I was bewildered. “You’re joking. Me a star?”
Hans smiled broadly as he looked up from the piano. “Oh no, I’m perfectly serious. It’s called Brundibár.”
He rippled the keys.
“I’m writing something for the kids at Mrs. Blomberg’s. It’ll occupy their time and be a distraction from … everything.” Hans’s eyes darkened. “It’ll be fun for them to perform, give them something they might enjoy.”
“An opera! You really want me to be in it?”
“I most certainly do. It’s about a person named Brundibár, a character who owns the marketplace. He, by the way, is just like Hitler and doesn’t want the people in the village around. With the help of a fearless sparrow, a keen cat, a wise dog, and a chorus of children, they chase him away, singing a finale in the square. They send him packing. I’m going to need a clarinet, accordion, piano, percussion, violins, a cello, and a hurdy-gurdy.”
“A hurdy-gurdy?”
“Yes, a hurdy-gurdy,” he said, his eyes bright. “Some people call it a hurley-gurley, more melodic, sounds nicer. You’ve heard them on street corners. A box you wind with a handle that plays tunes. Not many around, but it is essential to the story. I’m getting Frantisek to do the sets; he’ll locate one.”
Frantisek Zelenka was an old friend of Hans’s. He had designed the production for his first opera at the National.
“Who’s going to play Brundibár?”
“You are.”
I was lost for words. “Mmm … me? I, well, I don’t know, Hans.”
“You’ll be perfect, Max, and yes, it’s the starring role. Listen!”
He produced a theme that sounded like a carousel in a park. It was the prettiest song he’d played for weeks.
“That’s nice. But Hitler?”
“That’s just the point! Brundibár is appealing, even though he has a lot of terrible ideas. But the play has a double meaning. It depends how you see him. Some of the most interesting things are like that, aren’t they, Max? Two people can look at the very same painting and see something quite different. It’s the same with Brundibár. I look at him as a pretty good guy. I promise you, he’s a fabulous character.”
“But I’m not like him.”
“You’re a born actor, Max, just like your father. You’ve got that spark in your eye, that amazing appreciation for everything around you. You’ll wear a top hat and a fake moustache. He’s a buffoon, you’ll be fine. It’s only make-believe.”
Hans just continued playing.
“I don’t like pretending, I don’t like moustaches, and I’m not a buffoon. How long have you been writing this?”
“Playing a buffoon doesn’t make you a buffoon. It makes you a performer. And I’ve been thinking about it for a time. Then I began writing it all down on paper at five o’clock this morning, and in a few weeks, I’ll finish up; then we’ll cast and start rehearsals.”
“Does Mrs. Blomberg know about it?”
I wasn’t sure about Hans’s opera, but I wanted to tell David. I missed him. The Topper was my partner in everything.
A PLAN FOR
VIKTOR MUELLER
Berlin 1939
Viktor Mueller always had a plan. He was intent on forming a stronger friendship with the general. His offices were close to the State Opera House in Berlin, and with cheeky confidence, he called on Reichsprotektor Heydrich. As he presented the general’s card at the entrance, he was detained.
“Do you have an appointment with the SS-Obergruppenführer?”
Unabashedly he replied, “Kindly announce Viktor Mueller, violinist.” Opening his case, he showed the guard that it carried no machine gun the way gangsters’ violin cases did in movies.
A few minutes later, Viktor Mueller was greeting the general.
“Viktor,” Heydrich said, giving Viktor a warm handshake and returning to his place behind an ornate oak desk. “Nice of you to come. Please, sit.”
The general gestured toward a large, ebony and leather chair to the left of the door. Heydrich was immaculately dressed in a well-pressed gray uniform with a silver-and-black Iron Cross pinned to his chest. One could not imagine him in civilian clothes; he would be out of sorts, out of fashion, out of step. He was born in his uniform. His manner was considerate with ingratiating overfamiliarity. “You are not only a great conductor but a thoughtful humanitarian,” Heydrich said. Viktor had not thought of himself in this way. “You created a plan to help those poor Jews in Prague with a program to support the Reich. We need talented workers. I hadn’t thought of it. Your idea was efficient. We’re very grateful.” After a pause, Heydrich added, “I see you understand, Viktor, that the German Fatherland is on the march to greatness. You’re a proud Berliner.”
“I’m German. Indeed.” Viktor sat even straighter in his chair.
“And you remember how things were. All the Jewish financiers ruining the country.”
“I remember hardships. I remember difficult times. I remember the music, great musicians, many of them Jewish. But I am not sure what this has to do with the racial laws?”
Heydrich laughed and shook his head. “Viktor, our Nordic soul defends our noble character against racial and cultural degeneration. We are a pure race, and I have nothing personal against Jewish people, or their artistic friends, but they don’t serve Germany’s interests. They are not German, and they should leave. The Führer wishes them to do so.”
“But with the extraordinary contributions of Jews, the zeitgeist in Berlin was a great cultural renaissance. Take Brecht, his Threepenny Opera.”
Reinhard thought for a few seconds. “Lotte Lenya was terrific.”
