by Eric Dupont
By eight o’clock, the bushes around the mansion were already crawling with SS, throwing up their lunch and everything else. I can still hear the sound of their vomiting . . . Papa tried to distract me from the shameful scenes.
“Look, it’s George II, the King of Greece.”
Everybody who was anybody, I’m telling you, Kapriel! The King of Greece with his whole entourage! A tall man with a nose like . . . Well, let’s just say that if he’d been King of Italy you could have said his nose was shaped not unlike his country. You find that funny, do you? Wait till you hear the rest! Now we could hear other sounds coming from the bushes. The hostesses dressed as vestal virgins had been dragged off by the SS men for a roll in the hay under cover of darkness. Nothing too glorious about it all, but just as Mama had predicted. Magda Goebbels was furious! I watched as she stood up and shouted at her husband, but they were too far away for me to hear what she was saying. Ach! I’d love to be able to tell you. What was she so furious about? That her lovely Nazi party had turned into a Roman orgy! But there’s something else I should tell you: Papa hadn’t been sticking to lemonade . . . Since he was tipsy, I was able to escape his attention for a moment or two.
What can I say about the garden? It looked a bit like a Biergarten, with everyone singing and drinking like there was no tomorrow. Magda Goebbels was still trying to stay on top of things. But the harder she tried to calm the guests, the more they acted like savages, and soon the entire staff was busy trying to control the drunks as they fought, smashed furniture, and pissed on the frightened hostesses. We could see the employees running outside to help their despairing mistress.
In the ensuing chaos, I walked up to the villa door and, without even stopping to consider what I was doing, went inside. There were a few famous faces, ministers, people I didn’t know in the sumptuously decorated rooms. It was as though they had no idea what was going on outside. Nobody there was throwing up into the bushes; the moans of pleasure hadn’t reached their ears. Most of the men were in tuxedos, there was a tray filled with glasses of champagne on a little pedestal table. I helped myself so as not to look out of place. Nobody seemed to be paying me the slightest attention; the staff had its hands full with what was going on outside.
The villa’s main room was decorated ostentatiously: busts, paintings, incredibly kitsch chandeliers. Everything in black, white, and red, of course. All the swastikas you could wish for! Women had taken cover inside, away from the vulgarity of the orgy that was now in full swing in the garden. The women inside were stiff-lipped and sophisticated. They acted like nothing was out of the ordinary, debating the merits of Verdi and Puccini while the SS sodomized the hostesses outside. It was truly pathetic, Kapriel!
At the end of the room, a hallway led off to an office. I noticed a long pedestal table. I could hear a telephone ringing at the end of the corridor. Seconds later a manservant rushed out shouting: “Frau Goebbels, schnell! Am Telefon!” Since Magda Goebbels had gone outside to the garden, I had time to make my way down the hallway to the telephone that awaited her. But I was being reckless. I could have been caught in the empty hallway at any minute. I’d walked into a trap. Any second now, Magda Goebbels was going to walk right into me. I had no choice but to hide in the closet a couple of yards away and wait.
Her quick footsteps came closer. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her. She was telling someone it was a shame they couldn’t make it to the party. Who was she talking to? How would I know, Kapriel? To the Führer? Surely not. She wouldn’t have been so curt and, besides, I think the Führer must have been in bed by then. But I digress. She hung up, then, much to my relief, walked away from the table and back toward the clamor of the party. I waited a minute then tiptoed out of the closet. On the wooden table next to the telephone, something white shone in the light. It was one of Magda Goebbels’s earrings! She must have taken it off to talk on the phone, as women often do! I pocketed it without a second thought and quickly returned to the entrance hall. Magda Goebbels was already on her way back. She passed just behind me. I had to look composed, find a conversation to join.
“It was during the second act,” one woman was saying to another, a few steps from me. “Right when she wants to kill him to get her hands on the safe conduct. The knife didn’t fold, it seems, and the singer was almost killed.”
I reacted instantly.
“I was there! A terrible accident. Poor Scarpia!”
