Tómas Jónsson, Bestseller

  The Soprano Katrín Jónsdóttir

  a folk tale

  The opera singer Katrín Jónsdóttir was esteemed as the pinnacle voice, above any other icelandic singer between the war years: her voice was vibrant, rich, masculine, and strong. She could with utter confidence be considered our most famous and most adored singer, without disrespecting other singers, an icelandic national singer in the fullest sense of the words, an uncrowned queen in the field of voice. In the years before World War II, she sang and earned renown among German music halls, where she sang with such enormous joy and to such large audiences that she was given the nickname Unsre Katharina. And there is a story, originating with a well-known Icelander who once was her contemporary abroad in Paris, that she did so well on stage in the City of Light that people went out into the street to watch her, esteeming her a marvel—and this from jaded, cosmopolitan Parisians not usually considered stirred by the trivial. Katrín seemed a leading light, a noble spirit in her art, her whole appearance and facial features classically icelandic, pronounced but genial. Her nose was raised high, and preceded her everywhere, on- and offstage. For certain, suitors streamed to her from all over the world, great men and princes who lay beseeching at her feet with crowns of state, covering the opera stage with orchids at the end of her songs, and it was not uncommon for her to receive two hundred floral baskets (by comparison, icelandic actors usually receive at most three or four on their sixty-year anniversary, plus half the takings from the performance). Katrín traveled everywhere in a private car, which the count of Bavaria gave her as a courting gift, but to the afflicted and passionate suitors she always said demurely: I am already bound with inseparable bonds of love to my native northern land and to my voice. The magic world of vocal chords merged surely with the unambiguous serenity of icelandic glaciers, gentle streams running into birch scrub and truly global citizens—but Hekla’s hidden fire lived underneath, so that when Katrín threw herself with the strength of an eddy into Wagner’s works, it was almost guaranteed that the abyss would stir and she would descend into the great violence of creative ability.

  Katrín Jónsdóttir is earning plaudits overseas, declared the front page of every icelandic broadsheet.

  But despite all her great victories and fame—“Tonight the roof was nearly torn from the Berlin Opera in enthusiasm,” wrote Hugo Weiss in the Berliner Post, giving the singer five stars; there was almost a full house—Katrín remained the same sweet shepherd girl who sang for the Elf Festival at home in Dalasýslu and who, reaching the age of confirmation, wearied of her zeal for echoes alone. No one knew that she had for some time been infatuated with the larger world, all its promise, fame and glamor. “I sing,” she said once in an interview with the renowned critic, Ludvig Gryphius, in Brunschweiger Tages-Zeitung, “because I feel like my voice and my zest for life does not have sufficient space in my chest, out, out, my breath—I want the world to enjoy and benefit from what little I can give it.”

  Even as Katrín stood at the pinnacle of her singing renown, the State collapsed and so did the value of the Deutschmark in Germany, but people came driving with wheelbarrows of banknotes to buy tickets to her singing spectacle. Hitler came to power and the great fame that emanated from Katrín had this effect on the most powerful person in the nation: he could barely fight back his tears.

  Her fame had reached his ears because Göring had by chance bought one of her records on the way to the Chancellery, and since Hitler wanted everything in Germany, both young and old, and nothing escaped his eagle-quick eyes, he asked what Göring had in the envelope under his arm. He said, like any faithful and honest man, he was holding a record.

  Let me hear, put it on the gramophone, said Hitler.

  And after listening speechless to the song, he could not say anything but shouted in enthusiasm like Faust in the poem by Goethe the German Giant (in an expertly rendered icelandic translation by Jón from Kaldaðarnes):

  Now, fetch me this.

  Hasten to your work.

  Göring replied, out of pure gentleness:

  Maiden-fishing is important work.

  Half a month will give me time

  the opportunity well to whine.

