While the Music Played

by Nathaniel Lande

  “What happened?” I asked. “What did he say? Must you join? What if you were to—”

  “Easy, slow down, Max.”

  Poppy walked over to the sofa, deep in thought. He moved a towering stack of sheet music to the floor and sat down next to me. “I don’t want you to be afraid. I am the Great Viktor Mueller, remember?” He waved his baton in the air.

  I leaned my head on my father’s broad shoulder. “You’re joining the army? Surely Heydrich can get you out of it.”

  “The general wants me to take the rank of captain. From now on I will be the Great Captain Viktor Mueller. I’ll spend time in the cultural ministry in Berlin as his personal deputy.”

  “But that’s crazy! You’re a conductor; a music man not an army man.”

  “I’ll be supervising productions,” Poppy said, “beginning by organizing a suitable entertainment for the Führer’s birthday.”

  “Hitler has birthdays?” I asked with some bitterness.

  Poppy chuckled. “Everyone has a birthday and everyone loves a celebration, Max. And besides, you haven’t heard the best part. I get to wear a full uniform, befitting my rank!”

  There was a hat rack in the far corner of the living room, holding Poppy’s prized collection: the elegant black top hat, the bright red fez, the debonair gray homburg, the dark brown fedora, the yellow straw hat, the felt trilby, the English tweed country cap, and the one I most admired, the Three Musketeers hat with an extravagant plume. There were many more, with new ones appearing whenever Poppy returned from another grand adventure. Some of my favorite stories revolved around them.

  “Take my fedora. It was made by the famous hatmaker Giuseppe Borsalino himself. They called him Pepe, and with style he strolled the via every evening after dinner in Alessandria.

  “And the fez! King Farouk—king of Egypt—told me to always wear the tassel on the left. I don’t know why, but I would never question the king of Egypt and the Sudan. I was in Cairo. We drove through the desert in the king’s red Rolls-Royce convertible and sailed down the Nile and into Cairo in a felucca. Glorious days.

  “Now, the Panama hat … I loved Panama, but I acquired one of their hats in a small town in faraway Ecuador.”

  I knew all these details by heart. Each story had been recounted so many times, but I welcomed every telling, as if being reintroduced to an old friend.

  “A superfine Montecristi, the signature on the finest Panama hats in the world. They have over twenty-five hundred weaves per inch. Twenty-five hundred. Each one took a year to make! And whenever I got thirsty I filled it with water; imagine a hat so fine that it can hold water. Very hot in Ecuador.

  “The trilby is from James Lock of St. James in London. It’s just the sporting brim for a gentleman. Kind of jaunty. A little panache.”

  Poppy always selected a proper cane from a group in the umbrella stand. Some with silver handles. One even had a built-in sword.

  He loved to pretend. He couldn’t help it. He was a born actor, a master performer. I wasn’t surprised that Poppy might want to dress up in a German uniform. I just hoped that he wouldn’t take that role too far. Poppy reassured me and said that it was “immeasurably worthwhile.”

  I collected new words wherever I found them, and now I knew that some things were just immeasurably worthwhile.

  “Captain Mueller at your service. How do you like it?” Poppy strolled into the living room. He had been fitted by A. S. Schneider, Heydrich’s personal tailor in Berlin.

  Poppy looked taller than usual. His light-gray jacket, square-shouldered, with gold braid and engraved buttons, had a red insignia with the rank of captain. There was a black stripe falling like a ribbon down the side of each trouser leg.

  Hans said, “Viktor, you look like you just stepped out of The Nutcracker.”

  “Very observant, Hans. It’s my new uniform!”

  “Are you serious, Viktor?”

  “I joined up,” he announced.

  “Are you crazy? In the German army?”

  Hans blinked.

  “I didn’t have much choice, Hans. I was drafted. Surely Max mentioned it.”

  Hans became deadly serious: “You always have a choice. It may not be easy, but it’s still a choice. You’ve chosen to take on this role, and it’s ugly and dangerous. Viktor, this is an insult. What are you thinking? This is a betrayal not only to me, but to yourself. You’re a collaborator, Viktor. And I’m ashamed.”