Seconds later, Magda Goebbels came back out of the hallway in a panic, her hand against her left ear. I didn’t see her again for the rest of the evening. Papa drove too quickly the whole way home, cursing the people who had ruined the party. I pretended to doze, clutching the little pearl in my right hand. Mama was right: Puccini was making a criminal of me. But Tosca was to have me do much worse still.
In September, I was reunited with Ludwig at Terese’s. I hadn’t been able to see him before that. His father had packed him off to Bavaria to work at his cousins’. His reaction was nothing short of churlish.
“You only have one!”
“And that’s a miracle in itself!”
“But I wanted both. What am I supposed to do with one earring?”
“Don’t tell me you were planning to wear them for the recital!”
“Why not? Perhaps pearls suit me.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I don’t know, Magda. I can’t very well give you half the cross. A cross comes in one piece. Otherwise it’s no longer a cross.”
“A deal’s a deal, Ludwig.”
“Mmm . . .”
He agreed to let me have the cross, albeit reluctantly.
His concern was understandable. I think we were both beginning to fear the monster we’d created. What would we do next? Yank off the Führer’s mustache? Both of us could see we’d gone too far. Papa would have been in serious hot water if I’d been caught red-handed at Magda Goebbels’s.
We calmed down a little. In June 1938, I was eighteen. Ludwig too. We were often together, much to Papa’s delight. Mama was always ill. We kept on with our singing lessons, even after our Abitur at the end of high school; even when everyone was certain war was set to break out. To celebrate the Austrian Anschluss, we put together a shortened version of The Magic Flute with Terese. I was Pamina, and Ludwig was Papageno. Terese’s other students were given the other roles, with Terese herself singing the Queen of the Night’s part. It was probably the happiest time of my life. Just before everything started to smell real bad. All our practicing for The Magic Flute meant that Ludwig and I spent virtually all our time together, so Papa ended up allowing him to stay for supper with us in the evenings. When Mama felt up to it, she would accompany our duet on the piano. Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen. It was a wonderful show! Papa even wanted us to put it on for the workers in the factories, with the financial support of Kraft durch Freude. But we were all exhausted the day after the show. I wanted to return part of my costume to Terese at her apartment on Bülowstraße. I showed up there with Ludwig only to find her packing, looking absolutely radiant.
“I’m getting married, kids!”
Just like that! She’d waited until after the show to tell us. Her parents knew, but hadn’t told Ludwig. He wouldn’t have been able to keep it to himself. This meant, of course, that she would no longer be teaching us, that she’d be moving in with her fiancé, a man from Posen who’d come to hear her every time she sang. We knew him from photographs. He was much older than she was.
“I didn’t want to upset you over nothing while you were rehearsing.”
“You’re leaving for Posen?”
Ludwig was sad.
“Yes, but it’s only a few hours away by train. You’ll come to visit with Magda.”
Losing a singing teacher is a bit like finding yourself orphaned. That’s barely an exaggeration. Terese was married one month later. Not much of an engagement. The couple didn’t stay in Posen for long, though. Her husband soon fell ill and needed treatment he could only
get in the capital. Terese came back to Berlin in 1940. She was widowed by 1944. I think it was multiple sclerosis he had, that fine husband of hers.
Papa felt sorry for us and bought Ludwig and me season’s tickets to the Deutsches Opernhaus, with as many tickets as we liked at the other opera houses! What operas did we go to in the 1938–39 season? Tosca, at least ten times. Madame Butterfly six or seven times. Verdi until we could take no more! And Wagner’s Flying Dutchman five times at least.
Ludwig and I spent the months leading up to the war at the opera. Today everyone thinks there was only Wagner playing in Berlin in the 1930s. Wrong! They couldn’t be more wrong! Do you know what played most often? Do you know what people couldn’t get enough of? Puccini!