  Hitler was in bits at the song, so impatient and captivated by the voice that he could not wait and commanded instantly that he would have Katrín or no other woman on this side of the grave. He had never been with a woman, and so his expectation was all the more intense. He looked at Göring full of scorn and said in the spirit of Faust (translated by the same genius):

  If I knew a moment of peace,

  I would hardly need Göring,

  A straggling child, to allure and seduce.

  As this conversation was taking place in the Chancellery, Katrín was in Hamburg singing to a packed house every night.

  Our Katrín Jónsdóttir is achieving wonderful things in Hamburg, read the front page of all the icelandic broadsheets.

  Without hesitation or a second thought Hitler ordered Göring, his lifelong friend, to immediately have the yacht made ready. His ship was berthed at moorings in Vistnar but Hitler furnished himself with some sausages for the journey and swept a black cape around himself. Late into the night the large wagon was furiously driven, a hundred and twenty kilometers, along the new Autobahn to the coast, Hitler asleep in the back seat; the Führer arrived at Vistnar early the next morning, took a few amphetamine tablets and boarded.

  Now the story turns to Unsre Katharina.

  After being called back five times and receiving 102 flower baskets on stage at the Hamburg Opera, being praised with greater exultation than ever before—she had to sing six encores, including Sofnar lóa, which she often used as an encore, a clear contrast in its gentle music and simplicity to heroic Wagner—then she took rapid steps to her dressing room and stripped off the Valkyrie costume while newspaper music critics competed to write their praise epistles: “Katrín Jónsdóttir, the icelandic singer who graced the stage of the Hamburg Opera this evening and whom the German public has named Unsre Katharina, is a true genius in the use of her voice. She has the full power of interpretation in the roles she undertakes and she combines technique and creativity; her acting and all her gestures on stage are exceptional. Her performance of the difficult role of Sieglinde in Valkyrie was richly dramatic, her voice shining and clear as the northern sky in her own country . . . one discovers iceland revealed in all its glory . . . with the greatest splendor. We salute this Norse guest from the land of sagas, the true heroic blood . . .”

  While newspapers frantically printed and distributed her fame among hungry readers, Katrín lay calm in her bower at Hamburg Castle, which she had been specifically invited to use; she rested a moment and refreshed her vocal cords with the most expensive and best Liebfraumilch available in Germany. On all the bottles was written: Especially bottled for Katrín Jónsdóttir.

  As soon as it was dark that night, once Katrín had emptied three bottles of Liebfraumilch, she jumped up from her tapestried cushion and ordered her special servant and assistant, Mohamed of the Asra tribe, “welche sterben, wenn sie lieben,” to have her rowing boat made ready at the hall steps.

  Now let the night unfold, she said.

  With full secrecy, Katrín threw over herself an oilskin made of thick bullskin, which she had had made back home at Skagafjörður, and put on her black sea-shoes from Snaefellsnes and hid under a sailor’s hat the light braids that reached to her waist.

  And so she could roam, disguised and unrecognizable, she ordered Mohamed, the ferryman, to row the dinghy silently out from the river’s mouth. It was dark everywhere; over the murky sea there was neither a glow of light nor the pale moon shoaling in torn storm clouds. Katrín sat in the stern, silent; she looked, exotic beauty full of longing (Verfremdung), at the black waves passing in a dark play with the cheeks of young boats. No words passed her lips to the ferryman the whole way, but when they came out opposite the Kílarskurðinn canal she stretched out her white hand, adorned in rings
engraved with obsidian stones, to indicate that he should stop and bring in the oars. Mohamed obeyed her command, avoided looking at the woman, avoided her beauty like his own death in a poem, drawing away in a humble retreat, wrapping himself in furs and falling asleep in the dragging keel to dream of an Arabian half-moon.

  Hojotoho. Hojotoho.

  Heiaha. Heiaha.

