While the Music Played

by Nathaniel Lande

  “I can’t be this brave,” I said. “I’m not the Great Viktor Mueller. I’m just a kid.”

  “You’re a young man,” Poppy said. “You’re a great young man.”

  I was having trouble catching my breath. I heard a train departing in the distance, releasing bellowing steam.

  Poppy took me in his arms again. “You are everything to me, Max,” he said, smoothing my hair. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

  “Will Anna be all right?”

  “She’s with the group. She had to leave. She’ll be fine.”

  He waved goodbye.

  David buried his head in his hands. I wept.

  That night Huck Finn was waiting for me. I read page after page; the book was coming to a close. Deep down I was upset about a scam that I had been part of, helping make Terezín what it was not, what it had never been.

  It don’t make no difference how foolish it is, it’s the right way—and it’s the regular way. And there ain’t no other way, that ever I heard of, and I’ve read all the books that gives any information about these things.

  After the Red Cross visit, Freidle rewarded everyone for their cooperation, granting a holiday from work, and the camp had a new vibrancy.

  Gardens were tended, comfortable beds remained in the barracks, weekly band concerts were held in the park pavilion, food and medicine were in better supply, and the stage lighting and theatrical equipment stayed in place for future productions. For a while we allowed ourselves to think that the war was almost over.

  Karel Švenk staged a new sketch about the Red Cross visit. As the settings of each scene changed, the same furniture was dragged in again and again, satirizing the previous week’s grand scale deception. The nightly curfew was extended until nine o’clock, and the camp’s cultural life flourished.

  It didn’t last.

  AN ASSAULT

  Visiting David beyond curfew was always a risk. I sat at a table by the window and was distracted by some commotion in the distance. I peered out, taking care not to be seen. My eyes scanned the scene, much of which was bathed in darkness, save for an inquisitive spotlight, its beam sweeping slowly back and forth. After a few seconds, the light settled on a bizarre tableau beside a neighboring barracks perhaps fifty meters away. Two uniformed men were holding a civilian, his head bowed, against the barracks wall, while a third, whom, even at this distance, I identified as the overcoat man, was swinging a heavy wrench repeatedly against the man’s hands, first one and then the other, again and again, each sickening thud accompanied by a howl of pain. I cried out: “David, quick, come!”

  Seconds later, David was at my side. I whispered, “Look over there,” but as we turned to look out of the window, all was dark again.

  David said, “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  “Well, listen then, over there.” I nodded toward the barracks. “A man was being attacked.”

  Opening the window a crack, we could hear muffled but unmistakable whimpering sounds. Nothing else.

  I turned to David. “We have to help him somehow. That poor man was being attacked by …”

  I ducked instinctively as the beam from a torch flashed through the window, passing over David’s face.

  The familiar voice of one of the more sympathetic night guards barked: “That you, Grunewald? You know the rules. Window shut, blackout blinds down. Go to bed now.”

  “Of course, sir,” David called out. “Right away.”

  We talked long into the night, wondering what we could do, how we could possibly cover the story in Vedem? It would be suicide to write about it. But how could we not?

  As early as I could the following morning, I set off to speak to Hans, to seek his advice. I knocked quietly but urgently on the door and was shocked to see it opened by Sophie. She looked exhausted and scared. “Max, come in quickly.”

  I was horrified by the sight that confronted me. Hans was slumped in a chair, his hands heavily bandaged. He was struggling to conceal the pain he was obviously in, and he barely managed a weak smile. Sophie said, “I’ve done what I can, cleaned and bandaged them, but it’s just not enough. We have no morphine.”

  I fought back tears: “I … I saw what happened, that man in the overcoat and his thugs. They did this to you. Why, would they … why would anyone …?”