Then came Herr Küchenmeister. How can I put it? It was a few weeks before the invasion of Poland. There was one word on everyone’s lips: war. And what were my parents doing? Off to Norway on a Wilhelm Gustloff cruise! The Wilhelm Gustloff was a huge cruise ship the Nazis had built. It belonged to Kraft durch Freude. “Deserving” folks went on cruises to Madeira, Portugal, Italy, even to Africa! Papa had always wanted to take Mama on a cruise. As head of the Amt für Kultur, he only had to say the word. I was livid they’d left for Norway without me. Perhaps because they felt guilty, they had asked a couple of Papa’s colleagues to look after me, as if I wasn’t capable of looking after myself! It was while they were away in Norway that Ludwig came across this idiotic ad. It said:
Singing lessons for all levels
Anatomy technique
Guaranteed results after 1 lesson
Herr Küchenmeister
Berlin Mitte
It was written on a little card. Ludwig wanted us to go over right away. I was still mourning Terese and here he was looking for a new singing teacher! What do you make of the young man, Kapriel? His country is on the brink and all he can think about is vocal technique.
I had no desire to ever set eyes on this Küchenmeister fellow. Besides, his apartment was right beside Alexanderplatz. What’s that? No, there was no tower back then! Poor Kapriel! It was the GDR that built the tower. No, before that, Alexanderplatz was no place for a young girl from Charlottenburg. Not so different from today, in fact!
The little devil made me take the subway to Alexanderplatz with him one Thursday in August for our first lesson with Küchenmeister.
“Come on, Maggi. Let’s give it a try! He works wonders, I hear! Even singers from the Staatsoper go to him for lessons!”
“Lessons in what? It’s Alexanderplatz.”
“You’re a snob. You disappoint me, Magda.”
I was skeptical. The thing is, Kapriel, there’s a category of singing teachers known as “anatomists.” What does that mean? The singer’s instrument is his body. His whole body. Not just the pharynx, but everything from the toes to the ears, even the asshole. Yes, you heard me, I said asshole. Tosca, when she sings, doesn’t leave her legs or liver behind in the wings. Her whole body is on stage. Same goes for Scarpia and every other singer. And teachers, to get beginners to understand the mechanics of singing, to show them how to produce perfect sound, often use metaphors. Terese often did.
“You’re floating in a tube, Magda! Now imagine you have a head cold and the sound has to come out just beyond your nose. There you go. Your nose is blocked! Lean into it! Clench your buttocks! As if you had to carry ten marks between your butt cheeks from here to the Bahnhof Zoo!”
See what I mean? Küchenmeister belonged to the school that doesn’t believe in metaphors. No imagery. No comparisons. No poetry. Only organs. Perineum. Diaphragm. Pharynx. Stabilizer muscles. Bone resonators. Hard palate. Soft palate. Breath broken up into fractions, not measured in images and colors depending on force and output. Song is a product of the human body; the rest is gobbledygook!
So there we were at Alexanderplatz, Hirtenstraße, not too far from the Volksbühne. All very proletarian. What a contrast with the Italian night at the Goebbels’! Although some of the passersby looked as strange as Joseph Goebbels. Ludwig held my hand all the way to Herr Küchenmeister’s. He lived on the fourth floor. No elevator, of course!
He was shorter than I. I’m a little on the tall side, even for a German from the North, but he was fat too, wearing a black suit with a bow tie. Nothing says “I’m a total cretin” like a bow tie, Kapriel. Never wear one! Everyone will immediately think you’re a fool. His blond hair was combed over to the side, washing up in a little wave at the top of his forehead. Bulging little blue eyes. A little piggy. A little blond pig with a bow tie. He invited us in to his studio and launched right into his sales patter. Nonsense like “You’re lucky I had an hour left on Thursdays! This will turn your world upside down. You won’t believe your ears! My revolutionary anatomy-based approach will show your other singing teachers up for the charlatans they are! Who were you with before?”
“Terese Bleibtreu on Bülowstraße,” I answered, curtly.
“Never heard of her! Tessitura?”
“Coloratura soprano. She sings the Queen of the Night.”
“Where?”
“What do you mean, where?”
“Which opera house?”
“She doesn’t sing at the opera. She sings with us!”