  Hahei. Hahei. Heiaho, sang Katrín goading the sea and turning a tough face against salt wind; this was her custom, greeting the natural elements with this Valkyrie song, slipping out at night to the ocean’s vastness along with her loyal ferryman to practice her opera roles, wearying her icelandic energy in the excited storms and tumult, sometimes up until morning, fathoming the dark forces of her soul and mind in harmony with the untamed forces of nature. And she began a song that sounded like surf din, singing tirelessly the first and second parts of the Valkyrie, restlessly. Small-fledged clouds in the North Sea matched the song with deathcold waves, lonely and foaming in their eternal restless rage, their desire to break apart the land. Having worshipped her and offered her his arms, the wind was determined to steal her to him, his nature eager to apprehend her, absorb her body, dissolve her into its form: water oh the water water. But Katrín laughed at death in her greed for existence, and sang:

  Hinweg. Hinweg.

  flieh’ die Entweihte.

  Unheilig

  umfasst dich mein Arm.

  Waves. Ocean. Her best audience.

  After the song she drank another bottle of Liebfraumilch and then began the finale (not in icelandic translation this time): Eight Valkyries in full armor gather on the mountaintop on their return journey after victory in battle. Brunhilde enters with Sieglinde, who is overcome with grief after the death of Siegmund, killed by Hunding. But Brunhilde believes in her way of life and offers encouragement in song:

  Denn eines wisse

  und wahr’ es immer;

  den hehrsten Helden der Welt

  hegst du, o Weib,

  im schirmenden Schoss.

  And she gives her Siegmund’s broken sword. New Volsungs will be born from the hotbed womb of Sieglinde, the most majestic champions on earth. With a whetsong, Brunhilde reignites the life force in the chest of Sieglinde, one of the most beautiful scenes in the history of opera, characteristics that later came to crown Wagner’s works, especially Götterdämmerung; Sieglinde sings of joy:

  Du hehrstes Wunder . . .

  Katrín did not get any further in the song, when, just a stone’s throw from the rowing boat, which jumped on the excited waves, red sailing lights kindled, and moments later a spotlight fired on, swinging in flashes of light like thunder sparks over the desolate wave crests until the beam turned on Katrín. White beams blinded her in the ravenblack night, silencing her singing; black whales sank in the deep, birds flew off; but the dark Faustian voice could be heard calling (again in a brilliant icelandic translation by Jón from Kaldaðarnes):

  You, noble and beautiful, may I offer

  you my escort and support, good lady?

  I am not alone, Katrín was about to answer, but she realized at once where these lines of verses came from and she answered them playfully:

  I am neither pretty nor fair

  and alone I will ply my way.

  She woke the ferryman and ordered him to row hastily away from the cone of light. But she was not able to escape.

  Then the Führer himself came on the yacht deck, and through his well-organized intelligence he came to terms with the strange behavior of this icelandic Valkyrie who let no one set rules governing her methods and customs. The Germans’ gold teeth and leather jackets gleamed in the dark; they commanded the ferryman not to move from the keel section. The gangplank was slid hastily from the pleasure yacht into the rowboat, so Katrín could not refuse to come on board and sit at the Führer’s laden banquet table. Eel was for starters, the finest Mosel wine to drink, and then delicacies were borne in, each better than the last; Liebfraumilch flooded the visitor’s lips as she engaged in passionate conversation about the arts and philosophy.

  Initially over dinner there was much conversation (Hitler had the wine brought out immediately to stave off shyness and reticence) about the difficulties a true artist faces on her career ladder; in particular, an artist from a small and relatively unknown nation like iceland, how she might overcome each obstacle, breaking narrow bridges behind her with persistence and determination in order to become great and tower above a sea of mediocrity. Hitler knew such difficulties well, and he talked about them from bitter knowledge, but Katrín became aware of his complexes and neuroses gathered in his subconscious: a fear of having to exist defeated and at a lower rank in his contests with the world. As the evening passed, his neuroses surged back up from the time of his infancy the way virginal milk floods about his neck and stomach, unaware of anything good because of the sheer force of trying to keep suppress his depths under his gestures, overcompensating by being pushy with the servants; he harried them out with the dishes, found fault with how the sandwiches were arranged on platters, and so on. At first he tried to stay measured and drank little; doctors had advised him to avoid wine because of his temper, but later he slipped downhill. Drinking with Unsre Katharina was an outright exception.

