And After the Fire

by Lauren Belfer

  Sara sat down beside her as Lea wept. The laughter and shouts of the children reached them from a distance, on the other side of the copse.

  After a time, Lea composed herself.

  “Lea,” Sara said gently, “have you and Abraham converted, too?”

  “No. Only the children.”

  “But someday you might.”

  “Someday. To keep the family together. What choice do we have?”

  “Over here,” Fanny’s voice reached them as she called to her siblings.

  “Tante, I hope you’ll still love me, after what Abraham and I have done.”

  They’d arrived at the moment of choice. Sara’s choice. The moment of saying, I promise not to tell my sister. And, you have my blessing.

  Sara’s love for Lea was stronger than her disapproval. Lea and her children would live in a future that Sara would never see. Lea had to do what she believed was right.

  Misinterpreting Sara’s silence, Lea said, “If you can’t give me your blessing, please say you don’t despise me for what I’ve done.”

  Sara made her resolution. She’d mourn Lea’s choice later, in private, alone.

  “Lea Salomon Mendelssohn, now you have truly shocked me. You and your husband must always do what you believe is best for your children. That is indeed your duty as parents. And you, my own dearest niece—my cherished niece, from the time you were little—you could never do anything that would cause me to stop loving you.”

  Chapter 24

  Dan took the curve on the gravel road, and the forest opened to reveal a modern Georgian-style mansion surrounded by expansive lawns. He was ten miles outside Princeton, New Jersey. A heavy rain had given way to fog.

  As he pulled up to the front door, two men uniformed in gray-and-green striped vests and dark trousers emerged from the house, ready to unload his luggage and park his car in a garage hidden amid the trees.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” the older of the two men said. “Mr. Kranich is in the hall.”

  “Thank you.”

  Surrendering his car and its keys as well as his overnight bag to the—footmen, would that be the proper term?—Dan felt a touch exposed. He wasn’t accustomed to strangers looking after him. He entered the house. The front entryway led into a reception area with a broad staircase. Upstairs he’d find a well-appointed bedroom with bathroom en suite, his overnight bag conveniently placed in the closet. His confirmation letter for the conference had noted that he’d been assigned the same bedroom he’d had last time, here in the main house rather than the nearby guesthouse. This placement was a sign of the approval of their host, Jonathan Kranich.

  “Dan, welcome,” Jon greeted him.

  Jon wore a conservative suit in the style of his longtime profession, banker. He was in his early seventies and seemed to relish his role in bringing the group together. A glance into the dining room showed that many of Dan’s colleagues had already arrived.

  “We’ve got some terrific events planned for the weekend,” Jon said.

  Jon had never married, and Dan assumed he was gay, but if he was, it had never been discussed.

  “I’m glad to be here.”

  Jon said in mock confidentiality, “I wonder if we’ll witness any fisticuffs.”

  This biennial gathering, Friday to Sunday, brought together scholars, religious leaders, and church musicians from Europe and America to discuss Lutheran theology as illuminated by the work of Johann Sebastian Bach. The group tended to be argumentative, and passions often ran high.

  “A good quarrel always livens things up, and you’re an astute referee,” Dan said.

  “Kind of you to notice.” He guided Dan into the dining room. Jon engaged in lavish display, beginning with the buffet table. “Lobster thermidor. A hot lunch for a chilly day. Don’t overlook the dessert table.”

  “I can’t recall ever overlooking dessert.”

  “Something we have in common.” Jon left him to greet another arriving guest.

  Dan had never tried lobster thermidor (indeed had never heard of it until this moment), and he allowed the uniformed server to fill his plate. Yes, he enjoyed being here. Luxury was seductive. No wonder so many conservative clergymen railed against it—while partaking of it fully. For his health’s sake, Dan added salad to the side of his plate.

  Chairs were grouped around a half-dozen tables. Dan found a place at a table that included Reverend Mueller from the Church of the Holy Shepherd in New York.

  Mueller was saying, “When it comes to dogs, golden retrievers are incomparable.”

