Mrs. Branka did her best to respond. “There are a lot of people in Germany who don’t support what you’re saying, David.”
“I’d like to meet some of these good people, Mrs. Branka.”
I could understand David’s concerns but I felt uncomfortable that he was confronting the wrong person.
Sophie jumped in quickly. “I agree with David, Mrs. Branka. My father was a professor, just like you, standing for decency, and he was courageous, part of the Resistance, but he was silenced.”
Ava did something I wasn’t expecting. She came over and put her arm around Sophie. I wanted to do the same.
“As long as I’m here, I’m going to help. We’re all doing the best we can, Sophie. I do believe good people like you will carry the day. Let’s think of the poet William Blake. ‘We become what we behold.’”
David looked at her. “So if that’s true, what are we becoming?”
Ava met his gaze, unblinking. “I think we can decide about what we want to be.”
Classes continued with David firing questions, determined not to give up on finding the truth. Ava could only do so much. She couldn’t explain a lot to us. If word got out about her personal sentiments, and our questions, she would not have lasted very long. Our lessons became cherished times for us all, oases of calm and reason, places where we had the freedom to try to understand more about the world and about ourselves. With Sophie’s help we came to discover, and began accepting the art and literature Mrs. Branka introduced us to, subjects that would enrich our lives. In their own way, all of this would help us learn how to survive, and how to look at things in a different way, to decide who we were, who and what we could become.
That night, I turned to my bedside table, where Mark Twain had become my reliable companion. There was a passage all about how people think differently, a discussion between Huck and the black man he befriended, Jim.
“Well, it’s a blame ridicklous way, en I doan’ want to hear no mo’ ’bout it. Dey ain’ no sense in it.”
“Looky here, Jim; does a cat talk like we do?”
MEETING
LENI RIEFENSTAHL
Near the cabinet room, ever-delusional Joseph Goebbels, the notorious propaganda minister, sat dwarfed by a desk as exaggerated as his imposing Berlin office.
“There’s someone waiting to meet you: Leni Riefenstahl.”
Viktor was surprised. He had seen her perform as a dancer and actress prior to her liaison with Hitler, before she became one of the premier film directors in the world. Her films, Triumph of the Will, for the 1934 Nuremberg Rally, and Olympia, the documentary on the 1936 Olympic Games, had become legendary, seen around the world, winning gold medals in both Paris and Venice.
“She admires your work, Captain.”
“What does she have in mind?”
“A collaboration. Two great artists. She is waiting for you in your office.”
When Viktor introduced himself, he was amazed how small and slight she was, and how her face was reminiscent of the kind seen in so many classic films. Confident and comfortable, she sat in his small but well-appointed office, surrounded by signed photographs of all the musicians he admired.
“Captain Mueller, at last. I’ve admired your productions.”
“Thank you, Fräulein Riefenstahl.”
“Leni, please.”
“Leni, yes, of course. Let me say how impressed I am by the way you have revolutionized film, how you see through the lens so differently.”
Riefenstahl had practically invented tracking shots, and inventive pans from cranes, and even built trenches to shoot upward with elongated shots. She had a cinematic eye and had single-handedly given film a different perspective. She had five hundred searchlights form a circle at fifty-foot intervals, shooting into the sky at night forming a cathedral of light creating an image that was not only impressive and unforgettable, but burned forever into the minds of everyone who was there.
He continued. “You’ll have to come to Munich next week. There will be a premier of a new production.”
“I know your work, Viktor. I believe the Führer would like for us to work together.”
“But I am not practiced in film. I know a little about stagecraft, but film is a different medium, one I’ve not explored.”
“I appreciate your use of multimoving stages, film projection, and music integrated into your productions. I want to do the same. What I envision is seventy-millimeter film to project on very large screens, and I will need one of your amphitheaters to create this kind of cinema. Special speakers and projectors. I have a plan to have both moving screens and moving projectors and integrated live performance. I know film; you know theater. I need your knowledge and technology, and I need to understand the way you direct your cast, to create emotion. I want to do on film what you do onstage, to engage and capture my audience.”
“Have you the authority for this?”
“Our Führer has allowed me to work in complete freedom, just as he has done for you. He would like for us to work together.”
Viktor knew Riefenstahl was a great artist, but he was curious. Was she just a gifted filmmaker in love with her art? Or an instrument of the Reich? Or simply a supreme pragmatist, an opportunist? And what was he himself?
She seemed to be eavesdropping on his thoughts: “We are very much alike and have much to share.”
Viktor navigated the conversation into a different direction. “I’ve heard that you believe that Hitler is the greatest man who has ever lived.”
Riefenstahl spoke with extraordinary calm: “I’m not a member of the Nazi Party, Viktor. Hitler gives me the chance to create a message for and about Germany. Are you not doing the same thing? Are you not brilliantly expressing yourself, with opportunities and almost limitless tools such as you have never had before? What artist, what true artist, could resist this chance—the chance to fully realize yourself, your vision. You’re a great talent. When you’re not directing, you conduct great orchestras. I’ve watched you. When you are on a podium, you express yourself like a dancer. Your hands dance.”
