While the Music Played

by Nathaniel Lande

  “Still playing the tuba?” Hans turned and shook hands, and said to me, “The chief is the star of the police band. They’re lucky to have him in the band and we’re lucky to have him looking over us. For now. Gregory, can you give me a minute please?” Hans moved closer to the officer and whispered, “Can you find out anything about Hanna and Jacob Grunewald? They’re professors at Charles University, friends of mine. They’re missing.”

  “Missing?” He spoke in hushed tones. “Friends of yours? They could be Communists,” Gregory continued quietly. “A lot of protesters from a group called the White Rose Movement at that university. Not popular with the Germans these days. I’ll see if any of my men know anything.”

  Gregory signaled to one of his aides. The man left the room and, after a few minutes, returned. “We don’t have any information,” he said. “If it is the SS, we have no jurisdiction. They may be part of the last roundup.”

  He took Hans aside, out of earshot of everyone in the station.

  “The White Rose? Is it possible? Do you think your friends were a part of it? Do you know anything?”

  I looked blank and Hans whispered, “The White Rose is a Resistance group working against Nazi Germany, made up of students and professors. They could have been part of it, and if they were then they could have been taken away. Anyone belonging could pay the price for standing up for what they believe. I have one of their leaflets.”

  He began to read.

  “The policy of the National Socialists is to control all communication, the news media, police, the armed forces, the judiciary system, travel, all levels of education from kindergarten to universities, all cultural and religious institutions.”

  I thought for a moment and said, “That means …?”

  Hans winced a little. “That means that no one is safe.”

  We looked up and saw another of Gregory’s colleagues handing him a report. He scanned the document and then leaned over to Hans. “Well, it seems they also had a visa for the family to leave the country, but the papers were forged. Not good, Hans. Not good at all.”

  Then Gregory turned and said confidentially. “They were taken for questioning to a place called Sachsenhausen.”

  “Come again?” Hans whispered back.

  “A camp for political dissidents. I’m sorry if they were friends of yours, Hans. But this is a dead end as far as I can see. I’ve no authority in this matter. This falls squarely under Heydrich’s command. Good luck, my friend.”

  Hans was clearly upset, and he started to hum again.

  I caught a glimpse of a man in a black overcoat, slipping inside an alcove in the background. Was it the same man? Who was he? Did he have anything to do with David’s parents’ disappearance? The thought was another dark cloud.

  Gregory took him aside. “Be careful, Hans. This is a bad time for Jews.”

  Hans nodded and said goodbye. As we left the station he interrupted his humming briefly to lean toward me, as he straightened his collar in the face of the growing wind. “This is a bad time for everyone.”

  With all urgency, I appealed to Poppy as soon as he came home: “David’s parents are at a place called Sachsenhausen. General Heydrich is in control. Maybe we can help. Maybe you can. There must be something …”

  “Whoa there. Slow down, Max. Heydrich is our friend.”

  How could that be? David was afraid of him, hinted that he was involved with terrible things. But he was kind, even friendly toward me, and he did love music. Was that enough? David was wrong this time. Poppy seemed to think the general was a fine person, and he was never wrong about anything.

  Poppy smiled at me, encouraging me to smile back. “And if he knows anything, he’ll help. I’ll speak to the general and make sure they are okay.”

  “But they’re Jewish. They are all being taken away. What’s happening to them? I see it every day. Lines, desperation, fear. It’s all around me, Poppy. You don’t see it.”

  “Of course I see it. They’ll be okay. I’ll make a plan. Trust me, Max.”

  The Great Viktor Mueller always had a plan. I had to have faith.

  PUT IT ON THE

  PROGRAM, VIKTOR

  Staring at the fleshy jowls of Mirco Bonifac, the artistic director of the National Theatre, Viktor Mueller spoke quietly in an office on the top floor of the theater building. Bonifac had a secret panel in the office that opened toward the stage. Yards of red velvet fell over a wide window, a rich fabric that had once been a curtain in the great hall.

  “I have some information,” Viktor began. “Reinhard Heydrich, who I’ve heard will be appointed Reichsprotektor of Prague, is the son of composer Bruno Heydrich. His father-in-law, Hofrat Kranz, founded the Dresden Conservatory. I just met with him in Berlin.” Viktor smiled encouragingly.

  “You don’t say,” the director responded.

  “I do say. And he loves music!”

  “Excellent. That’s a good indicator of character, in my opinion,” the director commented. “We should get ahead of the power-game and be ready for any eventuality.”

  “The best people love music.”

  “Max tunes his piano over at the embassy.”

  “He does a fine job, that lad of yours, Viktor.”

  “It took Max to tell me that Heydrich’s father is Bruno Heydrich.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “I do say.”

  The director tried to squeeze into his much-too-small Louis XV chair but was only able to perch uneasily on the edge. Viktor was fascinated by this awkward balancing act. Bonifac took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow, a habit he had, whether he was sweating or not.

  Viktor continued, “We should welcome him to Prague. An Evening with Bruno Heydrich!”

  Bonifac slapped his hand on the table in front of him: “A marvelous idea. Put it on the schedule, Viktor.”

