by Bonnie Toews
A haunting emptiness crept into Lee’s eyes.
“For you, Quinn. Yes, I can.”
THREE
Saturday, September 25th, 1937
Lady Grace Radcliffe had practiced through the entire summer of 1937 to reach this moment. About to give her first public performance in Vienna—the last contestant to compete for the coveted gold medal—she did not doubt the Belvedere Festival was hers to win or lose.
As she gazed around the gallery of royal boxes, each scarlet booth cradled in Baroque splendor, a sea of faces swirled from balcony to balcony. Row upon row of scarlet seats stretched around the lower levels of the Vienna State Opera House, while down below, directly in front of the footlights, sat rows of visiting Nazi officers. From her position on stage, peering over the pit of black and silver uniforms ringed by the theater’s ruby grandeur was like staring down the throat of a monster shark.
The thought shattered her confidence. She felt trapped and bowed her head.
“To you, Lord, the praise. Take my fear and use my gift for Your purpose. Amen.”
Her racing heart stilled. The conductor tapped the podium, commanding all attention on him. His brows tweaked in silent question to her. She smiled in affirmation and leaned forward on the piano bench ready to perform.
He paused. His compelling eyes drilled into hers before his gaze panned over the whole orchestra and bored into each member until he was satisfied they were united as one mind under his baton. A powerful electric current arced between the points of his eyebrows. They drew up. He nodded, his hand dropped, and the ivory keys beneath Grace’s fingertips sprang to life.
As she played Tschaikovsky’s Concerto in B-Flat Minor, her surroundings disappeared. Grace imagined running through black forests. Diamond droplets pricked her face, and stormy winds whipped her body. She reveled in the pain. She was alive! Alive because she could feel the pain. And she was free! Free as only performing her music ever freed her soul.
Near the end of the concerto, her frenzied cadenzas peaked in glorious orgasms of piano and orchestra exploding together, until the last strains held and quivered into nothingness. A brief moment of astonished silence paralyzed the Vienna State Opera House before excited cries of Bravo! Bravo! pealed through the tumultuous applause.
Spent and shaking from her rapturous intensity, Grace sat dazed, too overwhelmed by the thunderous clapping to move. Never had she felt so consumed. Like a terrible tugging, almost as if her spirit were being ripped from her body, she felt the world struggling to claim her and fought her panic.
It wasn’t like this when Decency won, she thought. There had been a dignified ovation for her horse. A humble tribute. Peers courting greatness amongst their own kind. Not this tug-of-war, this dreadful demand to possess her wholly. She felt violated and remained frozen to the piano bench.
When she ignored the conductor’s tiny flick of his baton, he quickly stepped down from the podium and extended his right hand. She stared at it, desperately, like a drowning person, before she clasped it and clung. He pulled her to her feet and stood beside her, holding her up by her waist as she deeply bowed. The applause swelled again.
“You have won Vienna’s heart,” he whispered to her.
“Oh…” Grace’s lower lip trembled.
Simply clad in a sailor middy blouse and navy jumper, she reminded the conductor of a bewildered Alice in the midst of the Mad Hatter’s tea party.
He had seen it before. After years spent in isolated study, the sudden exposure to public approval could be overwhelming. For some, the first clamorous adoration was like ingesting an aphrodisiac drug; they hungered for more and would do anything to hear it repeated. While, for the chosen few, the waves of noise rebounding in louder and louder swells became like spikes hammering the echo chambers of the mind; they learned to tolerate the pain that was their due. For those who possessed this God-given humility, he mused, it seemed to drop anchor in the unsheltered harbor of the fragile soul, yet once moored in such quiet waters outrode the toughest storms, unharmed and uncorrupted. The conductor believed Lady Grace was such a soul.
“Grip my hand and smile, my dear,” he directed.
The seasons of the sky dancing in the blue pools of his eyes warmed and cooled in magical rhythms that drew Grace into their deepest reflections, soothing her. She did as he directed. The waves of applause swelled higher.
“If not now, WHEN?” he softly quoted to her.