  Collaborator? I didn’t know the word, and I quickly took out my dictionary.

  Was Poppy a friend and associate, or a defector and traitor?

  “The Reichsprotektor needs my help for the cause.”

  “What cause?”

  “Thingplatzes.”

  Hans frowned. “What are Thingplatzes?”

  “They’re platforms for staging performances from German history and mythology.”

  “And this is your cause?”

  “I have to be practical, Hans. I’m a German, not a Nazi.”

  “You report to one … your new friend.”

  Hans stood up from his chair.

  “We will get through these hard times, Hans. I’ll get us all whatever we need. My rank carries a lot of benefits. I mean a lot !”

  “A lot? And what will you do to earn us these benefits? Round up Jews? Take away citizenship? Enforce curfews? Who are you, Viktor? Who have you become?”

  “Hans, we’re best friends. I conducted your first opera. We’re not politicians. We’re not soldiers. We live for music.”

  My father sounded as though he was pleading with Hans.

  “Not the music you’re playing, Viktor. No. No.”

  While Poppy and Hans argued, my feelings were trapped somewhere between them. What did all this mean? Where should my loyalty lie? Where should I place my trust? I had never seen Poppy and Hans exchange a harsh word. Now they seemed to be on different sides. What had my father become? And whose side would I choose?

  “Let’s put this grotesque show aside for a moment, Viktor. How about Max? You know what I think is a good idea? There’s a program, Kindertransport, to rescue children of Prague. If we don’t take advantage of this, you and your new Nazi friend are going to fill Europe with orphans, and then who knows what will happen to these kids?”

  Poppy growled. “I know all about that, Hans, and it’s for Jewish children. Max doesn’t need to leave. Max is with his friends. I want him nearby.”

  “And what about David?”

  “He feels his place is in Prague, After all, he’s a newspaper man, and he’s a curious boy.”

  “And where will you be, Viktor? In Berlin?”

  “Don’t I have any say in this?” I asked.

  Before an answer came, Poppy took my arm and led me toward the front door. I looked over at Hans. He was tapping his foot in anger, his face dark with tense emotion. I didn’t know what to do or say.

  “I’ll see you in a few days, Hans,” I called. “Have you found a hurdy-gurdy?”

  “Not yet,” he muttered.

  Poppy stopped and gave a sigh. He went over to Hans, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “We’ve been friends too long,” Viktor said. “For too many years. We can’t do this.”

  “I’m sorry.” Hans stood up and walked out of the room.

  I had tears rolling down my face.

  “I’m doing this for Max! For all of us …” Poppy called after him.

  He watched Hans retreat toward the drawing room, shaking his head. Under his breath all I heard him say was, “I’m sorry.”

  PLAYING THE

  HURDY-GURDY

  A lot of the kids were gone. I was feeling even more alone. Poppy knew how concerned I was, especially that he and Hans should fight and disagree. I was caught between the two, somewhere between loyalty and friendship. I didn’t kno
w how to handle the situation, and tried to push it aside, but it disturbed me deeply. It was an uninvited, unwelcomed gloom that wouldn’t leave.

  To make things better for me, Poppy took me to a performance featuring the Comedian Harmonists, a clever singing group who were all the rage in Berlin and were now appearing in Prague. We ran into Heydrich unexpectedly and he invited us to come around and see the new offices he had recently set up in Prague.

  I was reluctant to go along with Poppy. I didn’t want to feel disloyal to Hans, but Poppy was, well, Poppy. I persuaded myself that Heydrich had been nice to my father, and that David’s parents were safe. Maybe deep down he was okay. After all, if Poppy had faith in him …

  Wearing his uniform, with a long gray overcoat falling just short of his ankles, the Great Viktor Mueller and I arrived at Heydrich’s headquarters in Prague Castle. Poppy flashed an official pass that allowed him to go anywhere in the city.

  The grand hallways had paintings in carved gold frames. There were painted cabinets and, overhead, a long line of chandeliers from generations of Austrians and Hapsburgs. Each was suspended from a bright-yellow ceiling with crystals that sparkled like diamonds.