  Hans didn’t shift his gaze from mine. “Yes, well, it’s no big surprise. There’s nothing that would shock me anymore, Max. I wish that I could say this in a different way, but I can’t. Reasons? Why worry about reasons when being Jewish is crime enough to these people? As it happened, the reason they found was that they wanted me to perform at Himmler House. They asked, then they commanded, and finally they threatened. In a way, I suppose it would have been easy just to say yes, except it wasn’t. It was impossible. I can’t just give them the one thing that they haven’t taken from me already and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that it’s the smart or expedient thing to do. If they take our music, then we are giving them everything, our souls, whatever we have left of our dignity, our hope. You know, Max, I’ve heard it said that to lose dignity is to lose a great deal, but to lose hope is to lose everything. I simply can’t give that away. I said no, and … here I am.”

  The three of us remained silent for some time. At last, I asked, barely above a whisper, “So, what do we do now?”

  Hans reflected for a while, staring out of the window, and then turned back to me. “We do what we can. We sleep, we wake up, we eat, and we drink, we put one foot in front of the other, we look out for and after one another. We survive.”

  A BATHHOUSE

  FOR THE MAJOR

  I sized Major Karl Rahm up.

  He parted his hair with the few remaining greasy strands on his scalp reaching from ear to ear.

  “Major Rahm,” Freidle said with a nod, greeting the man who had just arrived.

  Artless and instantly contemptible, Rahm carried a tattered brown briefcase, a portfolio fitted with two matching straps, and when the brass buckles opened, they released an accordion file. There were photographs of his wife, Dorothea, whom he called Der Dot, and he thought he was clever when he referred to his three obese daughters as Ein, Zwei, and Drei.

  He blew his nose without a tissue, wiping the residue on his sleeve.

  Before Rahm’s arrival, Freidle had confided to me that the SS thought he’d been too easy in terms of bending rules. Rahm and the SS were now fully in charge of the camp.

  “I’ve briefed the major about your privileges, Max. Perhaps an article in Vedem would be a cordial welcome.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was be cordial to any of them, but I had to function in this world, to remain in the background, and not be too conspicuous.

  “What is this Vedem?” Rahm asked, raising an eyebrow, making a dismissive gesture.

  “We have a paper here, Major, with news and a diary of events,” Freidle answered before I could reply.

  “I like taking a sauna, a very hot one. It refreshes me,” he commanded with a trenchant grin.

  Then, stumbling for the right word, he drummed his fingertips onto the table. “Cleanses me, yes, helps me think. After all, I’m just an insignificant German officer, and aren’t we supposed to have a spa here? That’s what I’ve read,” he added with a sarcastic sneer.

  “Of course, Major,” Freidle replied. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  “See that you do.”

  “Max, please bring Troller to my office.”

  Finding Norbert, I warned him about the major’s request.

  Norbert shook his head. “This could be a bit of a challenge.”

  Back at the office, Rahm sized Norbert up.

  “I hear you can build things, Troller. That’s all I need from you, so don’t think you’ll be getting any special treatment.”

  Norbert nodded. “Of course, Major
. I am here to assist you.”

  Rahm poured on the oil. “Yes, Himmler House is only equipped with showers, but I would love to have a bath. Do you think you could make one of Finnish cedar?”

  “Major, it will be difficult to construct one inside,” Norbert said. “It would be better to build a bathhouse in the enclosed garden next to the building.”

  Rahm placed his meaty hands together. “Yes, that’s what I’d like. Build me a bathhouse. How long will it take?”

  “If I have my crew, we can build it in a week or so. But I’ll need two-hundred-thirty-volt, fifty-cycle wiring for the gas heater.”

  “The specifics mean nothing to me. Make it happen, Freidle.”

  Freidle nodded, but from the expression on his face, it was obvious that the commandant didn’t like Rahm any more than I did.

  Frau Schmidt ordered the necessary supplies from Berlin, and a shipment of special cedar was sent from Oslo. Norbert was too smart, too professional to let his resentment inconvenience him. He was a consummate pragmatist in such dealings, but in his work he was a perfectionist. He designed a wooden cabin with a sauna, shower, and a large Roman bathtub on a platform, and—adding the Troller touch—he trimmed the bathhouse with fancy gingerbread molding.

  Staring at the completed structure, Frau Schmidt commented with a sharp bite of disdain, “Norbert should install a Bavarian cuckoo clock.”

