The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

Henry Sheriff’s active involvement in the war ended in a field at the closing of 1916. At the same time, although in different circumstances, so did the war of Emil Hermann.

  Born in Frankfurt in 1888, he had been drafted into the German army in early 1916 and sent to the Eastern Front. Emil was the second son of a successful violin dealer who made, bought and sold instruments, moving to Berlin in 1902 to concentrate on vintage violins. Hermann Senior schooled his boys fiercely. Before they had reached ten years old, they were accustomed to discussing and playing German, French and Italian violins at the dinner table, being required to provide a one-page analysis of a particular model each day. Emil showed more of an inclination than his brother to go into the family business and by the age of eighteen in 1906 he had sold a fine Amati for 21,000 marks.

  By 1913, he had opened his own shop in friendly competition with his father in the centre of Berlin. With his encyclopaedic knowledge, marketing skills and financial acumen, he quickly made a resounding success of the business.

  However, within two years, a rifle had replaced a violin on his shoulder. Where Henry Sheriff had been fighting the war on the Western Front in Belgium and France, Emil found himself a conscriptee on the Eastern Front, which stretched from the Baltic Sea in the North to the Black Sea in the South. Russia, Germany, the Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman Empires were engaged in savage attacks and counter-attacks across most of Eastern Europe and stretching deep into Central Europe. In the opening months of the war, the Imperial Russian army fought German forces in Galicia and Poland.

  On the chessboard of countries, the poor bloody infantries were moved in millions by incompetent and uncaring leaders. Supply lines were poor, weapons were unreliable or unavailable and with the ever-changing picture, communications were vague.

  Because of the strung-out line of engagement, the density of soldiers was lower so the line was easier to breach. Once ruptured, groups of soldiers were easily isolated and captured. Emil’s troop was a brigade of the German Ninth Army, which had been shifted in 1915 to the border following Russian successes in Galicia. Along the theatre of war, the Germans advanced systematically aided by Russian deficiencies and the corruption of its officers. Unluckily, Emil’s troop had advanced precipitately as a result of a hot-blooded commander looking to make a name for himself. Emil and 200 other soldiers were isolated and captured.

  Captain Emil Hermann and his colleagues were a small fraction of the 2.5 million who fell into Russian hands. Climactic conditions were harsh and Russia was a vast semi-feudal country impoverished by war, corruption and inequality. Dealing in an orderly and humane way with captured prisoners of war on this scale was impossible. With winter closing in, Emil and his fellow soldiers were piled into teplushki wagons. These were normally used to transport Russian soldiers and were fitted with rows of bunks, a stove and latrine buckets. However, because of numbers, they were loaded to over-capacity and, during the month that it took to reach Sretensk camp in Siberia, many of Emil’s colleagues succumbed to battlefield wounds, disease or simply froze to death. Casualties were tossed out of the railway truck. Emil, as an officer, was treated more favourably although he endeavoured to share his rations as generously as he could.

  Speaking no Russian and with unsympathetic captors the slow route across Siberia seemed interminable, punctuated only by short stops to empty latrine buckets and take on water.

  Unaware of their eventual destination, or even of their potential fate, the dismal cold journey over the barren steppes in the half-light of winter was almost unendurable. Many fell by the wayside but Emil occupied his mind by mentally reviewing and classifying classic violins and by rehearsing music in his head. Eventually they pulled into Sretensk. On disembarking, Emil, although hungry and cold and moving stiffly as a result of the arduous journey, found a guard who had a smattering of German.

  “Where are we and what are the arrangements for the men?”

  “You are in Sretensk camp in Siberia. Captain, you will be housed in the officers’ barracks,” he pointed to a group of three brick buildings by a perimeter fence.

  “The men will be kept there,” he indicated to a series of warehouse-sized log buildings.

  Emil was taken to his billet, a sparse building with bare bunks, rough dirty blankets and a series of stoves.