  If they were discussing dogs, no doubt they’d already attempted a scholarly discussion that had devolved into an ugly argument. Like their host, Mueller was good at defusing conflict.

  “Ja, Sie haben recht,” said Dietrich Bauer, Yes, you are correct, as if Bauer were granting judgment from on high. Which, in the context of this meeting, he was. Bauer was a professor at the University of Heidelberg with chairs in music and theology. He was their senior colleague in both age and professional stature. He must be well into his eighties by now. Bauer had been a bon vivant in his younger days, the life of any party, but today he looked overly thin and elongated, as if turning into a cadaver before their eyes. When Dan sat down beside him, Bauer wearily lifted his hand from the table in greeting.

  “Ich hätte eher den Retriever als auch den Schäferhund,” Bauer continued. I prefer the retriever even to the German shepherd. He didn’t trouble himself to speak English, although his English was perfectly good. Bauer must have assumed that anyone worthy of hearing his canine insights would speak German. “Sie sind außerordentlich treu.” They are exceptionally loyal.

  “Yes, yes, I agree totally,” Mueller said.

  “Die Hündchen sind niedlich.” The puppies are adorable. From Bauer’s tone, this wasn’t only ardent praise but also today’s final word on the subject.

  A young man sitting opposite Dan put down his fork. “Dachshunds are nice dogs.” This young man, Mark van Ostrand, according to his name tag, was new to the group. He was meticulously turned out for this particular crowd, wearing chinos, a white shirt, an understated tie and tweed jacket, his pale brown hair cut a tad too short. A pen protruded from his jacket pocket, as if he’d placed it there after due consideration, believing it made him look more serious and mature. “Especially miniature dachshunds.”

  With immense, frowning effort, Herr Professor Bauer turned in his chair and stared at the newcomer.

  “I mean, dachshunds are the ideal small dog,” Van Ostrand added.

  Bauer’s look had nothing to do with dogs and everything to do with a young person offering an opinion, unasked. Dan remembered the same expression on his father’s face, when he or one of his siblings provided an unsought opinion. Conservative Lutheranism was strictly hierarchical. The opinions of children counted for nothing.

  “Kleine Hunde gefallen mir nicht,” Bauer said. I don’t like small dogs.

  After an awkward pause, Reverend Mueller said, “Anyone read the essay in last month’s Harvard Theological Review about Pietism in Bach’s vocal works?”

  Mercifully, the two Scandinavian churchmen at the table had read it and now gave full expression to their views, which Bauer did not contradict.

  Dan was content to enjoy his lunch in silence. The lobster thermidor was delicious. He had no particular view on the dog issue (he’d never had a dog), and he considered overvalued the perennial question of Lutheran Pietism versus Orthodoxy in Bach’s vocal works. He made room at the table for Bauer’s younger (although well into her sixties) wife, Gudrun Bauer, professor of musicology at the University of Heidelberg and author of several learned tomes. Frau Professor Bauer was elegant but too angular for Dan’s taste, her hair cut in a severe bob that didn’t suit her, and her clothes—he caught and chastised himself at his automatic evaluation of a female scholar for her appearance instead of her accomplishments.

  “Herr Kranich has asked my husband to deliver the sermon on Sunday,” she share
d with him, pride unmistakable in her voice.

  This was a gathering of the religiously devout, and Dan used to fit right in. Today he felt like an interloper. Nonetheless he needed to be here: more than other scholars, these colleagues had an understanding of the contextual background to the cantata Susanna had discovered. With careful probing, he might learn something useful without revealing anything about his own work.

  Jon had built a chapel on the grounds of the estate, and guests were expected to be present at Sunday morning Eucharist. Dan could plead illness as an acceptable excuse for not attending. If he did end up going, he’d simply be following along to get by.

  “I look forward to hearing it,” Dan said.

  “Rejoicing about death is key in Bach,” said Mark van Ostrand, the unfortunate dachshund lover. Since their first lunch the day before, Dan had learned that Van Ostrand was from Iowa and had recently been awarded a joint PhD degree in music and theology at the University of Utrecht, which was a true achievement. “Bach’s Cantatas 56, 83, and 161 reveal a joyful desire for the end of this earthly life, and they are the subject of my paper this afternoon . . .”

