While the Music Played

by Nathaniel Lande

  I spied a red packet with a Berlin postmark.

  “What’s in the large envelope?”

  “It’s marked confidential, Max. For the SS, and in my custody until I deliver it.”

  “But what’s inside?”

  “Not for us to know. We are here to do our jobs, not ask questions. Questions can cause trouble.”

  Asking questions was my mission, and trouble was already swirling all around me. Censors, the SS, my father. When Fritz left the office for a moment, I did what I had to do. It wasn’t lying, it wasn’t stealing, it was asking a question and finding the truth. Isn’t that what journalists do? I could hear David’s voice in my head, urging me on. Carefully lifting the seal off the packet, I saw documents and newspaper clippings. This was information that Fritz had and never told me about. Clippings about my father, Berlin, the war. There was one in English, and the name Gerlich leapt out at me. The SS were even tracking foreign newspaper reports.

  THE MAN WHO SAW TOO MUCH

  Fritz Gerlich saw events before they happened. He was editor of the Munich Post. No longer. He grew up in Munich, studied history, and earned a doctorate. With poor eyesight, he depended on distinctive steel-rimmed glasses, a characteristic that came to identify him.

  Staunchly defending his country’s response to the aftermath of Germany’s defeat in the World War, he offered unwavering support throughout Hitler’s rise to power. When the Nazi agenda expanded into radical racial laws, Gerlich would have no part of it. Hitler had promised to peacefully restore and rebuild Germany, with rights for all its citizens. In time Hitler betrayed and blatantly lied to Gerlich.

  Coupling his radical views with anti-Semitic policies—seizing property, internment camps, and violating the rights of Germans without trial—Hitler’s deceptive actions were clearly illegal. The Post was warned, but still the paper reported on political murders, on Hitler’s willful falsifications of history, and on the propaganda stunt using the newly constructed Thingplatzes to promote the German message. Gerlich realized that at the core of Hitler’s credo was the ideal of racial purity. He wanted his fellow Germans to understand that Hitler’s way—freedom of the press suspended, free assembly forbidden, civil rights violated, and any protest a crime punishable by death—was not the German way. Gerlich fought until Stormtroopers burst into his newspaper office last week, beat him senseless, and dragged him off to a concentration camp. Then, a few days ago, his wife received a message and a package. The Nazis had killed the journalist who had seen through them all. Inside the package were no words, just his blood-spattered, steel-rimmed spectacles.

  I could hardly catch my breath. The man who had so recently been talking to Poppy had been murdered. Murdered for reporting the truth. Gagging a journalist. Who would be next? I couldn’t control my trembling hands as I resealed the envelope. I was horrified. It was a cover-up. It wasn’t betraying Fritz’s trust that I was ashamed of, but the news about the death of a good man. This was the man with whom my father had argued so bitterly. My first instinct was to send a message to Raggle. It was murder. It was wrong. Gerlich represented the best of us, the last defender in Germany of the free press. And if they killed Gerlich, they would kill Sam Raggle, or me—anyone. I knew I must hold on to who I was. Yet I was sure that Raggle must have known and what could he do? After weighing the consequences and risks, I decided not to dispatch the report.

  The stakes were rising and the scales were tipping up and down. How could they be rebalanced? The next few days I found myself just sitting across from the gates of the camp, waiting for Poppy. But he never came.

  THE EMPERORS

  WITHOUT CLOTHES

  Berlin 1940

  For weeks Viktor had the event under surveillance. He knew that the occasion was a big one.

  The generals were having special uniforms made. All of them.

  They were going to be in a reviewing stand for Berlin’s Victory Parade. And Hitler was to have a ceremony afterward, celebrating his leadership. Every photographer in Berlin had been enlisted for the event. Newsreel cameras would be on hand. The generals would be at their very best, elevated and contemptuous. As a warm-up, a show of force, goose-stepping troops, platoons of tanks, the navy, the air force, military bands, the works.

