ll personally show you around the Highlands.”
Anna kept observing me. I tried to appear beyond my age. I had always wanted to be older, to be smart and clever like David. I was fascinated by the chattering teletypes with stories dispatched from all over the world.
MacDowell booked a table at U Fleků, nearby, down a side street, marked by its noted clock outside the restaurant. It offered a fairly nice lunch, and had been serving beer since 1499, but McDowell mentioned that it was not on a par with English taverns. Waiters with trays of brimming glasses threaded their way between tables. Our lunch was a roast, fortified with dumplings, irrigated by gravy. A green salad meant sliced cucumbers doused in cider vinegar. Afterward, Anna picked up some provisions at a bakery, which included creamy chocolate éclairs for us. We loved her style. She knew just the right thing to do!
Then she stopped in at a bookstore and handed us a Baedeker’s Great Britain. “You two might enjoy London,” she said.
“I’d like to visit London one day,” I replied, with a measure of excitement. David joined with enthusiasm. “London!” he exclaimed, “Imagine all the stories to discover, all that history, and everything that’s happening right now.”
“I’d love to show you The Observer offices. That would help you both on your way to becoming journalists, not that you aren’t getting there already!”
“Think of all the pianos to tune, Max. We’ll be smashing,” David replied, affecting a bit of a British accent. “You can bring Poppy along, and Hans, too, and we’ll all stroll down Mayfair.”
Then on a more sobering note, David asked, “I wonder if they are having the same problems over there as in Germany? Do you think the English are safe?”
Anna nodded earnestly. “I think so, but Europe is riding on the winds of war.”
When we arrived back at the offices, a new world opened to me. Anna went to a file that came sputtering over the teletype. Tearing a long sheet of yellow paper from the machine, she took a moment to check copy, then handed it to us. It was from a correspondent in New York, writing about the preparations for the World’s Fair, and I was amazed that words could come from so far away.
“Tools of the trade,” she said.
Presenting me with her Czech-English dictionary, she took a step closer, bonding our friendship. She was so very generous. “This might help with your English. Part of a reporter’s job is finding the truth. Reporting to your readers. Max, you might like to do that one day, like David.”
“It’s taking time. I guess it’s because I’m learning how to begin.”
“Just write. If you have something important to say, say it.”
“I still really don’t know how, Anna.”
David interrupted. “If I might add, one word at a time. Keep a diary, write letters, Max. Like writing to Sophie. That was how the first correspondents began, before there were teletypes and typewriters. They wrote letters.”
“Whom did they write to?”
“To their editors. Sometimes to themselves.”
With that explanation, Anna handed me a small red notebook scored with blue lines. That was my first one. “Write something dangerous,” she whispered. “It’s fun. And important. Write your memories. Write down what you see and what you hear, what you learn every day. Write your story, Max.” She handed me a pen and another pastry to enjoy. David watched carefully. He had an ally.
Then a door opened, and James Addison and Paul Wentworth returned from their assignment in Berlin. Meeting them for the first time, Anna was clearly interested in finding out more from the seasoned journalists.
“I’ve heard a lot about you from back home,” James said. He appeared to be as friendly as his reputation. “I can’t believe the old man sent you over. How did you manage that?”
“Charm goes a long way.”
“Any left over? I could use some.” Paul chuckled.
“I think you do quite nicely. What news of the madman?”
“He’s mad, all right, madder than ever. Mad as hell. It’s become a dangerous place for Jews and journalists. Want a briefing?”
“Would you?”
Sitting down, Addison reported, “There have been a series of disruptions; here’s the latest: Violence and terror are moving fast through Germany. Several internment camps have been set up. Just before midnight last Tuesday, the Gestapo sent a telegram to all units letting them know in advance, and I quote, ‘In shortest order, an action against Jews will take place throughout the country.’ Then came Kristallnacht. Their synagogues and businesses were destroyed. And get this, the next day, the Germans leveled a one-billion-reichsmark fine on the Jewish population, blaming them for the destruction.
“I guess the Grynszpan affair in Paris preceded that. If you don’t know,” he continued, turning to Max, “Herschel Grynszpan is a seventeen-year-old Jewish kid who killed Ernst Vom Rath, a fairly important embassy official when he was told that his parents had been sent to a Polish internment camp. The boy was beaten. Taking revenge, Grynszpan shot the guy. And what did the Nazis do?”
“They did what they did. They broke a lot of glass,” Anna followed.
“Right. The police were told to arrest anyone they wished. Fire companies were ordered not to interfere, and, imagine this, a thousand synagogues were burned. According to the Munich Post, seven thousand shops were looted and trashed. Add ninety-six Jews killed, Jewish cemeteries, hospitals, schools, and homes destroyed, thirty thousand arrested by Hitler’s SS, and you have a night out in Germany.”
Wentworth chimed in: “Anna, it’s time you got used to a new vocabulary: Dachau,
Buchenwald, Sachsenhausen. Let me give you Göring’s words at his last press meeting: ‘I would not want to be a Jew.’ There are curfews, restrictions, new laws, and an exorbitant tax for a visa, if you have the connections to get one. And this for sure: life for Jews in Berlin is no longer possible. They are trying desperately to leave, and they need help. It’s amazing that, in our time, a piece of paper with a stamp on it is the difference between life and death. Otherwise, Berlin is a terrific city!”
“I’ve expected something like this for a very long time.” Anna was clearly disgusted but not at all shocked.
I understood that these were hard times that were getting worst for everyone—for kids like me and for journalists and Jews—and closer.
Would the music stop? I was beginning to realize that these things were happening, that the world was getting darker and more dangerous, but I couldn’t yet know why.
As ever, I looked to David for answers and assurance and could see that, like Anna, he was not at all shocked and we all waited for Addison to report more.
“The Times reported yesterday on that one-billion-reichsmark fine for the ‘violence’ the Jews had caused. Here’s the file.” He slapped it on the table.
I picked up the file and started reading. David knew much more than I ever could. He was aware that a wave of terror was being unleashed. In his paper at school, he had written about the burning of books. He had also once written about Berlin, pleasing his professors with prose beyond his years. A city washed in the umber glow of twilight, of children with red wagons and pinafores, of ladies with their parasols on summer evenings, strolling the glittering rims of wide avenues, a city with parties and waltzes, singing beer gardens and Moselle wine, and beech trees, a Germany of almost inconceivable nostalgic fashion.
I thought of what I had just heard and what I knew already. Sophie and her mother had fled Vienna. I tried to think back to what Edith had said to Hans, that they were no longer welcome in Austria. I reminded myself of my vow to no longer look away. I couldn’t deny what was happening. But what could I do? At the end of one particularly wild adventure in which Armand and White Dog had saved a raft-load of African orphans from the raging Zambezi, Poppy had turned to me and said: “Don’t be the leaf in the wind, the flotsam on the river, don’t be helpless in the storm. Be the helmsman, be the rower, fight against the current, and the wind and the rain, however strong. Stay the course.”
While the Music Played Page 8