  Promise to look after me, he had asked Göring in the toilets before they sat down to eat. If I get tipsy, take my glass from me and turn it upside down.

  Hitler plied Unsre Katharina liberally with compliments, and in conversations conducted in confidence and sincerity they were agreed that art was 99% hard work and diligence.

  It is surely a burden, said Hitler.

  Or a boon, said Katrín, playful.

  With the arrival of the steak the conversation moved to talk of food. Hitler asked whether Katrín had a robust stomach or had found it difficult to get used to German food. Indeed, the first few weeks she said she got an itchy rash over her body which she thought was caused by digestion, though her doctors said that was to do with her liver.

  And how are you faring with German food nowadays?

  Splendidly: though the icelandic diet involves more basic foods; the German one suits a singer better.

  One does not need to eat as much in warmer climates as in colder.

  After the steak, Hitler asked for news of iceland, which he had always wanted to visit.

  I want to have some authority in the matter, he said.

  His desire did not stem from the influence of the Nonna books on him in his youth, though he thought fondly of them; what motivated him was an inner desire reaching back to the beginning of time.

  The icelandic sagas, their essence and worth to men, tempt me. A pagan calm devoid of Christian moralizing. That’s it . . . Eddaic poetry came to mind immediately when I saw you in the floodlight and you looked at me, he said, and recited aloud from one of the poems:

  Why do I fear

  Freyja’s eyes?

  I feel those eyes

  Burning fire.

  At this little witticism, they laughed heartily.

  Remarkable, said Katrín, you have the correct pronunciation, and icelandic is an extremely difficult language, the oldest living language in the world.

  She told him that not only to flatter him; Hitler was quite fluent in icelandic, and could get along well. Katrín lifted the spoon and Hitler said skeið, Katrín lifted the fork and Hitler said gaffall. And so on usw. o.s.frv.

  Upon completion of a truly satisfying dining experience, Katrín could not help but show him a hint of icelandic hospitality and invite him and Göring home for a coffee at Hamburg Castle that very night.

  Let’s drink coffee and cognac back home, she said. It would be compromising for me to be seen with someone else in public. But I do want to thank you for a lovely evening.

  The pleasure yacht berthed and Hitler and Katrín went together along the tunnel of trees. The moon came up and struck silver decorations over the withered garden in the pale glow over Reinbek and the surrounding area; silver
frost beads glittered on chestnut trees and elms, the gravel on the path skittered and crackled under their shoes as owls wailed in bittersweet mistletoe.

  The industrious city slept as Katrín showed Hitler and Göring into the blue room and asked them modestly to excuse her while she slipped out and changed clothes.

  The two companions sat in deep chairs with silk upholstery and—nach einigem Stillschweigen said Hitler:

  Ich bitte dich, lass mich allein.

  Single-minded lust was running through him.

  Nicht jedes Mädchen hält so rein, said Göring—herumspürend, like Mephistopheles.

  The duo were unusually literarily inclined this evening.

  Katrín and Hitler stayed on alone in the castle. The servants slept, and the St. Bernard dog yawned lazily on an icelandic sheepskin rug, and on his back wriggled a swarm of little kittens. Katrín fetched them steaming coffee in floral espresso cups with gold trim. And after the first sip Hitler moved right to the chase, asked for her hand and turned himself so that it was unavoidable she could see his feelings for her made evident in his pants. He ground his teeth before her on the floor and said:

  OoOoOooo, and he shook her hands as he tried to have her touch him in the right place.

  I see that you are direct, acting as you are, said Katrín. I appreciate such personalities, but I will never give myself to another or get married except to my native land and to my voice.

  A powerful soprano sigh escaped from her lips.