  But before the parade, the ceremony. Every member of the high command would receive a new medal, the Silver Cross, adorning their uniforms. Photographs would be circulated to every newsroom.

  The idea came to Viktor when he was being fitted for the occasion by A. S. Schneider.

  Over lunch, he suggested to Pierre Burger, “I have an idea. It appeals to my sense of drama. While I’m not practiced in bombs, what if we attack character by humiliation?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Viktor.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the generals. A small gesture for tomorrow’s parade could bring a surprise, not so dangerous, but dramatic.”

  Pierre was curious.

  “For the last month, each of the generals has been fitted by my tailor, A. S. Schneider, for new custom-made uniforms and each have added personal adornments and accessories. There must have been many fittings for each general. Every detail must be flawless. Ribbons, medals, leather straps. Schneider has been charged to cast new medals for the occasion. As you might know, Schneider is the best tailor in Germany; Heydrich introduced me to him.”

  Viktor had been to the establishment many times and knew the entire uniform drill. Hitler preferred brown khaki, while Göring opted for a loose-fitting gray tunic; Heydrich wore a more slimming line with black stripes to highlight his tall good looks. No matter the fabric, each uniform featured a red armband with a circle of white, a black swastika at its center. Himmler demanded black, ever since he commissioned Hugo Boss SA in Bavaria to design and manufacture the uniforms for the SS. They matched his large black SE Mercedes and fleet of German-made Ford Eifels, with their blue spotlights mounted on the driver’s side, that scurried around Berlin arresting people.

  “I’m not sure how this intelligence is going to help our effort, Viktor.”

  “Attack by humiliation. You know bombs; I know costumes,” Viktor replied. “They are impressive,” he continued. “Glamorous new uniforms to satisfy every ego. A new distinguished medal to confirm self-esteem. The uniforms have been made from the finest wool in Austria. They include brass buttons from the Krupp works and are tailored by Germans, not Jews, even though Jewish tailors have been the best in Germany for a hundred years. Hitler doesn’t want them sewing his uniforms because they would only soil German honor. There are uniforms and medals on order.”

  “Yes …” Burger was confused but intrigued.

  “I’ve observed that the generals, the most powerful men in Germany, have long adopted the posture of military flaneurs, playing a game of make-believe in their long gray overcoats and black-booted costumes. I know a bit about impression management. I’m not only a musician, but I’ve studied and directed theater.”

  Then Pierre became amused. “You amaze me, Viktor. Well, we deprive them of their roles!”

  “Exactly! It might not be such a stunning achievement. But a lot of fun.”

  “A personal statement from us to them,” Pierre responded.

  “A bit of black comedy.”

  The next day, as each general awaited his moment of glory, Viktor Mueller and Pierre Burger carried out their mission: “Attack Humiliation.”

  Viktor would carry out his plan by intercepting a German army truck assigned to make deliveries at the various hotels accommodating the high command. Calling ahead, he spoke to A. S. Schneider’s assistant. “This is Reichsmarschall Himmler’s office,” Viktor announced with authority. “Please have the goods ready. My couriers will be picking them up at exactly five o’clock this afternoon.”

  “I didn’t know Himmler was a Reichsmarschall,” Pierre said.

  “Neithe
r did I.” Viktor laughed. “It’s easy to embellish a plan when you know how.”

  Backing the truck to the delivery dock, the uniforms were placed under a canopy in the rear.

  “May I sign for them, please?” Pierre reached for the clipboard with the documents. He added his signature with a flourish, delighted by the honor. Viktor stayed in the truck, approving Pierre’s improvisational skills.

  It was a daring adventure with imagination, Viktor was well schooled in theater, and Pierre became a willing cast member.

  The uniforms disappeared just as thousands of Jews and political dissidents had vanished. Himmler conducted an investigation. No smart new uniforms, no Silver Cross medals, no planned ceremony. Goebbels was furious. Germany’s generals were, in a sense, undressed. The emperors without clothes had something to remember.