  The meetings were held in the mansion’s ornate library, done up with the most advanced audiovisual technology. About twenty-five colleagues were gathered around the table. Outside, a misty rain fell.

  “Bach’s beliefs are revealed by the sprightly dance rhythms which accompany the text. Rather than the somber melodies one might expect, given the subject matter, Bach . . .”

  Dan was surprised by the presentation. Van Ostrand’s approach was plodding and abstract, as if the earnest young man, untempered by personal experience, didn’t understand the import of his subject—which was death, after all: real, actual, physical death, not a theory about death.

  “Thank you, Mr. Van Ostrand,” Jon said when Van Ostrand had finished his presentation. “Who will begin the discussion?”

  Anna Carlson, a theologian at Vanderbilt University Divinity School, raised her hand. Anna presented herself as everyone’s grandmother, complete with white hair in a bun, knitted shawl, and wire-rimmed reading glasses, but her outward demeanor concealed a piercing intellect. She’d published five or six books, Dan had lost track.

  “Professor Carlson,” Jon said.

  “Thank you, Jon. Mr. Van Ostrand, welcome to our gathering. Do you believe the views on the grave in the cantatas you’ve discussed truly or only superficially differ from the energetic melancholia associated with the anticipating of death at the closing aria with chorale from Bach’s Cantata 58?”

  What? Dan was relieved for Van Ostrand’s sake that the young man was familiar with Cantata 58 and able to jump into an extended theological discussion with Carlson and the others.

  When this finally concluded, Jon said, “Next, twenty minutes for discussion of open research questions. Daniel Erhardt, professor at Granville College, has requested time.”

  “Thank you, Jon.” Dan looked around the table as he addressed his colleagues. “I’d like your guidance. I’m looking into the origins and repercussions of the anti-Jewish polemics in several cantatas, including 42 and 44, among others. The difficult truth, long ignored, is that Bach’s church cantatas do at times take an explicit contemptuous stance against Jews. Theological Bach research has not come to terms with this, and it ought to. Are any of you working on this or on similar topics? Do you have any thoughts on the subject?”

  Silence.

  At last Anna Carlson’s hand went up. “Whatever the texts of these cantatas, Bach did not write them, so we can’t hold him responsible.”

  This misguided knee-jerk point of view was forever frustrating to Dan, since it was well documented that Bach had been ordained as a minister of music and was responsible for choosing the texts he used, whether he wrote them or not. However, Dan wasn’t interested right now in Bach’s biography. “In the end, my research is not about what Bach himself personally believed, or what he was held responsible for. The church cantatas aren’t about self-expression. They’re about reflecting and promoting the religious beliefs of Bach’s milieu. That’s what I’m trying to learn about.”

  “If you’re looking for context,” said Ronald Schultz, a faculty member at Dan’s alma mater, Wisconsin Lutheran College, “you should know that when it comes to anti-Jewish vitriol, the vocal music of other composers was much worse. Telemann, for example. Fux, Freislich, Keiser. In this context, Bach’s work isn’t all that bad.”

  Dan said, “Yes, but what does it really matter now if Fux, Keiser, or Freislich wrote anti-Jewish works? Hardly anyone listens to them. Many, many people listen to Bach. Bach’s work actually matters.”

  “But none of Bach’s cantatas call for the extermination of world Jewry,” Anna Carlson said. “So I don’t understand what the issue is here. Bach was no Nazi.”

  Dan was startled. “Are you saying that something is anti-Jewish only if it calls for mass murder?”

  “I wouldn’t put it so bluntly, but since you do, yes.”

  Others chimed in now, repeating Anna Carlson’s viewpoint and continuing, despite Dan’s earlier objection, to defend Bach the person.

  When the discussion finally ebbed, Dietrich Bauer got up. With his old-fashioned ways, he no doubt believed that standing was the respectful way to make important professional points. Bauer’s height and thin frame gave him a grandeur and gravitas. His white hair was brushed back in a style that most likely he hadn’t changed in fifty or sixty years.

