And if Kreisler alerted other Gestapo officials insistent on questioning a convenient disappearance? Let them. My spirits had sunk beyond caring.
Al-Cerraz and I shared a room. Kreisler's was one door down; Aviva's a door beyond that. Sometime during the night, I heard a bed creak, the clink of glasses, the door opening and closing. Some hours later, it opened and closed again. Al-Cerraz's hand tugged at mine.
"She's having second thoughts," he whispered.
I told myself this was the last time he'd ever wake me in the night. I sat up, turned on the bedside lamp—
"No! Turn it off!"
"If it's about marrying you, I'm not surprised."
He sat at the corner of the bed, weighing it down.
"I said that so she'd leave, so that she could picture having a life."
"You don't want to marry her?"
"Of course I do. Someone should."
"Someone should?"
"Feliu, you could have done it long ago. She would have accepted. Your refusal to have a joyful, normal life can't be a death sentence for her."
I stared into the dark, too full of anger to speak. I did not feel that I was losing Aviva; I considered her already lost. How dare he dangle this shred of hope in front of me?
"She's in her room, wide awake, not being rational," Al-Cerraz continued. "She's going to fall apart and destroy everything, in front of everyone."
"She's stronger than you think."
"We 'll all be taken away. I need you to help me with this."
"You said this journey was the last favor you'd ever ask. I'm here at greater risk than either of you."
"Aviva ... the Gestapo..."
I raised my voice. "What about Franco? I'm sure he'd be all too pleased to add me to his trophy case."
In a low voice, he said, "So even you have nerves." He continued, "She knows I'm a bit of a storyteller—"
"A liar."
"A wishful thinker," he corrected me. "Everyone trusts you. The moral purist. She 'll have to hear it from you to believe it."
"To believe what?"
"To believe the thing that will allow her to let go, to start a new life. Help her close a door that should have been closed long ago. Some fantasies are destructive. And anyway, what you'll tell her is probably true."
The next morning, I was up before dawn, before Kreisler had come to get us. I stood outside his hotel door and heard his voice high and clear over the sound of running water. Sweet innocence, in unexpected places. He was singing while he shaved. In that moment, I decided to tell him.
"I'm not playing today."
He pulled me into his room and closed the door. "Your hands?"
"No," I said. His whole face relaxed. He excused himself to dress, pulling his black uniform over his underclothes, pulling a belt through the pants, strapping on a long knife in its black leather sheath.
"It's not the gout," I continued. "I've decided not to play on principle."
His face turned ashen.
I said, "Let me make this simple for you: Franco. Since he came to power, and I went into exile, I have refused to play the cello. This entire concert was a mistake. I can't perform for him. I won't."
The pause that followed was one of the longest in my life. I faced this young man, neck red from hurried shaving, stray white soap flecks in front of his large ears. He was at least a head taller than me, so I had to crane my neck to meet his conflicted stare. On the chair next to us: his peaked cap, with its death's-head emblem. Shadows danced at his jawline, at his temple, as he ground his teeth together.
Finally he said, "It is essential to trust a leader with all one's heart. Al-Cerraz—he is an opportunist. But I know you are a thoughtful person. For you to dislike the Caudillo that much..." He shook his head gravely. Then suddenly, he lifted his chin and opened his mouth. To my astonishment, he started to sing: "Oh believe!"
Flushing, he dropped his jaw and spoke—slowly and clearly, reciting the words that I recognized instantly:
Thou wert not born in vain!
Hast not lived in vain.
Suffered in vain.
What has come into being must perish.
What has perished must rise again.
The final movement from Mahler's Second Symphony—lines penned by a Jewish composer, banned in German occupied territory. I joined him, reciting more quietly:
Cease from trembling.
Prepare thyself to live.
We stopped there, not speaking, not moving: the most complete silence, round and rich, with the sky just beginning to lighten behind filmy window shades.
Then suddenly: an immense roar, as if we were being bombed. The floors of the hotel trembled and the framed pictures danced on the walls.
It was a convoy arriving: armored cars, military trucks, more motorcycles, spilling down from the road to the northeast. This was the advance guard, arriving by coastal road from the east. Kreisler said under his breath, "Lockdown."
He didn't say anything more to acknowledge what I had told him. We joined Al-Cerraz and Aviva for a morose petit déjeuner, and waited. At precisely ten o'clock, we were allowed to leave the hotel and ride in a black Mercedes to the train station, where Al-Cerraz confirmed that the piano, transported the day before from a chateau east of town, was in tune. Everything we'd seen so far—a few guards here and there, gendarmes at the café—was nothing compared to this. The entire town was under siege. Most people—unless they had been "invited" to the concert—stayed inside, doors and shutters latched.
Back to the hotel again, where we waited in the lobby, under a painting of Louis XIV. Outside, a banner with a Nazi swastika had been raised; not speaking, we watched it flutter in the wind.
Franco was to arrive by rail from the south at two o'clock. At ten past one, we were shuttled to the train station. The platform was decorated with more banners, flags of Germany and Spain. A hundred folding chairs awaited the audience. An official-looking railcar was parked on the far tracks, but we saw no sign of any occupant. Kreisler escorted us to a small private waiting room in the station, and left us there. "There will be a guard posted outside," he said. "For your security."