  “We’ll include his D-Major symphony, op. 57, a favorite,” Viktor added.

  Viktor’s face lit up. A part of a plan. A concert with a few short weeks to organize everything.

  “Hans, aren’t you coming with us?”

  I knew he had no intention of going to the concert. It was a stunt, he had said, something appealing to the German High Command, something to show how thoughtful the Czechs were. The event had been announced all over the city by the German propaganda machine; all the patrons were set to attend.

  The day of the concert, a motorcade of eight Mercedes sedans pulled up in front of the two-hundred-year-old German Theatre. The late afternoon sun shone with cold brilliance on the cobblestone streets. Leaves from the sycamore trees fluttered to the ground as the cars came to a halt.

  From just inside the lobby, I saw General Heydrich and his wife step out of an official black car to be greeted by Director Bonifac. “Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Bonifac said, clapping his hands before escorting them inside.

  Finding my seat, I looked up as the general and his wife settled into the director’s box. A Nazi flag hung from a balcony. My body tensed, but I had to have faith that all of this made sense. The hall was conveniently filled with people with Czech-German backgrounds, to make sure of a warm reception for An Evening with Bruno Heydrich. General Heydrich, standing in a neat gray uniform, spotted me and waved for me to come his way.

  Knowing what I had learned from David, and given the constant presence of the black overcoat, it was probably not smart to defy a Nazi general. The atmosphere in the hall was warm and receptive. I felt sure that the main reason the audience had come was to hear my father conduct rather than to hear the music of Bruno Heydrich.

  On the way to the first tier, I wiped my moist palms on the front of my trousers. I’d never sat in a royal box before and was impressed by the sight of a butler wearing white gloves serving finger sandwiches and chocolates.

  “Max,” the general said, tapping my shoulder. “May
I present my wife, Lina, and my mother, Elisabeth, who has come from Dresden for the concert.”

  Lina extended her hand and nodded a smile. She was wearing a suit and platform shoes that made her appear much taller than she was. “Max. It is a pleasure to meet such a fine young man who loves concerts.”

  Heydrich’s mother was severely blond, fair, and German. Supported by a cane with a silver handle, she was elegantly dressed in black lace.

  Leaning toward the general, I said, “It must be nice having your family here.”

  “You can’t imagine.”

  Reinhard Heydrich was not only in charge of Prague; it was also his responsibility to defeat any resistance to the Nazi Party. I was seeing him in a new light. He was tall and effortlessly warm and engaging, yet something in his face seemed sculpted in stone. I had learned a lot about him from David in recent days: his methods were arrest, deportation, and murder. From the beginning, he had carried out attacks on the Jews during what was known as “the Night of the Long Knives” in Germany. He was friendly and engaging while at the same time proud to be known as a man with an iron heart. I felt something dangerous lurking behind the genial smile that seemed almost fixed on his face.

  I was playing a role and reached for every bit of Mueller charm I could muster up. In my way, like Poppy, I had a plan.

  “My father told me this is going to be a great evening,” I said. “It’s going to be thrilling to hear the music your father composed, General. Now we’ll all be able to enjoy it.”

  I was sitting there and imagined myself as a character in a film being improvised on the spot. I felt that I was a performer and knew that I had to get my lines right. I was, after all, the son of the Great Viktor Mueller. I told myself over and over, Max, be calm and friendly and convincing. Nothing to worry about.

  Before the house lights dimmed, I took my chance. “I wonder if you can help with a small matter, General?”

  “Of course, Max, how can I help?”

  “My best friend, David Grunewald—well, we play football together, and he’s great …”

  “The Czech All Stars.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’m fond of sports, always interested.” The general spoke blandly.

  “His parents are missing, and I think they are at a place called Sachsenhausen. He’s a good son. A good person. My best friend.”

  The general replied coolly, “Just a formality, Max, I’m sure. Are they Jewish?”

  “Yes. They teach at Charles University.”

  “That’s a fine school. I’ll consider it and see what can be arranged. But these are complicated times. I’m sure you love your country, yes?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “It is essential for all of us to look forward to a new order.”

  What kind of order is he talking about?

  “A new day for Germany, the start of an era that will last for a thousand years.”

  A thousand years? A thousand years of what? I thought as the house lights dimmed and the audience stood as the orchestra played “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles.” “Germany, Germany above everything.”

  There was a hush and the audience applauded Poppy’s appearance in the darkened hall, with only small lights glowing from the sconces on the walls. He tapped his baton emphatically and the orchestra launched into a rich melody. Heydrich never shifted his gaze from the stage, his eyes increasingly misty. My father is a music maker, a great music maker, I thought. No matter what happens in the world, music is beauty and my father is part of that.

  When the final stanza was played, the musicians stamped their feet on the wooden floor in a loud rumble, a customary sign of appreciation, and before the house lights came on, the Great Viktor Mueller invited Reinhard Heydrich to the stage. The general urged me to follow.

  Poppy presented the general with his slender white baton as Heydrich smiled and placed his hand over his heart. “I will never forget this concert, Viktor,” he whispered. “Never. You’ve given my father a great honor.”