“She was magnificent, the play and the music were magnificent. And Piscator changed theatrical techniques and production, brilliant!” Viktor continued, “I studied under Erwin. You are a man of culture, you know that he was the first one to project newsreels behind actors onstage. We revolutionized drama at the Nollendorfplatz. Revolving stages, treadmills. And Max Reinhardt, a magician creating atmosphere and illusion, in a way we had never seen before. We had forty theaters in Berlin alone. Of course, you know all of this already.”
“Those were indeed heady times,” Heydrich began, “but as in Rome, there’s a sinister counter-renaissance undermining our essential German character. With much decadence the city was sullied, became sexually unbuttoned. I visited some of the cabarets—so many homosexuals and transvestites. And those art galleries. Dadaism. I never quite understood it; a lot of nonsense, if you ask me.”
Viktor nodded his head.
“Then stand proud with me, Viktor. We have a chance to restore democratic nationalism; it is our right given by destiny. We lost our rightful lands!”
Heydrich stood up and began pacing the room.
“The Treaty of Versailles was an obscenity, a stain on the history books, with unreasonable demands for Germany to repatriate, to accept sole responsibility, as if we had caused the war!” Heydrich shook his head. “We had to make substantial territorial concessions and pay reparations and in return, there was unemployment, impossible inflation. You had to roll millions of reichsmarks to the bank in a wheelbarrow because they were worthless. We lost our identity, our pride. Our movement is to restore the Fatherland to greatness! But, Viktor, if I may return the compliment, you’re a man of history.” Viktor said nothing but gave a mirthless smile. Heydrich stopped to spin a globe on his desk. “Now is the time for us. I wish you had been with me at the rallies in Nuremberg and seen the Führer’s speech, the parades, the cathedrals of light.”
“I was there.”
“You were?”
“Yes, before I became a conductor, I was a violinist with the Berlin Philharmonic, and principal soloist when we played at the Luitpoldhain-
Dutzendteich. A nicely received evening.”
“I would have liked to hear you play. I ad
ore concerts. Of course, you already know that,” Heydrich said, ta-tumming and waving his hands in musical punctuation.
“We share a passion for music.”
Heydrich held Viktor’s gaze. “We share more than that. We share a passion for Germany.”
Changing the subject, Viktor said, “The season is beginning in Prague. I’ll arrange tickets for you.”
“I understand they are difficult to get, oversubscribed.”
Viktor was aware that Heydrich could have any ticket he wanted, but he and the general continued to play the give-and-take.
“Do you prefer orchestra or a box?” Viktor asked.
“Orchestra, of course. The closer the better.”
“The acoustics are better in the middle of the house.”
“I prefer to be close to the orchestra. I like to watch the musicians perform as well as listen.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I have something to show you. I’ve treasured the violin all my life.” Heydrich opened a simple black case. “A Stradivarius!”
“No!”
“Yes!” Heydrich clapped his hands together like an excited boy.
Viktor walked over to the case and admired the instrument. He knew that Stradivarius violins were among the most exquisite, expensive musical instruments ever made, boasting an extraordinary sound due to the craftsmanship of Antonio Stradivari, who crafted these magnificent, rare instruments in his shop in Cremona, Italy. They were musical gems. Other violin makers had attempted to duplicate them without success, never achieving the same precision, the same sound. Made from maple with special glues and varnishes, they were impossible to replicate. With only seven hundred made, each violin was a musical treasure. After tuning the strings, Heydrich began to play Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto. Viktor had no intention of being upstaged. Retrieving his more modest instrument, he played along with the general.
“I am surprised,” Viktor said, “I didn’t know you played, and so well! Bravo.”
“Call me Reinhard, please.”
“Then, Reinhard, you may call me Viktor; we are fellow musicians!”
Heydrich offered a restrained chuckle while walking around his desk to a cabinet, which he opened to reveal a small bar.
Accepting a brandy, Viktor asked, “How did you ever come to acquire such a magnificent instrument? I could never afford such a thing.”
“It’s on loan from a violinist in the Philharmonic.”
Viktor knew at once it was a lie; Heydrich had stolen it. His theft was an insult to all musicians, but Viktor had to be careful not to show any offense. The instrument belonged to Artur Levin, an accomplished and much-admired musician. Mueller knew this because Levin’s name was fastened to a small engraved plate on the case. Violins were deeply personal instruments; each one belonged in some profound way to its player, residing in their soul.
“I’m very glad you came, Viktor. I’ve been thinking about you, and, now that we have had our warm-up, we must get down to business. I want to offer you a position on my staff.”
“And I wish to offer you a position in my orchestra, Reinhard, Concertmaster of the Philharmonic. Czech or Berlin. Always good to have something to fall back upon, Mother used to say. You never know, hard times …”
Heydrich grinned broadly and then seemed absolutely serious. “Ah, Viktor, I have no fear of hard times. I think we can look forward to good times, great times. Together, making music and making history.”
Viktor finished his brandy and placed the crystal glass on the desk. He then packed up his violin. “I’m performing tonight; I’ll leave two tickets at the opera house.”
“Thank you. I’ll ask Lina to join me.”
