She propped the elegant card against her mantel clock in the sitting room, its methodical ticking lulling her back in time, pulling her thoughts back to her days at the beginning of the war, days spent at the university. Through veiled memory, she could still see the classrooms and halls filled with eager students full of the optimism and gaiety of youth. The halls were always teeming with life, echoing in raucous laughter or serious debates. Year after year she had watched them blossom before her eyes, going from awkward freshman to well-rounded seniors, now even returning as faculty. She had been proud to work there with committed educators, many of them brilliant, dedicated to their craft and the honing of young minds.
Once the university had reopened, the faculty had contacted her to resume her position, but she had declined. Having a new life and freedom every day had challenged her to reach for more. She had never regretted her decision. Hannah loved the work that she did now, teaching young children. After so many tumultuous years, their keen young minds were more than ready to learn about mathematics and the art of creating words for the page. Twice a week she even taught them how to knit. It gave her great joy to pass on her mother’s skills, and in a way, it helped her to honor her memory.
As she listened to the continuous, lyrical thrum of the clock, Josef’s face drifted into her thoughts, and his quiet, gentle presence surrounded her like a shawl.
On the day of the concert, Hannah left Eva writing in her diary, as she did most days, and made her way through the streets of Amsterdam on a now infrequent but well-remembered path. Approaching Mrs. Oberon’s house, she marveled again at the fact that Oma had miraculously made it through the Hongerwinter. Even though Clara’s death had been hard on her old friend, she had gone on to adopt a number of the neighborhood children who had lost their parents. One of them was Hannah’s little friend, Albert, now a robust young adolescent with all of his adult teeth. He had lost his father in one of the labor camps and his mother had died just after the war of pneumonia, her body weakened by the winter of 1944. As Hannah passed Mrs. Oberon’s house, she thought of the life those orphans had in the tiny red-brick home. Days spent wrapped in the security of the floury lap of the woman with the florid cheeks and eyes that twinkled with tears whenever she laughed.
Arriving at the university, Hannah entered the familiar limestone entrance. The sight and sounds that greeted her filled her with pleasure. If she closed her eyes, it was as if she had never left. The main foyer was freshly painted in a warm yellow that complemented the wood paneling perfectly, and the timber floor she had walked so many times was newly polished and smelt of beeswax and lemon.
Thrusting her hands deep into her coat pockets, she echoed down the hallway, glancing over only briefly at the welcome desk where she had spent those years of her life. It seemed so small now, an insignificant space, like a hat check or a ticket booth. A place you passed by on your way somewhere else, somewhere more important, without even giving it a second thought. She had no idea how she had lived so long in that one tiny life as the whole world had silently passed before her.
Arriving at the main concert hall, she took off her coat and slipped into a row just as the university president got up and creaked along the wooden stage to the podium. He greeted the crowd, enthusing about the musical performance and the need to raise money for Jewish refugees. She felt the usual twinge of sadness that always accompanied her now with the loss they all felt. Every day she woke up thankful to be alive, but the rebuilding of those lives had taken a lot longer than the reconstruction of their town. The loss of so many lives and their naïveté had come at a cost. During the war years, they had found the best of themselves, but had exchanged it for the loss of their innocence. Everything was now less complicated, but nothing was simple.
However, she had refused to feel sorry for herself in the last few years, supporting the reconstruction process by continuing to rebuild bicycles for Holland and working with the war refugees. And now she had Eva, the greatest gift.
It was because she sat there, deep in thought, that at first she didn’t see the person seated on the stage, waiting patiently to begin his concert. Even when she looked up, it took her a moment to realize who it was. With his piercing, blue eyes, and dark features, her heart caught in her throat. It was Josef.
She was near the back, so she was sure that he couldn’t see her. But she watched with interest as he stood and walked to the front of the stage, and even from her great distance, she could see that his whole countenance was different to before. The man who always tried to make himself smaller, shrink from the world, now filled the space behind the podium.
He was still softly spoken and purposeful in his speech, but he talked with a new boldness about the music he was going to perform at the piano. He warmly acknowledged the faculty and the university, and she watched with eager anticipation as he seated himself in front of the piano.
As he started his performance, she knew instantly that something was different. Something about him was now liberated. The man who had been so locked away, so unapproachable, found abandon as he played, taking them all to heights of exquisite ecstasy with his powerful musical renditions. After thirty minutes of breathtaking music, he stood to his feet again, came back to the front of the stage, and scanned the crowd.
“I taught mathematics here at the university for many years. But before that time, I used to create beautiful music with my beloved wife, who passed away. Her name was Sarah.” He paused for a moment to gather himself after uttering her name, but then continued. “I didn’t play for many years after she died, but one thing that loss has taught me is that keeping a gift locked away only brings harm. It is essential to express ourselves. Walls and doors keep out not just the bad but also the good. It is our job to own the keys of our freedom, and to be able to open those doors. I spent many years behind a closed door without knowing where to find the key to my life, but thanks to my music, I am now finding my way out. To quote an extraordinary but lesser-known philosopher, my late wife Sarah Held, ‘What is life without the beauty of art or music or poetry to help us interpret it, encourage us to know how to feel, how to love and how to live?’ In music I see the darkness, the light, the messiness, the beauty, and the complexities of life that simply can’t be summed up like an equation. Music, for me, helps bring down the walls, to open those locked doors. And I hope it has been that way for you too, tonight.”