  After a few days of recovery, and strengthened by the rest and slightly better rations, Emil and a couple of other officers sought a meeting with the camp commander, Major Leonid Morozov. Eventually he agreed to see them. After formally introducing themselves, Emil, as a fluent French speaker, the only common language, spoke for their number.

  “Major, you will be aware that international law sets out key protections and minimum standards for prisoners so that they may be treated humanely.”

  “Of course I am aware,” replied Morozov haughtily. “We follow carefully the Hague conventions which we are taught in officer training. It is unfortunate that reciprocal treatment is not given, apparently, to Russian prisoners in your country.”

  Emil continued.

  “It is our view that conditions for the men here in the camp are unacceptable. There is little sanitation, some of the weaker men have died of the cold, the amount and quality of the food is less than you would feed to pigs. Vegetable slop and occasional horsemeat does not fulfil your obligations. Because of these inadequacies you will be aware that there is an epidemic of typhus in the camp?”

  Morozov, snarling, replied, “And you will be aware, Captain, that there is a war taking place and that resources must be preferentially given to our fighting men, followed by the civilian population. I am afraid that prisoners come last on that list. You should be thankful that you officers are relatively comfortable given the privations across the country. Your food, warmth and shelter are superior to that of the peasantry so I have little time for your legal formalities. This meeting is over.”

  *

  In the succeeding months, the harsh regime continued with no improvement in rations or sanitation. Typhus spread. One day in spring 1917, there was a remarkable occurrence in Sretensk camp that was to dramatically improve living conditions and save many lives. Morozov was seen to be touring the camp with a tall, blue-eyed blonde woman in a Red Cross uniform. She was seen to be inspecting conditions in the camp speaking directly to the men. An aide took notes as she toured the stricken facilities. She came to see Emil and the other officers.

  “May I introduce myself? I am Elsa Brandstrom of the Swedish Red Cross. Sweden is the protecting power of Germany’s prisoners of war who are being held in Russia. My role is to inspect camps and report back to the Central Powers. Where we find mistreatment or inadequate facilities, I have authority to report back and put pressure on the Russian authorities to respect international conventions. I am here to listen.”

  The officers told of the failings in the camp and of their efforts to bring the issues to the attention of Major Morozov. Elsa took notes and left, assuring them that she would make representations. Few expected anything to happen. Some felt that in their fatigue, hunger and delirium, they had been visited by a blonde angel not a real person. Few thought that this young woman could make any difference in such a widespread conflict across a vast continent. They were wrong.

  *

  By summer 1917, Morozov had been replaced. The new camp commander was General Andrei Yurkevitch, an aristocrat from Moscow. He came to see the officers, noting their concerns and, within days, acted on their wishes. Sanitation blocks were installed. Typhus cases were isolated and treated medically. Camp rations improved in volume and quality. With the low Siberian sun of winter now transformed into the warming sun of summer, morale improved dramatically. The days of huddling for warmth under verminous blankets and sharing bowls of thin soup were gone.

  Gradually the camp developed an organised structure. Education classes were established. Sports teams flourished and cultural pursuits such as theatre and musi
c began with materials and instruments somehow promised and provided. Emil said a quiet prayer to the Angel of Sweden every night.

  Emil himself had put in a request to General Yurkevitch, that he be provided with a violin, not daring to hope that his wish might be granted. However, one golden day in August 1917, he was summoned to the office of the camp commander.

  “Captain Hermann,” said Yurkevitch, “I know that you are an admirer of the fiddle. See, here,” pointing to a violin on his desk.

  Emil sought approval with his eyes to pick up the instrument and Yurkevitch smiled assent.

  Emil turned it over and over in his hands. It was no classical violin but to a musician who had suffered hunger, cold and deprivation, this was balm to his soul. He held it carefully as if it were his child, unable to speak. The tears started in his eyes. There had been times when he had felt that he would never hold a violin again. He stroked the archings, the fingerboard and strings.

  “Go on, go on,” encouraged Yurkevitch. “I am a music enthusiast with a particular fondness for you German composers. My daughters also are players. Please… try the strings.”

  Emil shook his head diffidently.