  “A pleasure,” Poppy said, leading us off the stage.

  “You’re not only a great conductor but a thoughtful man,” Heydrich said.

  “Haben Sie vielen Dank, Reinhard. With deepest appreciation.”

  “I want to speak with you privately about something from which we all will benefit,” Heydrich commented, taking Poppy aside when we went backstage. “I know how valuable you are, Viktor.”

  After a pause, Heydrich added, “Viktor, the Fatherland is on the march to greatness. You’re a Berliner.”

  “Of course.” Poppy straightened his shoulders.

  The general presented his card. “When you are back in Berlin, bring your violin and we’ll play together.”

  Poppy and I made our way outside. It had turned cooler. Ladies dressed in long silk gowns and men in black ties with white scarves around their shoulders huddled along the sidewalk under the marquee, waiting for cabs.

  “Will Heydrich help?”

  “I think he will.”

  “This evening was an opportunity to lay the foundation for a useful relationship. Strategy, Max. Strategy. The long game. The general wants me to come around for a meeting. This could be useful in so many ways for us, for the future.”

  Poppy couldn’t fail to see the doubt written across my face. He ruffled my hair. “Max, have faith in your father. This was a great evening, a great and important evening made better still by being with you.”

  “Why didn’t Hans come?”

  Poppy spoke in a quiet tone. “Because he is Jewish, Max. This is not a safe time for Jews.”

  “But surely this doesn’t mean people like Hans … and Sophie.”

  I pulled up my coat collar as a gust of wind blew through the winding street. “I guess that’s the reason that David is no longer at my school.”

  Poppy bent down and lowered his voice. “A lot of Germans don’t like Jewish people. It doesn’t matter how good Hans and Sophie and so many others are—”

  “And David …” I said.

  “Yes, David too. They are all good people. Look, many people don’t like Heydrich.”

  “What kind of a man is he? Do you like him? Is he a good man?”

  Putting a finger to his lips, Poppy glanced behind him as if expecting to find Heydrich hiding behind a lamppost. He shrugged his shoulders. “Is he a good man? Max, what’s most important right now is that he can be useful.”

  “Do you want to be his friend? You even gave him your baton.”

  Poppy looked deadly serious. “Adaptability, Max. Sometimes we adapt to situations, however strange or difficult they may be. We must figure things out and find ways to survive, and we should do this without giving up all the things that make us who we are. I’m dealing with Heydrich in a cordial way, and I hope that he’ll conduct himself as a fair and honest man, Max.” He looked away for a while and then turned back to face me, nodding: “Tonight was important.”

  Poppy buttoned his coat and put his hands into his pockets. We stood in silence on the sidewalk, our breath forming a vapor between us.

  Finally, he broke the oppressive silence. “It meant a lot to his family. Yes, I thought it was a nice thing to do, the right thing to do,” he said. “I have to do things in a certain way.”

  I narrowed my eyes as I looked up at my father. “Which way is that, Poppy?”

  I always looked to Poppy to do the right thing. Always.

  “Do you think he can help David?” I asked.

  “Please know, Max. I am going to make sure we are okay, all of us, and I will help David, but you must understand, it’s complicated. You must believe that I’ll never let you down.”

  I nodded uncertainly. I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t sure I could altogether. That was a scary thought, but one that I couldn’t push away. Everything was
changing. My world was shifting on a delicate axis. I could never doubt Poppy, the very thought was terrifying. If I lost faith in him, then who was left? What was left?

  Poppy looked up at the star-filled sky, and cleared his throat: “You know, Max, most of the Czech musicians didn’t want to play this evening, but they did it for the love of music. Your mother was Czech. I may have been born in Germany, but we’re all Czechs in spirit and we can always offer a gracious welcome. We have to keep the houselights on.”

  Poppy dropped me off at Hans’s before again leaving for Berlin; my room there was beginning to feel like my real home.

  I couldn’t get Poppy’s words out of my mind. I realized that three of the most important people in my life were Jewish. Hans. David. Sophie. Was Sophie safe? With all that was happening, I hadn’t been thinking about her as much as I usually did. When was the last time I received a letter from her? It had been too long. I thought back to the day we had spent together, retracing our steps in my mind. Were my thoughts and feelings for her still there? They were, all of them, stronger than ever. I needed to contact her.

  Dear Sophie,

  I don’t understand everything that is happening but what I do understand I don’t much like. I am writing about what I see and feel in my notebook and I aim to do something about it. I hope that you are safe and I know that somehow or other we will be together again. I think of you all the time.

  Yours,

  Max

  I kept up with the papers—politics still confused me, but I couldn’t get away from the cruel truth that my country was alone and in danger. And if my country was in danger, then I was too.

  I felt alone both inside and outside myself. Sometimes I thought that I would die before I understood everything around me.

  PLAYING FOR

  HITLER

  The piano playing woke me, and, putting on my robe and slippers, I headed to the kitchen.

  Hans was playing in the drawing room. “I’m working on an opera. Oh, and another thing … you’ll be the star.”