  Finally Viktor felt he had accomplished something. Nothing big, but something.

  SNOWFALLS

  Falling back into my structured routine, the months passed as I continued my lessons with Hans, working on Schirmer’s Book Three, advancing into chord progressions. This had become my new life. Terezín was home now.

  “Isn’t it time for us to stage Brundibár ?” I finally asked Hans.

  I thought it might help to do something constructive, creative, and defiant; it might soften the miserable, oppressive thoughts about my crumbling country.

  Hans thought for a while and then spoke slowly, “It’s going to be difficult to assemble a cast, but with some luck, I know where I’m going.”

  Where were we going?

  Poppy was now truly absent from my life, but Hans was still there, steady, never lost, driven by optimism. I couldn’t shake the thought that Poppy was wearing the same uniform as the men who had murdered Fritz Gerlich.

  The lowering clouds were almost touching the roofs of Terezín’s buildings, announcing the beginnings of winter. The days were getting shorter and darker. I remembered how a few years earlier, after one of Prague’s many snowfalls, Poppy had invited David and me on a walk in a forest near the city. We were fitted with snowshoes, making a clumsy trek through the silent, white woods. The three of us puffed along in single file across the mountainous snowdrifts. It was too cold to talk, and each of us was lost in our own private world. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I was far from home, far from the road, and miles away from the path back. Worst of all, it was almost dark. I had a moment of panic thinking that we had strayed off the snowy track.

  Father, son, and best friend, with no food, walking through miles of snow. But Poppy walked confidently, easily defeating the forest.

  Catching up with David, I whispered, “If we don’t make it back, there’s no one on Earth I’d rather freeze to death with than you and Poppy.”

  David grinned. “Thanks, Max. You always know just the right thing to say.”

  Poppy interrupted my thoughts. “Well, boys, there’s the road!”

  When I thought of Poppy now, it was as though he was somehow lost in winter. I needed my father. But until Poppy came back to me, I knew I could lean on Hans. Hans had always been there throughout my life, and he was with me now. Whenever my thoughts got too dark for me, I resorted to playing some piano as a distraction. Today, Sophie came to listen to me playing the piano.

  “It’s very pretty.”

  It was a song from Brundibár.

  “Aren’t we lucky to have music? A song creates a story—it can take you to new places. It can take you back to somewhere familiar and warm and safe. It’s always there for you.”

  “See how you can express yourself in music and words, Max. I think you’ll become like my father. He could write a poem one minute, then tell a story in the next. He really loved people. I miss him every day.”

  “He’d be proud of you, Sophie. Every day. The way you help people at the infirmary.”

  “It’s my job, Max. They help me get through the mornings. We help each other, I guess. I know I’m asking again: Do you think Poppy can help us get more medicine? It’s really important.”

  “Of course; I’ll try.” I was hearing less and less from Poppy and yet, I didn’t want to let Sophie down. I was going to figure out a way.

  David had begun testing me, giving me written assignments. This morning was no different.

  “I have a job for you, Max. Take Sophie, she knows the ropes.”

  Sophie took my hand and led me across the square to a café. There we found an empty stage surrounded by tables with red-and-white checkered tablecloths.

  “Why the blue star?” a voice bellowed. Looking up, we saw a large man in the darkness above, dressed in a black, heavy wool sweater. He was on top of a ladder, hanging lights in the makeshift theater, to stage small performances. That rickety ladder just managed to hold his colossal frame.

  “To identify me,” I said. “The name’s Max Mueller.”

  I heard a laugh and the man’s face came into view as he peeked out from the shadows, chomping on the end of a cigar

  I leaned over and whispered to Sophie, “Is that who I think it is?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “No need for secrets, son, we’re all friends here. Kurt Gerron at your service,” he said with a huge grin and a wrinkled brow. “So why the blue?”