Distracted by the strange words, she searched his face with puzzled interest. “If not now, WHEN?” she repeated in wonder.
A music professor from Budapest, Hungary, Dr. Otto Kantor wore the music festival’s traditional navy blue blazer with the embroidered Belvedere crest. An unruly mop of steel wool hair plopped over his receding hairline, which, she decided, on any other head might appear clownish, but not on his. It crowned a high noble forehead and a lovable face. She listened to his strong Hungarian accent as he whispered in her ear.
“This moment is yours. No? Relax. Enjoy. You gave from the soul. Now you receive.”
The tips of his thick eyebrows unfurled in merry curls that, to her, were like a cartoonist’s embellishment of his perfectly sculpted features. He gave her an encouraging smile.
She relaxed. Finally, the clapping dribbled away.
Grace almost tripped up the side stairs back stage that led to the first gallery where the other contestants and their families sat in the front row. As she sank down in the empty seat beside her mother, Princess Alexandra clasped Grace’s chilly hands in her own.
“It was a remarkable performance, the best you’ve ever played, dear,” she whispered, barely able to contain her proud delight.
Her father leaned across Princess Alexandra’s lap. “Good show,” he said, and then motioned for her to sit back and relax.
Grace continued to cling to her mother’s hand as the minutes waiting for the judges’selection dragged on. Her mind was still with the experience. She had endured her first public baptism and surrendered nothing of herself. She was the same person she was before she performed. Yet something was different, something deep inside her. Like a river once damned up, she felt a tremendous release. Peace flowed within, and she relaxed. Her mother felt the easing of her tension and patted her hand. They exchanged a quiet smile.
Suddenly, she remembered Dr. Kantor.
“Mommy, the conductor…”
“Not now, Grace,” her mother said. “I think they’re going to make the announcement. See! The curtains are moving.”
Princess Alexandra’s excitement touched Grace. She had forgotten her mother had sacrificed a concert career to marry her father. Theirs was a romantic story. But, for the first time, Grace realized the Gold Medal meant as much to her mother as it did to her. Her years of patient teaching and the many long hours they spent together practicing flashed to mind.
While preparing for the festival, her mother played the orchestra’s part and made Grace stretch every musical instinct, every technique to her utmost. Grace had become a superb pianist but only because her mother was a greater one. If Grace won the medal, it was as much for her mother as it was for herself. She gently squeezed her mother’s hand with fresher understanding. They were about to share the moment of truth. How good was she?
The audience restlessly buzzed with chatter.
Dr. Kantor appeared first and positioned himself beside the first violinist. Emerging from stage left, the leader of the festival’s panel of seven judges followed. A portly man, he strode with measured dignity towards center stage. In his pudgy hands, he carried a small velvet-covered box. Turning to the audience, he paused and smiled up at Grace, a pompous smile that unsettled her. The whites of his eyes bulged like an owl’s stare. Unconsciously, she recoiled and comforted herself by fixing her attention on Dr. Kantor.
As she peered down on him from the gallery, he looked up at her and winked. She couldn’t resist the clownish sweetness in his face and grinned in response.
The adjudic
ator then stepped down to the footlights and looked out over the audience. A reedy rumble rolled in his throat. At once, a hush smothered the excited din.
Grace nervously edged forward on her seat.
“Now I know how the Empress Maria-Theresa felt when she heard Mozart play for the first time at six years of age. Such musical brilliance is thrilling,” he began in a surprisingly resonant voice.
Another ripple of applause rumbled. He raised the flats of his hands to repress it.
“Since 1820,” he continued, “the Hapsburg family has recognized outstanding young pianists in an annual competition that has become an international event. This year our panel of judges has unanimously decided our winner is from England, and it gives me great pleasure to present this gold replica of the medal the empress awarded to Mozart in 1762 to … Lady Grace Radcliffe.”
Pandemonium erupted. The orchestra, flanking the adjudicator, rose in one fluid motion, their eyes raised to the gallery where Grace sat. Next, the spotlight swung and bathed her in blinding light.