  “It is some while since I played, so I am not sure…”

  “Please, Captain. We may be on different sides in this war but we have music in common. Please.”

  “Well,” said Emil, “I am no maestro and it is two years since I played. I’ll try a little piece but you will forgive the mistakes. And you may know this piece. It needs other instruments so I will not do it justice but…”

  And he raised the violin and bow. After a soft opening and gentle swell of the music, Yurkevitch disappeared briefly and returned with another violin, picking up the refrain. It passed over and over and carried with it times of hope, of possibility, of poignant happiness and of the past. Emil willed that time should stand still and the moment should not end. His thoughts were edged with sadness now as he heard the sustained voices of the violins in the final moments of the piece. The beauty of the top chord, the dissonance first of the top G held with high E sliding up to F. The tone of the violin rang clear and still rose now beyond the octave-top G with his A, holding for an eternity then falling, falling until finally the one violin sang the refrain which floated past the drab office and through the window to the sunlit spaces beyond. The final note sustained, Emil willed it to last forever. Then, silence.

  He looked at Yurkevitch, who said, “The Siegfried Idyll. Who would have known that Wagner, a German, could touch the iron heart of a Russian bear. How futile is this war? Borders will change. Men will live and men will die. It will pass, but such music will live forever.

  “My friend, I have a gosdacha a few miles from here given to my family by Tsar Alexander himself. I would be honoured, Captain, if you would do me the courtesy of attending for dinner. Of course, as my prisoner,” he smiled knowingly. “You will be expected to render some service or other to pay your way.”

  Startled at this unexpected invitation and not knowing in the circumstances whether this was an invitation or an instruction, Emil said, hesitatingly, “Of course, General, I would be honoured.”

  *

  The following Friday, after making himself as presentable as feasible under the prevailing circumstances, a driver and carriage arrived to take him to the General’s dacha. It was approached along a curving track with lakes left and right. It stood in its own grounds with a backdrop of pine and berry trees, the evening sun setting though their branches.

  Emil had heard of dachas and was expecting a simple, small wooden building. But the Yurkevitch house was an extensive two-storey residence constructed of brick and concrete with a porticoed façade and with balconies, the whole painted midnight blue.

  Yurkevitch came out to meet Emil and introduced him to his wife, Natalia.

  “My dear, this is Captain Hermann. Although technically one of my prisoners at the camp, he is an educated officer who is fluent in French. Therefore, we will all converse in that language, and he will, no doubt, appreciate our little repast prepared by the little French magician Marcel. Captain Hermann is, as I have already mentioned to you, a formidable exponent of the violin and we shall entertain ourselves after dinner.”

  Emil waved away the compliment modestly as they entered the dacha, furnished with classical pieces, paintings and fine porcelain. The General clapped his hands and two girls in their late teens appeared.

  “This is Eugenia,” said Yurkevitch, introducing a tall, mannish and strong-jawed girl who curtseyed demurely.

  “And this,” he said, leading a smaller pretty girl with ringlets forward by the hand, “is my little Elena.”

  “Enchanté,” said Emil, elegantly kissing their hands, then standing to attention. He ventured a discreet sideways look at Elena and noticed that she too was looking at him. A frisson seemed to pass momentarily between them.

  Emil, used to soup, rye bread and potatoes was astonished at the banquet prepared by Marcel. Little savoury pasties called zakuski were followed by selodka, a herring dish in oil. Marcel then brought in a steaming tureen of solyanka, a delicious tomato-based chowder. Emil, after months of hunger, relished the baked pike-perch in a white wine sauce with blinis. And later, as they sat talking, hot sweet tea was served from a samovar with sharlotka apple cake.

  Emil thanked the General profusely for his hospitality.

  “Truly, sir, it has been almost worth the privations of the last two years to experience such a feast. I feel that today I came out of the dark and into the light. And also, on behalf of my fellow officers and men, may I thank you for your great kindness and generosity. If we could but capture that esprit de corps between ourselves as officers there would surely be an end to this terrible conflict, which has claimed too many lives. Too many fathers, brothers, sons and husbands lost. But we have much more that binds us than separates us.”