  Troller could build anything, and even Rahm had to admit that it was an exceptionally well-crafted structure. It even had a flower box at the window. It was finished off with fresh towels and a bathrobe monogrammed with an R, which had been sewn by one of the camp seamstresses.

  There was a special opening to show off his bathhouse. I invited Sophie and David along. Surely the event would make news for Vedem. We had to present a front, a veneer of respect for these people.

  “Perhaps Rahm can invite his colleagues to take a ‘public bath,’” David said. “Mustn’t include any photos of Rahm naked though, Max. Life is already too full of horrors.” He gave a short laugh.

  “That would be something to see,” Sophie added.

  Every day thereafter, at exactly four o’clock, following a regimented schedule, Rahm took his bath and sauna.

  A few weeks later, Freidle handed me a package from Poppy. He’d included a pair of sturdy shoes, a new wool blazer, a few pairs of thick socks, and other odds and ends.

  “Be glad you have me in your corner, Max,” said Freidle. “Rahm would’ve confiscated everything.”

  “Thank you, Major,” I said, and in my room, I tried on the specially made shoes, one with a built-up sole. As I slipped my right foot into it, expecting a comfortable fit, I felt something odd under the insole. Removing the shoe, I examined the offending area. After feeling around for a moment, I managed to peel back the insole to reveal a folded, single page of newspaper. A newspaper column! My special shoe had come in handy. Thank you, Poppy.

  I locked the door, sat down on my bed, smoothed out the piece of paper, and began to read.

  The Observer

  July 1, 1944

  A POTEMKIN VILLAGE

  To quash rumors about the killing centers, the Nazis permitted an International Red Cross visit to Terezín, the model concentration camp, a few weeks ago.

  According to The Observer’s underground reports, the Nazis launched a stadverschoenerung, a stunning theatrical production, but a failure by any ethical standard. It became a Potemkin village, much like the fake settlements that were specially constructed at the direction of Russian minister Grigory Potemkin to deceive Empress Catherine II during her visit to Crimea in 1787.

  This week in Geneva, Dr. Maurice Rossel, head of the Inter-

  national Red Cross, issued his report: “Living conditions are a little crowded, but the food is terrific.” He concluded, “After our inspection and tour of Terezín, we report an extraordinarily high standard of care, outstanding medical facilities attended by European doctors in residence, and that the number of Jews sent to labor camps is exaggerated.”

  Rossel and his delegation did not know that the men playing chess studiously in the park had never played chess in their lives or that the patients in the hospital were under clean white sheets that had just arrived a few weeks before. They didn’t know that the pharmacy rarely dispensed medicine or that the school marked closed for summer vacation had never been a real school. And they certainly did not know that sentries had preceded their every step giving signals, so that the young women with rakes over their shoulders would be marching past the visitors, or that the finale of the Verdi Requiem would be sung on cue just at the right time.

  The only genuine thing the delegates were treated to was a children’s opera by Hans Krása. It was as brilliant as any performance in the West End.

  A fifteen-page document, Hitler’s Gift to the Jews, along with a documentary by noted director Kurt Gerron, edited by Leni Riefenstahl, are works of propaganda whose production values are matched only by the Nazis’ Nuremberg rallies.

  Director Rossel must be the most misinformed man in Europe today, or the most near-sighted.

  I crumpled up the article. A strike of a match and nothing remained.

  Terezín returned to miserable conditions, and I needed to reach Poppy. I appealed to Frau Schmidt: “Can you get a letter to Poppy for me?”

  “I’ll try. Leave it to me.”

  Rahm wasted no time enforcing his authority. Less than a month after the Red Cross visit, the transports resumed.

  As part of the regimen, he ordered my classes over, and instructed Frau Schmidt to escort me to and from the camp each time I went in.

  “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my little German boy,” he said, sneering at me.

  In the meantime, what to do?

  A PERFECT NEW ALLIANCE

  “It has been a long time. I haven’t seen you since we lost Heydrich. Word has it you were very close to Reinhard,” Goebbels casually remarked as Viktor arrived at his Berlin offices in the Chancellery. “We must always remember his contribution. Now more than ever.”