Viktor presented his card. “When you are back in Prague, bring your violin and we’ll play again.” Heydrich gave a little laugh.
The general saluted. “Heil Hitler.” Viktor, hesitant at first, smartly returned the salutation, adding a little dash by clicking his heels a bit more sharply than Heydrich. He would have preferred to return Heydrich’s casual Nazi salute with a handshake or bow. But it was not to be. And one small gesture at the end of an important meeting was a price worth paying in this long game.
GREETINGS!
An official document marked with a German seal arrived for Herr Viktor Mueller.
When Poppy unsealed the envelope and read the contents, he dissolved into laughter.
“Max, well, there you have it. I’ve been conscripted.”
I jotted the word conscripted in my notebook. My vocabulary was expanding by the day.
“I’ll save you the trouble of a dictionary. They want me. I’m in the German army now.”
“How can that be? We live in Czechoslovakia.”
“We’re German citizens, Max, and they’re calling people up.”
I never thought of Poppy joining the German army. I couldn’t imagine it. We were a family of musicians, citizens of music. Like so much these days it just didn’t make sense. I couldn’t imagine the Great Viktor Mueller in the military. But why …?
Finishing my thought, Poppy said, “I have no intention of being part of Hitler’s Reich. This is not exactly what I had in mind. I’m going to speak to Heydrich about it. But it may be useful …”
“What about David’s parents?”
“Ah, yes, I have something for him.”
“Good news?”
“Very good news!”
He handed me a piece of paper.
The Lucerna was a classic turn-of-the-century cinema in Prague, with velvet cushions, richly painted walls, and silver lighting fixtures from 1920.
David and I got together for the first time since I had visited him at Mrs. Blomberg’s. I tried to visit him more often, but a curfew had been set, and surely I was being followed. Despite no longer being in school together, this was an opportunity when Poppy arranged for tickets. We met up in front of the theater.
“I have news!” I was out of breath. “Your mother and father were released and given the last two permits to Palestine, they’re on their way there.”
David was lost for words. “Can this really be true? They’re safe?” David could barely get the words out.
“Yes, yes, Poppy told me about it just last night.”
“Max, how did it happen?”
“He arranged it.”
I didn’t have all the details but gave him the official paper. His parents had not wanted to leave him behind. I also handed him the letter that they had sent with Poppy.
Dearest Son,
You cannot imagine. We had to go quickly, our only choice. If we hadn’t we would have been shot. Please know that your mama begged and pleaded to stay. I had to consider what you would have wanted us to do. We could leave only after a promise that you’ll be protected and safe. I believe that with all my heart. We love you so much and we live for a better time. One day, one day soon, the conflict will be over, and we’ll be together in Palestine. Be strong, my son. Please forgive us. Bless you, David.
Your devoted father
David put down the letter and said nothing. At last I spoke: “Poppy has promised to look after you. He made a sacred oath.”
“I miss them terribly,” he finally said in a pained whisper. “It had to be as difficult for them as it is for me. But at least they’re safe now. I’m grateful to Poppy.”
“They’re going to be all right, David. You will see them again, and I guess that in the meantime, you’ll have to just put up with me.”
“That may be more than I can take.”
“Well, it won’t be for long.”
“Is Poppy working for the Reich?”
“I don’t know what he’s doing, except he has some kind of plan. We have to trust him.”
“Well, he was able to help my parents, and I won’t forget his kindness. Your fa
ther did something extraordinary!”
There was some small sense of security in knowing what Poppy had done, and he did something that proved he was still the Great Viktor Mueller. Perhaps things really would be okay after all.
A LITTLE PANACHE
“I think it’s time to remove that brace of yours,” Poppy said. “You’re doing really well, walking better, leg stronger, looking good to me, Max.”
“You’ve helped me arrive at this moment, Poppy.”
“You’ve arrived by yourself, son, and I’m proud of you.” Poppy bent down, and removed the straps.
“You’re not going to be a target for any Nazi.”
“I’ll feel funny without it.”
“Then only the special shoe. It will help you adjust.”
The Great Viktor Mueller always made me feel better than I was.
“That was something great you did for the Topper,” I said, again thanking my father for helping David’s parents.
Poppy smiled broadly. “And you must tell David not to worry because he always has us to help him.”
The Great Viktor Mueller always dressed carefully for important occasions. Today, he decided on a charcoal-gray coat with darkly striped trousers for his meeting with Heydrich at his Prague office. I sat down with my books and my notebook. My journal was fast filling up and I had invested in three more identical ones. I was committed to my new interest in writing. The more I read and the more I wrote, the more sense I was making of my world.
When Poppy returned later that evening, I breathed a sigh of relief. We went into the living room, with its many photographs of actors and musicians staring down at us, each housed in a sterling frame. I loved studying the photos, memorizing the assorted loops and swirls of each autograph and inscription to my father. I flopped onto my familiar beige couch.
Poppy gazed out over a balcony, the railings heavy with trailing ivy, to the courtyard beyond. He sighed and strolled over to the antique wooden table. He kept a red box on top, filled with his slender ivory batons. He caressed one before facing me.
While the Music Played Page 14