  “You’ve raised an interesting and important issue, Professor Erhardt.”

  Bauer spoke in English and gave Dan his title, both signs of respect. Dan couldn’t help but appreciate the compliment. Bauer seemed more animated now than he’d been at any point in the conference.

  “One must always remember, however . . .” Bauer paused. “These are Jews that Bach is talking about in the cantatas. They’re punished because they refuse to accept Jesus as God’s Messiah. This is the message that Bach is bringing us. Now, surely we agree that murder goes too far,” he said smoothly, looking around for confirmation, which was readily given in affirmative nods. “Rather, the Jews can be taught to see the error of their ways. Always there is hope of them acknowledging Christ. As long as they remain Jews, alas, they are condemned, along with everyone who hasn’t seen the wisdom of Christ’s proper path. Muslims, it goes without saying. Catholics, too, are condemned, Luther tells us, because of their sin of believing in works righteousness—a grievous sin the Catholics share with the Jews, as everyone here well knows. Only the unmerited gift of proper Christian faith, not good works, justifies our salvation: this is the message of the gospel, restored through Martin Luther. And Luther has the only truth.” With one hand grasping the back of his chair and the other holding the edge of the table, Bauer eased himself down.

  After a moment, Jon said, “With all due respect, Professor, officially, at least, American Lutherans have progressed far beyond your point of view. Justification by faith alone, that of course will never change. But most leading Lutheran church bodies would no longer claim that Lutherans hold the only truth.”

  Dan felt sure his colleagues realized that Jon’s view wasn’t precisely correct, in terms of official Lutheran church teaching: after a major 9/11 memorial service at Yankee Stadium, a pastor in the Lutheran Church–Missouri Synod had been famously suspended from his job for sitting on a stage and praying with a Catholic cardinal, a rabbi, an imam, and Sikh and Hindu holy men.

  Before anyone could comment, Jon continued, “On that optimistic note, we arrive at our afternoon repast, to be taken in the conservatory. Viennese coffee and Apfelstrudel fresh from the oven. I urge us to put aside our cares and bask in those eternal cure-alls, coffee and dessert.”

  Dan stood outside. The rain had stopped, but a damp chill seeped into him.

  He’d just finished a brief conversation with Becky. She was visiting Disney World with Dan’s sister and her family for spring break. Becky had been eager to get off the phone.
>
  Dan was seething. Not about Becky. He was happy that she was having fun at Disney World. He was appalled by the discussion he’d elicited. Maybe he’d deserved it. He’d come here knowing he was no longer truly part of the group, and that his question might provoke them. In a certain sense, he’d baited them. So who was he to feel angry? Nonetheless, what had been said was horrifying to him, as was his own reluctance to confront them.

  What to do now? Leaving in protest would be self-defeating. They’d just take his departure as confirming their righteousness.

  Maybe he should advise Susanna to destroy the cantata. Wouldn’t the world be better off without such an artifact?

  He caught himself: he was a scholar. His role was to study, not censor.

  Reverend Mueller made his way down the steps, joining Dan. “Had to have a smoke, Apfelstrudel or no. Did you know that I smoke?” He shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit it, inhaling. He held his breath for a moment, then exhaled. “That’s better. Would you like one?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Didn’t think so. Yes, I smoke, and I’m overweight, too. As you may have noticed. And I drink. German beer—how I love it. So easy to buy in America nowadays. Becks. Warsteiner. I try to curb my desires, but I can’t. I’m weak.”

  Despite his mood, Dan found himself laughing.

  “What’s a man of God to do? What sort of example am I to my flock?”

  “Judging from the crowds you draw at Sunday services, the best example,” Dan said.

  “They see a sinner, and they can’t resist.” Another long drag on the cigarette. A pause. A long exhale. “You seem perturbed, Dan.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can guess why, but tell me directly.”

  “The intolerance, to begin with.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “It’s shameful.”

  “The trick at these conferences is to take away what’s useful for your own work, for your own soul, and ignore the rest.”