  “He was my friend, of course, a great friend, not only to me, but also to the Reich.”

  “You must continue your work carrying Germany’s message to our occupied countries.”

  “You made a promise, to me, General. The word of the Führer is a bond. No more transports.”

  “You have my word, Viktor. You have my assurance. We’re slowing the operation down. We only need workers in the east.”

  “If you can’t stop the transports, you’ll lose me.”

  “Is that an order, Viktor?”

  “No, that would be presumptuous, but it is a promise, and I am a man of my word. I have a new plan to present to the Führer. It’s very secret, but you’ll be pleased.”

  Viktor was confident. He knew he could get to Hitler. He had called him from Terezín.

  “The Thingplatz program and the concerts with the Berlin Philharmonic have been very effective,” Goebbels said. “You and the orchestra will be welcomed in Budapest; you and Furtwängler are necessary to the cause. An evening of Hungarian rhapsodies for the audience will be much appreciated.”

  Hungary. Wallenberg was there.

  “You know, I have created little music productions of my own, Major Mueller.”

  “What would that be?”

  “We all very much love music, and my little groups have been so nicely received at Mauthausen that we will do the same at Auschwitz-Birkenau. When the workers arrive on the transports, there will be quartets playing soothing music, to put them at ease. I’ve selected Mendelssohn of course, to welcome them.”

  Viktor said nothing but stared across at Goebbels and wondered if the contempt he felt for this man in every fiber of his being was evident on his face.

  Since 1938, Hungarian politics and foreign policy had become in
creasingly pro-Nazi and pro-German. Most Jews were protected from the Holocaust in the first few years, but after the beginning of the German Occupation, few Jews could escape, and thousands were shot by mobile Nazi killing squads. Viktor’s orchestra included some fine musicians from Hungary, and several still had family in Budapest. Eichmann went to Hungary to oversee the large-scale deportation to Auschwitz-Birkenau, which offended all that Viktor stood for. Pink Tulip had a Hungarian Jew in its ranks who had, along with Raoul Wallenberg, set up the Central European Trading Company, allowing Wallenberg frequent visits to Budapest. Churchill had authorized a rescue program with the American War Refugee Board, and Wallenberg needed help to save Hungarian Jews from being transported to Auschwitz.

  For Goebbels, low public morale was a serious problem; the German High Command needed to Germanize their newly acquired lands.

  Viktor Mueller and Wilhelm Furtwängler had been booked at Hotel Kulturinnov in Budapest’s Old Town by the Reich. When Viktor and Wallenberg finally met, they realized they were much the same in sentiment and character. Wallenberg was tall and fair. Viktor much the same. They shared a certain panache, some inexpressible charisma, a theatrical flair.

  “You deserve a medal,” Wallenberg said as he embraced Viktor.

  “You flatter me, and you’re the one who deserves a chest full of ribbons,” Viktor replied. “Pierre has told me much about your work: banker, Resistance fighter, a man of countless good deeds. I simply see what mischief I can make when not waving my arms around in front of an orchestra.”

  With Wallenberg, Viktor saw that he had met another consummate performer, the soft-spoken aristocrat who could transform himself from a gently insistent diplomat in one moment into a belligerent freedom fighter the next.

  At the end of their first, brief encounter Wallenberg grinned at his newly discovered comrade. “Let’s get to work and see how much havoc we can create.”

  Wallenberg was the kind of man that commanded respect, the kind of man Viktor loved. The Nazis dared not violate his orders. He was sophisticated, self-assured, well-traveled, fluent in German and Russian. He had studied in America, and once held a post at the Dutch bank in Haifa. In Palestine he’d met Jews who had fled Germany, and their stories about Nazi persecution affected him immeasurably. Both he and Viktor knew about the Nazi death camps, and together they moved ahead with full force. The Germans had already deported more than four hundred thousand Jewish men, women, and children from Budapest. While visiting Eichmann’s vacated home, Viktor wondered how Wallenberg had done so much damage with a staff of only thirteen men. But then he had help from a notorious group of Hungarian militants called the Arrow Cross who were known for accepting bribes and for their willingness to change sides whenever necessary.