  General Yurkevitch agreed, smiling benignly whilst pouring out more vodka.

  “And now,” he said, clapping his hands, “we all have to sing for our supper. To the drawing room!”

  Music stands and instruments had been set up. He was to take one violin piece and Emil the other whilst Elena played the piano and Eugenia the cello. There was a short discussion on which piece to play, with Emil apologising for his lack of practice, although he was good-naturedly quietened by the smiling ensemble.

  The group played Haydn’s Opus Number 4 followed by the Milanese Quartets by Mozart. A subtle Boccherini piece was followed by other short chamber music pieces. Focussing on the music, Emil nevertheless essayed a few glances at Elena, which were returned with a smile. As amateurs, the group were forgiving of the occasional mistake and missed entrance, but finished each piece with a flourish and laughter.

  “And finally,” said the General, tapping his music stand, “I cannot let you go, Captain, without a little Beethoven, a fine compatriot of yours. We will finish with the Cavatina from the Grosse Fugue. Do you know it?”

  “Certainly,” said Emil, “perhaps the most moving passage in all of music to my inexpert ear.”

  Later, Emil took his leave of the family with an especial lingering glance at Elena as he kissed her hand. This was noticed by the General and his wife, who exchanged smiles.

  Following the carriage ride back to the camp, Emil lay on his bunk almost disbelieving. Had he really spent an evening eating fine food and drinking fine wines? And had he not met the prettiest girl he had ever set eyes on? Would they ever meet again?

  Meet again they did. Emil, encouraged by the benevolent Yurkevitch, paid court to Elena. Yurkevitch, although perhaps exposing himself to much criticism, surmised that Captain Hermann was a man of languages and culture and music in addition to being an officer and a gentleman. He could also see that his daughter was smitten. They were left in chaste seclusion in the drawing room to take tea and converse in French about art, history, mus
ic and the absurd fortune that had thrown them together from different parts of the world, but which equally kept them apart. Emil spoke of his feelings for Elena and she modestly reciprocated.

  The Yurkevitch gosdacha was a place of harmony, emergent love, and sunshine.

  But to the south, in Moscow, the storm clouds were gathering.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Indirectly, Elsa Brandstrom of the Red Cross saved Emil Hermann’s life. The same organisation almost simultaneously was there to help Henry Sheriff.

  When his plane began to falter at 1,500 feet, Henry used all his skills as a pilot to head towards the gas flares at his airfield in Lincolnshire. Almost too late in the dark he saw the tents of an infantry encampment and, using all his strength, he hauled his machine away. The men, hearing the spluttering engine, had run out of their tents and had seen the young flying officer manhandling the aircraft away from them and towards a wood. Racing across a ploughed field, two soldiers eventually reached the crashed plane and managed to pull Henry out of the mangled wreckage.

  The cockpit had been crushed and his face had hit the instrument panel. He was conscious and alive. A horse-drawn ambulance was eventually summoned and the medical orderlies extracted Henry painfully from the plane. They exchanged glances and shakes of the head indicating that they did not expect him to live long enough to reach the nearest hospital in Grantham. However, Henry’s will to survive was strong and sustained him on the journey and then through the operations to piece together his shattered pelvis and legs.

  In order to prevent infection, the doctors also made extensive slicing of tissue, washing the wounds in carbolic lotion and smoothing paraffin paste over exposed wounds. Henry endured the pain stoically, aided by unregulated doses of chloroform, sodium salicylate and morphine sulphate. Administration was hit and miss, and the next few weeks were spent either in a haze of semi-consciousness or convulsive pain.

  After a few months, his body began to heal but it was clear that his shattered face needed reconstruction. Henry was moved to a specialist hospital in Sidcup where a pioneering surgeon called Gillies was attempting not only to reassemble facial bones but also to progressively restore some semblance of normality to faces that had been burned, fractured, smashed and disintegrated through fire, bomb and bullet.