“I am flattered, but I suspect you’re here for a greater, clearer, very different purpose. What do you really want from me, Fräulein Riefenstahl?”
“I want you to coproduce my film Victorious, which will play to the entire world when the war is over. We should begin planning now.”
“Yes, we should start planning.”
The meeting left Viktor thinking about how involved he was in propaganda, how much longer he could carry on doing what he was doing. How much of this could be justified? How many more concerts would he direct? One thing he did know: he had made a deal with the devil.
A PERFORMANCE
I received a special invitation. It was from General Heydrich and on elegant stationery tied with a ribbon. Poppy had engineered a musical production, and I was to go. I opened the envelope in the Vedem newsroom with David at my elbow.
“Ah, an invitation from the Reichsprotektor himself. You’ll have to report on this event, Max,” David said. “Pay attention to everything, everyone. Remember, you can’t expect an easy explanation. But if you really are a journalist now, you are part of a tradition of truth-seekers.” Leaning closer, David spoke softly, “Time to put your long pants on. Be a man. Be a reporter, Max. Be my undercover man. There’s no one else. I trust you. Find out whatever you can. It’s so important.” And then softer still, “Lives may depend on it.”
In the distance, hundreds of searchlights beamed into the sky. It was an open-air theater. The sound of a hundred drums—first a roll of snare drums, then timpani—reverberated and built and joined together in an overwhelming rhythm. An orchestra played, accompanied by a chorus of three hundred. One group sang and the other responded, as though it were a mass, a holy celebration—an overture to the event itself, conveying Germany’s heroic glory.
&n
bsp; The general had also invited Commandant Freidle to the premiere. It was the first time I’d been out of Terezín since I’d arrived nearly three months ago, and the chance to see Poppy was more than I could have hoped for. Dresden was near the border, just an hour’s drive away.
Arriving at the amphitheater, I was more interested in finding my father than in anything else. I endlessly scanned the audience over hundreds of rows of seats, looking for his face. They were all waiting for the performance to begin, sitting quietly, obediently, their expressions glazed. Freidle was overwhelmed.
“This is incredible, Max,” he kept repeating under his breath. “Incredible!”
The audience members were intoxicated by the spectacle. They thrilled by the production, especially the final scene when a godlike figure representing Hitler was lowered into view. The event concluded with a celebration of the greatness of the Fatherland.
The orchestra played the national anthem, “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles,” and they all jumped to their feet. They wept and fervently sang along. It was a staggering thing to see. But throughout the performance I felt a peculiar sense of isolation, as if I was the only one not moved by the grandeur of it all. I didn’t feel in any way connected, not to anyone. I was fighting the urge to stand up and scream that this was nonsense. How could they believe this spectacle? After a thunderous ovation, the drums started again, and the Führer’s adoring fans brought the evening to a close.
Nearby, I saw the mysterious presence of the black overcoat scribbling in his black book. I felt completely ill at ease in this vast crowd and wondered if I was also the only one who saw his sinister, spectral presence. Was he writing about the event and Poppy? It bothered me to see him keep appearing wherever I went, always lurking in the background, an ominous shadow. Looking away, I tried to erase the dark silhouette from my thoughts. Why was the black overcoat there? Why was he everywhere? Was he real? Was I conjuring him up, projecting my fear, my deepest anxieties?
At last, it was all over. Poppy found me. He pulled me close in a hug and didn’t let go for nearly a minute before stepping back and beaming. “Well, Max, what did you think of the show?”
Before I could answer, Commandant Freidle pushed past me to shake Poppy’s hand, pumping his arm up and down, as if he’d just met the Führer himself. As they spoke, I saw General Heydrich moving in the crowd with his wife. He waved to Poppy and came over. I stood a little taller.
“Did you enjoy the performance, Max?” he asked. “Better than opera, yes? We always meet up at great events. I’m glad to see you.”
“And you as well, General. I appreciate Poppy’s work.”
I hoped that sounded genuine enough. I did appreciate it. But did I like it?
“Viktor, the Führer is invigorating the Nazi message, to resonate for a thousand years. Your Thingplatzes are the churches of National Socialism.”
Heydrich turned to Freidle and they chatted lightly. Poppy stepped away and spoke to a man I had never seen before. Poppy beckoned me to come over. “I want you to meet Fritz Gerlich, the managing editor of the Munich Post. He’s come to interview me.”
The Munich Post! A big-time journalist. I could almost feel David at my shoulder, urging me to take notes, not to miss a detail.
“A pleasure, Max,” Gerlich said, his face unreadable. He turned back to Poppy. “And congratulations, Viktor Mueller. I’ve been a fan of yours for a long time. I attend your concerts every chance I get.”
Poppy smiled but Gerlich did not return it, instead speaking in deadly earnestness: “So I must ask how you got involved with this nonsense?”
Poppy frowned. “Nonsense? We’re both German; it’s our culture, our history.”
“Are you serious? German culture or the Nazi message?”
“I’m a musician. Music is my country. I am not part of the Third Reich,” Poppy protested, stepping closer to Gerlich.