When we three were alone in the room, Al-Cerraz whispered, "Did you tell him?"
"I told him."
"I didn't expect so many police," Aviva whispered, voice breaking. "They'll have people with guns posted along on the seawall."
"They'll be watching the border and the station," Al-Cerraz said, more firmly. "The train will stay parked, for the meeting. Every person will be trying to get a glimpse of him. They'll be entranced."
"But how will we get away, to dinner? They're moving us place to place. They wouldn't even let us back to our rooms."
"Kreisler said you could go to dinner," I reminded her.
"But that was before all this—perhaps he didn't know how heavily they'd close down the town."
A knock at the door. Another black-uniformed guard—older, with gray streaks in his brown hair. Kreisler stood behind him, not speaking. The older officer faced me. "You're having a medical problem?"
Al-Cerraz grabbed at the guard's arm. "It's his hands—arthritis. He can't play the cello."
"Fine," the older guard said. "I will get you a baton. When the Führer and the Generalísimo are ready, and standing on the platform, you will conduct the civic orchestra."
I struggled for words. "I don't know what they play. I don't know what you'll allow us to play. Dvořák? Mendelssohn?"
"That is not allowed."
"What is allowed? You wouldn't allow a Spaniard to conduct Wagner, would you?"
"No."
"You wanted us to play Spanish music But this orchestra may not know Granados or Turina."
The guard furrowed his brow and clamped his jaws together. "Ravel! The Bolero. It is French, but it sounds Spanish."
"Dear God, not an amateur production of Ravel," Al-Cerraz whispered under his breath.
"That's not an easy work to perform, unrehearsed
."
"It will fill the time. Mostly percussion, isn't it?" the guard asked.
And left.
Kreisler stayed behind. After the door had closed, he said quietly, "He will go and talk to the orchestra. They will tell him they don't have the instrumentation or sheet music for Bolero"
The door opened again. A different man entered, smaller, with black hair and deep brown eyes, the hairline high and square. He was limping slightly. I didn't need the introduction—I had seen his picture in the newspapers: Goebbels.
Kreisler saluted and stood at attention, his back flat against the wall. Goebbels lowered himself into a chair that appeared from behind and addressed me. "We are disappointed that you have reason not to perform. If Goering were here, we might peek into his bag and try an injection of some kind, to relax the hands. But I'm not sure that would work."
He kept staring at me, smiling, the skin tight around his cheekbones and chin.
"Maestro Delargo," Goebbels said, "you have chosen to come out of retirement for a very special occasion. We will find some way to celebrate your presence here. The photographers are looking forward to seeing you, and so is the Führer."
He broke eye contact to glance around the room. "You understand that we were not as interested in a duet. And this lady"—he nodded toward Aviva—"I'm aware your trio employed a woman—a violinist who lived in Berlin for some time, correct? But that was many years ago, before the war..."
None of us spoke.
"Some of my men do make mistakes, it's true. They hear an Italian accent and they assume, 'Catholic.' But let's not spoil the day with accusations. We will have more to talk about after the festivities are over. I will expect to spend some time with all three of you."
Outside the room, in the echoing train station, the orchestra struck up the Nazi anthem, "Horst Wessel Lied." "There," Goebbels said. "They've begun. He tired of waiting. Someone has decided against Bolero. You will excuse me."
We waited, hostages in that small room. Kreisler returned twenty minutes later, while the orchestra was still playing. "Something is wrong," he said. "The Caudillo has not yet made his appearance, and we are told there might be a substantial delay."
"Late," Al-Cerraz muttered. "It figures."
"The Führer is on the platform—there are citizens, other officials." Kreisler was flushed, out of breath. "We are trying to maintain appearances. I was told to keep the music going until Generalísimo Franco is arrived and on the platform. You will be called to begin shortly."
He left again. Aviva began to pace. Her face was even-toned, normal; but red welts had shown up behind each of her ears, reaching down her neck. "This isn't working." Her voice had become high and strained. "They're not happy with us; they'll be watching more closely."
"Damn you, Feliu!" Al-Cerraz said suddenly. "Just come with us to the platform and play. Goebbels and all the rest will be so pleased they'll let us out of this box. They'll be so busy taking your picture and toasting you that they won't even notice when Aviva and I slip away."
"You'd leave now?" I asked him. "In daylight?"
"I don't think we'll have another chance," Aviva whispered.
They both looked to me. I had underestimated the potency of this moment, the knowledge of that man just beyond the door, standing stiffly in his dress uniform, a false smile below his brushy mustache as he awaited the Spaniard intent on deliberately insulting the efficiency-minded Germans. Fry had been right: Everything about this meeting had been engineered to allow each side to annoy the other.
I answered my partners. It was the same answer I'd given to Al-Cerraz in Marseilles, the first time he had asked. Aviva nodded swiftly as I made my position plain. Al-Cerraz stood and inhaled deeply and held his breath, chest inflated, glaring. But that didn't change anything. It was the only thing I had left to control, the only thing that hadn't yet been sacrificed, the only choice I could make, if "choice" can be used to describe a terrible mistake—the worst, or second-worst—of one's entire life.