The audience applauded warmly, and Hannah’s eyes filled with tears as she tried to reconcile the man who stood before her with the one she had known for so many years. Since finding out about Michael she’d known Josef’s depths, but the inspiring human being who now stood before her had indeed finally stepped out from his self-imposed captivity, and recognized them himself.
As the clapping subsided, Josef continued. “The last piece that I want to play for you holds an exceptional place in my heart.” His voice started to quiver. “It is an original composition written by a dear Dutch woman who was barely known, even to me. Though now I know her full name was Mrs. Florence Epstein, and she was a private person who led a quiet, sedate life, teaching piano to Dutch children. Unfortunately, she was also Jewish.”
An icy hush filled the air as everyone took a moment to absorb that information.
Wrestling with his emotion, Josef continued. “All that has survived of her ordinary yet valuable life are the memories in her students’ hearts and this beautiful piece of music that she composed and that I would like to play for you this evening. It is entitled, ‘My Amsterdam.’”
He sat down at the piano and put his fingers upon the keys. Tears rolled down Hannah’s cheeks as she listened to him fill the space with his rendition of Mrs. Epstein’s joyful composition, and she closed her eyes as the music lifted to the ceiling. It felt familiar, somehow capturing in its rhythms her joyous city, the free spirit of the people, their strong endurance, and their sense of community. All and more were embedded in the notes that he played passionately.
Chapter 60
; Josef rested his hands on the keys, grateful he had made it to the end. Having played refugee concerts for over a year now, he was surprised at how much tonight had affected him. Maybe it was being back here, back at the university where he had spent so many years of his life. Standing to take his bow, he looked around the room at all the faces looking at him encouragingly. So many people he knew whom he had never really let know him. They stood to their feet to honor him with a standing ovation, and he felt humbled.
Josef had come of age twice in this building. First as a student, then years later as a middle-aged mathematics professor. The first time with the hope of a successful academic future and a loving wife to support his journey, and the second time many years later when his real purpose had become visible. Never had he been happier than with the work he was doing now.
As he started his encore performance, he imagined his father’s face smiling at him and his words echoed in his mind: “One day you will be a fine pianist, my son. You have great skill, and one day you will find the passion to match it.”
Josef recalled the headstrong young man whose only determination had been to be the opposite of all that his parents expected. And mathematics had been a suitable punishment to his creatively biased family. While he had only reluctantly played in his youth to please his father, it was with his wife that he had first derived great joy from music, seeing the pleasure it gave her. But now was different, as even though he played to honor Mrs. Epstein’s memory, he also played for himself. The happiness he felt deep inside of him for the many gifts he had been given brought him to tears, and he channeled all of that thankfulness back into his music.
After the performance, he tucked away his papers, including Mrs. Epstein’s crumpled, yellowing sheets. He could have copied them in his own hand onto fresh paper, but with so little of Mrs. Epstein’s legacy to preserve, it seemed undignified to do so.
He moved quickly from the stage, stopping to shake a couple of hands before disappearing out of a side door. He still was not entirely comfortable in large groups, especially as he had spent the last two years in near seclusion in the country with Sarah’s family taking care of Ingrid.
Hurrying through the throngs of excited concertgoers, he made his way to the exit, but on his path to the main door, his heart was pulled down a familiar corridor and he found himself outside his old classroom. It was empty and quiet. Opening the door, he was greeted by the usual creak of wood and smell of chalk dust.
Looking around the room he beamed. “Hello, dear friend,” he said out loud.
Nothing but the old meticulously ticking clock returned his greeting.
Walking to the darkened windows, he looked out into the night. How many times had he stood just here, looking out to a world he had barely been a part of?
All at once, the door creaked behind him and someone put on the light. It was Hannah. She looked as if she had been running, her cheeks flushed red and her breath stilted.
“I thought I had missed you,” she rasped. Then added with a smile, “Hello, Professor.”
Josef gasped. She was still as beautiful as he’d remembered. In the two and a half years since he’d last seen her, a day hadn’t gone by when he hadn’t pictured her, thought about her, and wondered about what could have been between them. As soon as he’d arrived at the university that evening, the first thing he’d done was go to her desk, only to be greeted by someone else. The young woman, Isabelle, who Hannah had been training so many years before, curtly informed him that Hannah no longer worked there. He had felt crushing regret that he hadn’t written or come back sooner. But now here she was.
As she approached him, the thrill of just being in the same room with her ran through his body like a charge, tightening his throat, making his heart thud, and rendering him tongue-tied. He finally managed to whisper, “They told me you’d left.”
She smiled, catching her breath. “I have. I did. I am just back for the concert.”
He found himself dumbstruck and all he could manage was, “Ah.”