  We walked into a room that had finely stitched rugs with medallions at each corner. The walls were mahogany, and the ceiling was painted with constellations of stars—silver stars glinting out of a deep–royal blue sky. It was the first time either of us had ever seen the magnificent rooms inside the castle.

  The general nodded at my father and turned to me. “Welcome, Max. Any new concerts lately?” Heydrich spoke in a pleasant tone.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m playing a character based on Hitler in a new opera. It’s called Brundibár.”

  Poppy’s eyes bulged, and he glared at me.

  “My friend Hans has written it and I’m the star.” I could hear the note of defiance in my voice.

  General Heydrich’s eyebrows rose. “You aaaaare?”

  “It’s a children’s musical, and I need a hurdy-gurdy, like they have in Old Town; it’s a square music box that plays tunes.”

  Heydrich smiled. “Max, you’re stirring memories. Yes, I know hurdy-gurdies. It’s so ironic. My father wrote an opera and I recall a refrain, ‘We all dance to the tune of a barrel-organ.’ Yes, I like that very much.”

  “I have to find one for the show.”

  Poppy questioned me in a low whisper, then turned to Heydrich, and then again back to me. Hans hadn’t told him anything about his opera. So, for once, Poppy didn’t know everything going on in my life, but he played along.

  “Ah, the Führer is in an opera? Amazing. This Max of yours is something, I wish I had a boy like him. Viktor, take my car at once. Max shall have his hurdy-gurdy.”

  On the way down to the courtyard, Poppy asked, “Max, what is this nonsense about playing Hitler?”

  “I have the lead in Hans’s opera.”

  Poppy shook his head.

  “If you’re in the German army, Poppy, I can play Hitler.” I was being deliberately provocative, just wanting to test his reaction.

  “We’ll speak more about this later. For now, we can’t disappoint the general. To the hurdy-gurdy store!” He hailed a taxi and the driver set off toward town.

  The Companie Musik had more than the standard assortment of brass and strings; it carried entire families of instruments. Three crowded rooms led to a warren of dimly lit spaces. It was a fantasy land for me. I had been there so many times and was forever grateful for all the hours that Mr. Mannheim had taught me how to tune pianos. We liked each other very much. Poppy admired the trombones lined up against the walls, and the gleaming brass trumpets that hung from ceilings. Violins faced violas, all stretching along an old and tired corridor. There were saxophones, clarinets, flutes, and horns, and I imagined that they were all once played in parades. They were all there just waiting to come back to life, to march again. I had always felt at home here, among the instruments and knew that my father did too. I wished he hadn’t been wearing that uniform. It struck a sour note among all the gleaming brass and gold and wood, and I wondered if Mr. Mannheim would somehow sense it, would hear the distinctive brush of the stiff uniform, pick out the hard click of the military shoes against the aged oak floor of the shop.

  Conducting the squads of instruments was the music master of the establishment, my blind business partner, Lorin Mannheim, greeting us with a wave of the cane that he carried at all times.

  “Mr. Mannheim,” I asked with the greatest respect. “Do you have a hurdy-gurdy? I need one for an opera and Brundibár.”

  “Not many around these days, but you are in luck, Max. I got one in recently. Poor fellow became ill, and it was just too hard for him to stand all day.” He went into a back room and returned with a pristine hurdy-gurdy. It was expensive, but when Poppy explained the project to him, he made a special price. Perhaps Mr. Mannheim had been intimidated by my father’s new position if he had indeed detected it. I hoped not. Perhaps, being my friend, he made a special concession.

  Demonstrating how the instrument worked, Mr. Mannheim said, “You’ll appreciate this, Max. Tunes are encoded onto the barrel using metal pins and staples.” He spoke with calm authority, as he always did, with the bearing and confidence of an engineer, his every move precise.

  “We’ll only need it for a short time,” I promised.

  Mr. Mannheim fine-tuned the cylinder and polished the cabinet and the bright brass handle on its side. I watched his hands feeling and searching carefully, observing every detail.