Still rooted to her seat, she squinted. Now that she had won she couldn’t believe it.
“Grace,” her mother urged, “you must stand up. He wants you on stage to receive the presentation. Go on, dear.”
Shaking, Grace rose to her feet. Suddenly, she knew how a fish felt flapping around in a catcher’s net. She looked down at her mother’s radiant face. Beside her, her father beamed. As if in a dream, she let go of her mother’s hand and made her way down the row, past the other contestants’ sporting congratulations.
As she stepped out from the wings, a deafening applause greeted her. Instantly, her field of vision narrowed to disassociated segments of her view. Each one loomed larger than life: Dr. Kantor’s reassuring eyes drawing her forward as he escorted her to center stage; the adjudicator, stepping back, like a broad canvas swinging away to reveal a fuller sweep of the audience whose waxen bobbing images were pinned under the great white light; then, like a giant wave, the adjudicator rolled in again, hemming her to the edge of the stage, and ceremoniously kissed her on each cheek. Grace had to overcome a violent urge to wipe off the glistening imprint his wet lips left.
All at once, intense blue eyes pierced through the footlights like diamonds cutting glass to engage her attention. Peering through the hazy brilliance, hoping to catch a glimpse of the face that belonged to the magnificent eyes, she was stunned when she tracked them to a young Nazi officer in the front row. Fascinated, she couldn’t turn away. His striking perfection totally absorbed her.
The portly adjudicator’s opening of the small velvet box intruded on her strange spell. She watched him pull out the precious medal on a long gold chain. While he slipped the chain over her head, even the vast audience grew subdued until he stood back to let them see the beautiful medal fastened around her neck.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced with grand flourish, “I give you Lady Grace Radcliffe of England, the Belvedere winner for 1937!”
She humbly bowed and, in gratitude, stretched out one hand to include Dr. Kantor. He declined sharing her victory, choosing instead to step back into the inconspicuous shadows of the orchestra. Left standing alone, she raised her eyes to the gallery and blew a kiss of tribute to Princess Alexandra. For one instant, she thought the long reach of the great spotlight caught tears glistening on her mother’s cheeks.
Earsplitting applause followed. From beneath her lowered lids, she yielded to the desire to snatch one last look at the handsome German officer. His magnetic gaze caught her, and in that breathless moment, their souls intertwined. Never in her life had she experienced such elation, and as difficult as it had been to mount the stage before the concert, now she didn’t want to leave.
The din of clapping and cheering dissipated. The curtain dropped.
The finality of the curtain falling severed their connection. It was as if someone had turned off the tap. She felt empty. Would she ever see the German officer again? Not likely, she realized. Her feelings didn’t make sense. She had worked long and hard to win this medal. Why didn’t it matter? What was wrong with her?
The clang of metal music stands being folded and piled pried her thoughts away from the German to Dr. Kantor. Where was he? She had to find him and thank him properly.
“Dr. Kantor! Wait!” she called, when she spotted him pulling on his coat and gloves in front of the musicians’ cloak room. He smiled wanly as she ran up to him. Away from the stage, he seemed more stooped, more aged. Instant concern gripped Grace.
“Dr. Kantor, please don’t go. I’d like you to meet my parents.”
She anxiously scanned over the heads of the visitors milling backstage, hoping to see them.
“They will want to thank you for helping me,” she insisted.
“That’s not necessary, my dear.”
For the second time tonight, his eyes mesmerized her. What’s happening to me? Why am I so drawn to this conductor and the blond office…? She had observed the color of his hair after all, she realized with sudden cheer. It gave flesh to the image locked in her mind.
Dr. Kantor’s attention darted to shadows behind the dressing rooms. Grace sensed his instant tension.
“Please, Dr. Kantor, join my parents and me.”
He shook his head and began to walk away. “I’m sorry. There is no time. You must excuse me.”
She persevered. “That line you quoted to me—if not now, WHEN?—did you mean that now is my time for recognition?”
He paused and looked back at her.