As she joined him at the window, he felt coy, self-conscious. A million thoughts went through his mind. He wanted to tell her exactly how he felt about her, but he wasn’t sure how to start the conversation. She saved him with a question.
“Did you ever hear from Michael again?” she asked, concern in her tone.
He shook his head and returned his gaze to the blackened sky. “I have enquired at many of the refugee camps, but nothing yet.”
She nodded in understanding. So many people were still missing and presumed dead.
“How is Ingrid?” she enquired. “Did she leave Amsterdam with you? I imagined it was difficult for her after the war.”
He nodded. “Yes, I accompanied her, she had to leave and wasn’t strong enough to go alone. She is much better, now. She was very wounded by her experiences during the occupation, but I took her to a remote village in the south and we stayed with Sarah’s sister to help with her recovery. She met a nice young man, a farmhand. Not quite as cavalier as Major von Strauss, but he is kind and adores her and is exactly what she needs. They were married a few months ago, and already she is expecting my first grand-nephew or niece.” Josef beamed.
He looked over at Hannah. He had to do or say something, anything that conveyed all the feelings he’d felt for her, still felt for her.
He forced out the words, “I’m very grateful to you, Hannah.” And reached forward and covered her hand with his own, as another thrill raced through his body.
She looked down, obviously surprised at his forthrightness. He desperately hoped that she could see in his face everything that he wanted to say but couldn’t vocalize. He never wanted to ever let go of her hand again. He took in a deep breath and decided he was just going to say it, tell her he loved her and didn’t want to go one more day without her being in his life.
Just then a voice called to them from the door. “Professor Held, here you are.” They turned to look into the businesslike face of Isabelle. “I am glad I caught you.”
He withdrew his hand, not wanting to embarrass Hannah. This had been her employee, after all. Gone was the awkward young girl. Now she was a woman who took her job and position very seriously.
“Hello, Isabelle,” Hannah said. “How is the desk?”
Isabelle responded almost a little defensively, as if Hannah may be back to judge her efficiency. “All is in order,” she snapped. “I have something for the professor, his mail. I will go and get it.”
“Mail! Mrs. Pender, can you imagine?” he responded in mock horror. “There is still mail!”
They both laughed warmly as Isabelle strode away to complete her task.
He wanted to get back to what he had to say but Hannah was making nervous small talk. “Maybe it is a new algebra course. I remember you saying the one you used was ancient.”
Isabelle returned quickly with a small brown package and placed it on the desk. The postmark was from America. Then she left the room to continue with her duties.
“You have friends in the USA?” Hannah enquired, noting the confused expression on his face.
He shook his head and silently unwrapped the parcel. Two pieces of paper slipped out. One appeared to be a letter, the other a math equation he recognized from so long ago, on a fresh sheet of paper. Completed. He opened the letter and read the first line, then collapsed into the chair at the desk, overcome.
Hannah became concerned. “Is it bad news?” she enquired, hesitantly.
Josef couldn’t speak and handed her the letter. “Read it, can you?” he asked hoarsely.
She took the letter and read it out loud.
“Hello, Professor. It’s me, Michael!” She paused then, understanding Josef’s show of emotion, feeling it herself. He nodded at her to continue as tears filled his eyes.
I know you thought that you had finally got rid of me, but here I am. I am resending this package, as the one I sent to your house was returned and I’m hoping that you are still at the univers
ity. I didn’t know how else to contact you.
It was important for me to get this gift to you. I will never have the words or actions to thank you for all that you did for me during the war. I know I will never meet a finer, kinder human being than you. I can only hope that when I am faced with similar challenges that I can be up to the task set by your example.
After I escaped that day, I went to find my dear sweet Elke. I cannot talk about this, even in writing, without the pain being almost too acute for me. All I will tell you is she saved my life by sacrificing her own. They tried to kill me too, but before they could Allied forces in the area intercepted them and pulled my unconscious body to safety.
I would not find out Elke was dead until I awoke weeks later in a hospital in America where I got taken, and my recovery felt like a mixture of crippling sadness and elation to be free at last. It has been a hard road, Professor, I will not pretend. But Elke lost her life to save me. And you risked yours in so many ways to save me too. And I knew I owed it to both of you to live. I threw my emotions into my writing and over the last few months I have once again begun to open up to love and there is the beginning of something beautiful again. I have thought many times over the last year of you and Sarah, and realized once again how brave it is to face our feelings, our losses, and our grief, and you taught me how to do that. It was a long and heart-wrenching emotional journey, but none of it would have been possible if you hadn’t taken care of me for so long, and I will never forget our friendship.
I am thankful daily to you, Hannah Pender, to God, and to Rainer Maria Rilke, all of whom, in an odd twist of fate, contributed to my salvation. Please do write back. I would love so much to hear from you.
Your sincere friend, Michael.
P.S. I thought you might like to know, I just passed my advanced mathematics course, with an A in algebra. And you thought I would never make it!”
A View Across the Rooftops: An epic, heart-wrenching and gripping World War Two historical novel Page 35