  “Is there a particular tune you need?”

  “Max can tell you,” Poppy said, caressing the instrument with his hand.

  “I have it here, Mr. Mannheim.”

  I took Hans’s sheet music out of my knapsack.

  “Shouldn’t be any problem at all. I’ll have my son play it for me, and I’ll pin a roll.”

  When we picked up the hurdy-gurdy a few days later, I turned the crank, and it played a theme from Brundibár. The instrument felt alive in my hands, and I played the theme over and over. There was instantaneously an unusual feeling about this piece, both melancholy and exhilarating. I was thrilled by the moment and a grin spread across my face.

  It had been too long since my father had seen me smile.

  “The Mueller boys are back again,” Heydrich exclaimed with a chipper grin. He studied the hurdy-gurdy with misty eyes, admiring its condition.

  “Play for me, Mr. Brundibár.”

  “I’m a little rusty. That is, I haven’t gotten the score down yet.”

  “Give it a go,” the general said. “I would like to hear you play.”

  The general and Poppy took their places in comfortable chairs.

  From the center of the room, I turned the handle, the tune began, and I sang the refrain:

  “Now, you kids, don’t make a riot,

  When I am here, please be quiet.

  Here I am, I’m your star,

  Mr. Charming Brundibár.

  When I’m here and wish to play,

  Sing with me and shout, Hooray!”

  “Fantastic, Max!” Heydrich slapped his hands enthusiastically. “From piano tuner to star. You’re a natural!” He chuckled lightly and my father, too, smiled. But the moment was short-lived, as Heydrich got right down to business. “Viktor, the Comedian Harmonists are the talk of Europe. I’d like them to sing at the concert for the Führer. You know them?”

  “They really are talented!” I jumped in.

  “Of course,” Poppy confirmed. He looked a little unsure of himself, something that I was not used to seeing: “Yes, but … you do know that three of them are Jewish?” Poppy sounded uncomfortable and apologetic. Why should he have to apologize?

  Heydrich gave a peculiar smile. “I’m sure you can work it out. We Germans appreciate talent. The group, so
unusual. So interesting.”

  “Very good then.”

  “Viktor, why don’t you take Max with you to Berlin? I’d like for him to see our city and sing for the Führer.”

  Sing for the Führer? How did I get myself into these things?

  As we left Heydrich’s office, I turned to my father. “Are you serious about this plan, Poppy?”

  “You could use the experience, an out-of-town tryout. After all, you’re playing his double.”

  “Does this feel like a game to you, some kind of joke? I don’t even know what to say to you, Poppy. But I’m sure that I’m not going to do it.”

  “Please, Max. Do it for me.”

  He was emphatic and that frightened me a bit. Why was he so insistent? There had to be a reason.

  “Okay,” I finally said. “Poppy, I’ll do it for you.”

  “I understand it’s an opportunity,” Hans said quietly when he learned the details of the show’s unexpected premiere. I knew singing Brundibár for the German High Command was not how Hans had imagined things would go.

  Hans sighed. “We’ll see how it plays. As I said, the opera carries a double meaning and that meaning can be taken in different ways. This will be a test.”

  “I’m not sure I can carry it off, Hans. It’s not just the performance. It’s in front of Hitler himself. How am I going to feel singing for the most feared man in Europe?” I was not just unsure, I was in a panic about it. Poppy had waved off my concerns, but I knew Hans would listen.

  “Let’s look at it as experience. You need to get your legs in front of an audience. I know it’s one we don’t like. Just pretend he’s not there, and sing for yourself, Max, and for me. Ignore who he is. You know my feelings, and I know yours. It’s our music that counts, and the song carries a message. When you’re turning the handle on the box take your time, take the stage, win your audience. You can do it. That’s why I chose you. My music will be right there along with you. So, through my music I’ll be standing beside you all the way. And besides, you’ll be singing about hope and victory. Not for them, but for us. You will be singing a song of resistance and rebellion, resisting from within, and you will be doing it without the Germans even realizing. You know, Max, it just may be the perfect debut for you and Brundibár.”