“Is that what you think it means?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“It’s not complicated,” Dr. Kantor said. “There will come a time when you will say these words to someone else because they will seem to fit the occasion as they did tonight.”
“Can I find the line in a play or poem?” Grace persisted.
Sorrow veiled his eyes. “It is from a verse by the Hebrew philosopher Hillel.” Then he glanced past her shoulder and grew more fidgety. “Forgive me, but I must excuse myself, Lady Grace. I’m expected back in Budapest at once.”
He stepped back, took her right hand and cupped it inside both of his. His gentleness so touched her that she wanted to wrap her arms around him, but she knew that whatever was troubling him would make his inner resources crumble if she succumbed to the impulse.
“Thank you.” The rich timbre of his voice broke like fine china cracking. “I’ll always remember your magnificent performance, my dear, and your loving kindness.”
And then he was gone.
“Dr. Kantor … ?” she cried.
Suddenly, out of the dressing room shadows, two men in dark suits roughly brushed Grace aside and hurried out the stage door after him. She stood confused.
“Oh, there you are, Grace,” Princess Alexandra called as she dodged stagehands dismantling the symphony platform. “You must show me your gold medal. I’ve been dying to see it! Your father is arranging a concert tour for you this very minute … Grace?”
Her chatter instantly switched off when she saw how upset her daughter was. “Grace? What’s wrong, dear?”
“Dr. Kantor … I think he’s in danger.”
“Why would you think that?”
“He was very afraid of something or someone, and two men just rushed out the stage door after him.”
“They did? Did you see them chasing him?”
“No.”
“Then it’s nothing more than a coincidence.”
“I do hope you’re right, mother.”
Grace seldom called Princess Alexandra mother in that tone. Her mother looked more thoughtfully at her and placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. She wanted to crawl inside her mother’s arms and leave the terrible misery there.
“He was so sweet. For a moment I lost my composure, and he…” The rest of the sentence foundered over the lump in Grace’s throat.
“You were wonderful. We are so proud of you, dear.”
“This
should be the happiest day of my life, but I don’t think I have ever felt so miserable.”
“You’re just tired,” Princess Alexandra assured her. “You’ve worked very hard. This feeling will pass, and all you will remember is your great triumph.”
But Grace knew she wasn’t tired. She was miserable for another reason. Privately lodged in her heart was the memory of the golden-haired German in the formidable Nazi uniform. For one crazy instant, they touched some intimate portion of their lives that would never be the same again.
“I feel as if he’s a part of me, Mommy. Why?”
Thinking she meant Dr. Kantor, her mother tightened her arm around her shoulders.
“Everything we do, everyone we meet becomes a part of us, Grace. Almost like scattered parts of our soul coming home to roost. For a moment, everything fits, and we belong … to that moment … or to that person,” she finished wistfully, as if she had not yet gathered all the missing parts to her own soul.
FOUR
Wednesday, November 9th, 1938
The splendor of the former library now converted into Berlin’s International Press Club on Budapesterstrasse fascinated Lee. Even the most cynical journalist had to be impressed. The main courtroom just off the entrance way reached up through two stories to an arched ceiling covered in renaissance art. This area, previously the receiving area for books on loan, had been converted into a comfortable reception area filled with deep-cushioned leather chairs and sofas. She gazed up at the two-story atrium where cozy chamber rooms branched out from the upper level.
Over the passing months, she had often retreated to these cubbyholes lined with walls of mahogany bookshelves surrounding a central fireplace to think, read and write her daily column. Their privacy also allowed her time and space to regroup her feelings. Too much was happening too quickly.
In the year since Hitler tested his ‘total war’ strategy against the Basques, in which seventy percent of the town was destroyed and sixteen hundred civilians of Guernica’s total population of five thousand were killed, Nazi Germany had stepped up its development of atomic energy. As Hitler dedicated more resources to it, Quinn hosted press receptions like this one tonight to gather Nazi Party officials and members of Berlin’s scientific community to fleece Intelligence on Germany’s nuclear experiments from their conversations.