  “I could say I wear a blue star in tribute to a great actor who starred with Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel.” I couldn’t believe I was talking with one of the most famous actors in all of Europe.

  Gerron laughed. His was no ordinary laugh; it exploded out of him.

  “Oh, you’re good, son.” He sighed and put his beefy hand over his heart. “Ah, Marlene,” he gushed.

  Looking down, “Is that you down there, Sophie?”

  “It’s me.”

  As he balanced precariously above, I had a better view of him. He was an immense man, about forty, with a ruddy face and a shock of flaming red hair; his balloon-like body rippled, overflowing his shirt and pants.

  I pulled out my journal, making notes.

  “Do you prefer film or stage?”

  “Stage. Next you’re going to ask about my best role.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because I’m a director, and I anticipate what’s coming next. And I’m used to talking to reporters.” He leaned over the ladder and winked at Sophie.

  “What was your favorite role?”

  “The police chief in The Threepenny Opera. I played Tiger Brown. Did you ever see it?”

  He immediately burst into song with such enthusiasm that he nearly fell off the ladder. Sophie and I ran over to steady it.

  “Und der Haifisch, der hat Zähne

  und die trägt er im Gesicht

  und MacHeath, der hat ein Messer,

  doch das Messer sieht man nicht.”

  “That was great, Herr Gerron!” Sophie called.

  “I’d take a bow, but it’s hard to do from up here.”

  Once more his laugh echoed throughout the room.

  “Have you ever been to Hollywood?” I shouted up to him.

  “Marlene asked me to come, but I didn’t want to.”

  “Why? You’d be great in Hollywood,” Sophie chipped in.

  “Think so? Didn’t figure I’d fit in. Why are we shouting?”

  That brought yet another laugh from him.

  “Do you fit in here?” I asked.

  “There are better places for fitting in. Does anyone? Would anyone want to?” I wanted to ask him more about this but decided that would be better discussed face-to-face, rather than shouting up a ladder.

  “What are you doing up there?”

  “Hanging lights for a show. Our trio is performing tonight. They imitate the Andrews Sisters—they’re famous singers in America. Ours dress up like them. They have blond wigs, paint their lips red, snap their
fingers, and jive. I call them the Aryan Sisters.” He gave a short, harsh laugh.

  “I wouldn’t want to miss that. Can we come?”

  “You’ll be my guests. Front row seats. But I’ve got to set up these lights.”

  “Is lighting difficult?”

  “Yes, it can be difficult. But it’s important, kid; it creates mood. If I had my way, I’d carry them with me all the time.”

  “I guess you paint scenes with them and different lighting adds contrast?”

  “You’ve got that right, Sophie. They help make a dramatic scene. What is life without shadows, and without so many delicate shades?”

  “Maybe you could help with Brundibár. Bring your lights,” I said.

  “What’s Brundibár ?”

  “It’s a pretty good show. I can tell you all about it sometime.”

  “You must, you must!” he shouted. “Now, I must get back to work before this ladder collapses. I might be an actor, but I still can’t play skinny.”

  “Goodbye, Herr Gerron,” I said. “A pleasure.”

  “Hope to see you again soon, Max. You, too, Sophie. Perhaps on solid ground.”

  I took Sophie’s hand, and together we ran back across the square.

  David was sitting cross-legged on his lower bunk, grinning. “Well?”

  “You should have seen Max fire questions. He’s a real reporter.”

  “You got in a few, Sophie. You’re helping me … well, you’re helping me more than I can say.”

  “I thought I’d give you some help, to get you going.”

  Giving me a kiss on the cheek, Sophie announced, “I’m late for the infirmary. Can we meet later?” She scooted out of the large room, which was our office on the top floor. I touched my face where her lips had pressed. For a moment, I forgot where I was. That was what we were up to, playing this balancing game, surviving by forgetting where we were, if only for a while, and then the rest of the time really trying to work out what was true, about us and our surroundings, the reality of where we were and where we were heading. Learning, remembering, forgetting, remembering …