“Ah, I see. Her career’s seen better days, so she’s making a little money on the side taking on students. That’s what they all do! I only teach. I’m in such demand that I wouldn’t have time for a career even if I wanted one.” The first hour was devoted to exploring our diaphragm’s shape, length, and consistency. Then he set our homework: sing five bars of a Vaccai arietta.
I did it right there and then so he’d see we weren’t beginners.
“Ach! You’re trying to impress me! But you’ve got it all wrong, Miss Burg!”
“Berg!”
“Yes, Berg. I can hear your technique and posture problems as soon as you open your mouth. And that F! You do realize it’s off key? Believe me, in a month’s time I’ll have untaught everything that Bleibweg woman—”
“Bleibtreu!”
“Yes, of course, Bleibtreu. You’ll get used to my sense of humor. I like to laugh. One thing you’ll come to learn at Küchenmeister’s is that I don’t go in for those silly images other singing teachers use. No pirouetting angels, no balls balancing on top of a fountain, no barrels, no ‘You’re as big as a Zeppelin.’ No! I am an anatomist! Song is produced by the body, by the organs. Accept the body’s implacable reality, its limits and promises, and you will progress. If not, you will continue to sing as you do now. I will see you both next week. Needless to say, you’ll be on time.”
A tenor, he said he was. What a boor! Have you ever heard the like of it! I’d just been singing Pamina in The Magic Flute and this crank from Mitte thought he could teach me a thing or two! Song comes from the heart, Kapriel. “Sing was du glaubst, und glaub was du singst!” that’s what Terese would always say. Sing what you believe and believe what you sing. Never would she have boiled it all down to anatomy. Never.
I didn’t say a word between Küchenmeister’s apartment and Alexanderplatz Station. Ludwig must have sensed my frustration. How could he stand for this Alexanderplatz swine mocking his own sister? Why had the idiot not stood up for her? But I didn’t have to worry.
Papa and Mama came home two days later. Their cruise had had to turn back. All ships were being requisitioned.
“So that’s it then. He’s going to have his little war!”
That’s all Mama had to say on the matter. Papa was pale green. He wasn’t much of a sailor.
On September 1, 1939, a huge ass rose on the German horizon. Like a star, it climbed high into a sky normally filled with pale moons, patches of fog, and the occasional harmless witch. Once it was nice and high in the sky, it began to shit, Kapriel. In your country, it snows. Well here, it shits. Brown, sticky, stinking flakes of it began to fall lazily to the ground. They fell on people, on cars, on the Olympic Stadium . . . First across Germany, then across the rest of Europe. At the s
tart, we managed to shovel away the shit that was falling, but soon it was up to our knees, then our waists. It shat for six years. Even today, we’re still shoveling away the shit that began to fall that day. What? You thought it had been shitting for a long time before that in Germany? Yes, but it only began to stink on September 1, 1939. You know the rest. Or do I have to explain that to you, too? Not right away, anyway. Now I’m tired.
We never saw Küchenmeister again, thanks to the war. Ludwig was nineteen that September. He was called up right away. Then came the air raid drills. Just as I was about to start studying medicine. Thank you, mein Führer! Ludwig came back to Berlin on leave from time to time, but I had to flee in August 1940, as soon as the first bombs began to rain down on the city. Mama was terrified. She rarely left the house by 1940, but the day after the first bombardment she took me to see a house in Moabit that had been destroyed. It had almost become an attraction for Berliners, going to see the first houses destroyed by the bombs. But soon they wouldn’t have to go very far for their entertainment. Soon they’d have shows of their own in their kitchens, bedrooms, and living rooms. Mama packed my bag right after the first Allied attack.
“You’re not staying here. I’m sending you back to Tante Clara in Königsberg. You’ll live with her and her husband Wolfgang. I’ve sent your father to the station for your ticket and permission to travel. No, Magda. Not another day. You know that Clara and Wolfgang have three children now and a fourth on the way. Onkel Wolfi has been sent to Poland with the Wehrmacht. Clara will need you . . . Good Lord, Magda, just for once could you try to act like a young lady? I . . . You know that Tante Clara isn’t the strongest. You’ll . . . you’ll need to be patient with her. She’s been very ill. My God, I wish this war was over!”