“You may not be but your production suggests God is. Whatever you say you are, it appears you are a votary, supporting everything Hitler stands for.”
Votary. Good word. I’ll look it up.
Glaring at the man from the Post, Poppy replied, “I was asked to take on the project to construct amphitheaters for productions worthy of the German tradition.” He cleared his throat and dropped his voice. “My work does not make me a Nazi.”
“Well, what does it make you then?” Gerlich said with contempt.
I was upset. Even at his most furious, Hans had never spoken to my father like this.
“Viktor Mueller,” Gerlich said, “you are a great artist but you are disgracing yourself as an acolyte of the Reich.” He spoke as though he were passing sentence on a criminal.
Acolyte. Another good one for my collection. My father’s face was white as Gerlich spat out his words.
He glanced over at Heydrich, still chatting with Freidle nearby. “I should remind you, Mr. Gerlich, to be careful what you say in these times.”
“I know that very well.” Gerlich spoke quietly. “I go a long way back with Adolf, and I can promise you, Hitler is betraying the German spirit. My offices have been ransacked, I’ve been threatened. The Post is the last paper standing up for free speech, and as a journalist who respects a great artist, I can say, Herr Mueller, that I’m deeply disappointed that you are part of an anti-Jewish, anti-Christian propaganda crusade, all to glorify a criminal. You will learn, as I did. I’m truly happy to meet you, but I am deeply sorry for what you do. And I bitterly regret what you have become.”
He turned and disappeared into the crowd. I watched him in stunned silence.
“Poppy? Why did that man say all those things about you? Is it true what he said about Hitler?”
Poppy held me close. “It’s not so important, Max. These are testing times and tempers can run high. What is important is that I can see you again. I’m so glad you came and I’ll be coming to visit more often.”
“But, Poppy, if Hitler is a criminal and you’re building him up, and the Germans hate Jews, it seems as if … I mean, what about Hans, and David and Sophie? Do you think they’re—”
“Max, you have the makings of a fine journalist, but for now, I must ask you to believe in me.”
I wasn’t sure what he was asking, but I pushed that thought aside. I was still hoping that Poppy would help my friends. “Do you think you can get more medical supplies to us? We need them. People are suffering there, Poppy, and that can’t be right, can it?”
Poppy nodded and turned around as someone patted him heartily on the shoulder. There was nothing that the Great Viktor Mueller appreciated more than admiration for his work.
“I must go, dear Max. Travel safely, keep believing, and I will see you soon.” He gave me a last hug as he was swept away into the crowd.
“Bye, Poppy,” I called to his retreating back. I looked around me. People were wearing swastika armbands and badges. Their mood was exultant. But I had a terrifying feeling of nausea deep in the pit of my stomach, an anxiety that was growing bigger all the time. Poppy was a man in a Nazi uniform, wearing a swastika badge, the symbol of National Socialism. What had he become? Who had he become? How could I believe in him?
A PAIR OF STEEL-RIMMED SPECTACLES
I was relieved to get back to Terezín. It was the only home I had. Reporting to David the next day in the Vedem office, I gave my account. “It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.” David scribbled notes as I spoke. I told him about the crowd, the mood, the near-hysterical singing of the German national anthem.
“Hitler descended like a god, to save Germany.” I shuddered a little as I spoke.
“You saw your father, though?”
“Yes, I saw him.” I spoke flatly. I knew David understood that I didn’t want to talk about Poppy.
Thinking of him and his Nazi production reminded me of my own. Brundibár had a brighter message. Poppy had his
production—I would have mine. We needed to do something, just to show each other that we could, to remind ourselves of who we were and who we could be. It became clear to me then that this was important, for all of us, even for Poppy too.
“I can only imagine what an overblown production it was. Did you get the message?” David asked. “These enormous productions are there to send a message. It’s Hitler’s propaganda machine. It’s all show. Searchlights and drums are just a prelude to rolling tanks and marching troops.”
“Do people always swallow propaganda?”
“When it’s done well, yes, I think they do.” David spoke somberly.
“Have you ever read the Munich Post ?” I asked.
“Fritz Gerlich is the best editor in Germany.”
I was lost in thought.
“It’s all a lie, Max,” David said, reviewing his notes. “Everybody lies for a purpose, some good, some bad.”
“Tell me about the mail, Fritz. People send letters, a few others receive them. I don’t see much activity.”
“It’s difficult, Max.”
“What do you mean? I keep hearing that things are difficult. This is the mail, isn’t it? We send the letters out, don’t we?”
“They go to headquarters,” Fritz replied.
“Why?”
“It’s considered sensitive material.”
“You can’t be serious, Fritz. Why is there a post office? Sophie never received my letters. I can’t believe that happened. When you write a letter, you assume it will arrive at the other end.”
“I’m bothered, too, but it’s just the way things are. I do my job. I suspect the censors do theirs.”
“The censors? They’re reading all the letters? It’s not right, Fritz. Letters are personal.”
“No, it’s not right. But it’s the way it is.”
I had to report to Sam Raggle. I had to write something that would be read only by the person it was sent to.
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