Kreisler entered again. "Fourteen-forty. Your leader is very late now. Everything has changed."
"He isn't my leader," Al-Cerraz muttered.
"Everything has changed!" Kreisler shouted, and pounded his fist against the wall, just behind him. We all jumped.
Kreisler stood taller and tugged at the bottom of his uniform jacket. "To extend the festivities, Herr Doktor Goebbels makes this request. Maestro Al-Cerraz will come out first, and play the piano. Applause, pictures. Leave the platform slowly. Then Maestra Aviva with the violin. She bows, exits. Then finally Maestro Delargo, who will appear and shake hands—applause, pictures again. No hurrying. By this time, we are quite sure Generalísimo Franco will be present and the music can be finished and you will have your meeting with Herr Doktor Goebbels and everyone can go home."
"Home?" Aviva whispered, sounding dazed.
"To the hotel. Escorted. No one is to walk the streets for the duration."
***
The windowless room in which we were waiting was an administrative office: a desk, a typewriter, three chairs, and travel posters on the wall: vineyards of Bordeaux, the beach at San Sebastián, a Roman bridge in the Italian countryside, old white windmills of Castilla—La Mancha.
Aviva stared at the pictures. "I won't leave."
We were alone. Kreisler had given the three of us a final moment together. Then, at the sound of his name blared over a megaphone that rattled the walls, Al-Cerraz had gone to the platform. Even through the closed door, we could hear him playing: first, a romantic piece by Augustín Barrios Mangoré, transcribed from the guitar, full of broken, flowing chords alternating with single lightning-fast notes that recalled a repeatedly picked guitar string.
"I hope they appreciate what they're hearing," I said, ear cocked. "It's the best he's played in ages."
Aviva repeated in a whisper, "I can't."
The second piece was equally melodious and virtuosic. Distinctly southern, but for the first time in decades I couldn't identify the composer. Something in it made me recall a certain night on a balcony, and Spanish women with flowers in their flowing hair—the "perfumed hours" of our younger years.
I said, "He's giving them their money's worth."
"Oh, God." Suddenly Aviva clutched her stomach. "He forgot. It's back at the hotel room."
"What?"
"The money, for the boat captain. He's planning to go directly to the rowboat, but he doesn't have the money. The hotel is too far—all the guards."
Instinctively, I pushed my hands into my coat pockets, reaching for my billfold.
"No," she said. "He brought a lot. Eight hundred dollars, U.S."
"Where did he get that?"
"Fry. He sold him his compositions. Fry said it could be a loan, but Justo insisted it be a sale. He made Fry promise to have them published in America. He didn't care about the rights or the future royalties—he just wanted them published, no matter what happened."
I couldn't tell her what I'd done.
I told her then not to worry about payment—that I would give her something to take to the rowboat, more valuable than eight hundred dollars, and small enough to hide in the palm of one's hand. I no longer needed proof of Queen Ena's former favor. I would outlive this day. I would be favored again. Al-Cerraz had played for Hitler, but I had not, would not. Photographs might show me on a railroad platform next to him, but not with a cello, not with a baton—as a hostage, merely. I could still walk away from this, my reputation intact.
I pushed my thumbnail into the bow frog, hard, and the jewel popped out—blue, sparkling, so much smaller than I thought it would be. How could it have weighed anything?
"If they stop me, they'll search me," she said.
"They won't." I returned the bow to its tube.
"Should I swallow it?"
"It has hard edges. It might hurt you. Just put it somewhere. I'll turn around. Take it."
"I can't," she said.
"Tighter—you're going to drop
it."
Her shoulders were heaving. "Feliu, I can't leave him behind!"
That's when I told her about her son. I had to be quick, I had to be blunt; I did not have Al-Cerraz's skill at fabrication.
"But how could you know?" She was crying, but there was a thin, hard edge behind the ragged breaths. "Was it Fry? He knew?"
We heard the megaphone announcing her name, and then Kreisler's knock at the door. I told him I'd like to follow her out, to watch her play. He said that was fine—Al-Cerraz had made the same request, to watch from the back of the room, behind the orchestra. He followed the two of us out, carrying my cello and bow tube.
On the platform, I saw no sign of Al-Cerraz. There was an open door behind the last row of folding chairs. The blue harbor was visible through it, and the masts of sailboats swinging gently side to side atop the waves, with metronome precision. There were no guards near it. They had moved closer to the music area, to form a cordon around the Führer, who was standing, watching, from the back of his railcar. Another line of guards was facing entirely away, down the tracks, willing Franco's train to appear.
Aviva walked to the cleared area between the track and the makeshift stage. She looked forlornly at the unattended piano. Then she made a quarter turn, planting her feet widely, her profile to the Führer. Her violin hung from her left hand, looking impossibly heavy. I could still remember how it had felt to play that instrument as a child, when I'd found it hard to hold it to my chin.
The Spanish Bow Page 50