What the Night Sings

by Vesper Stamper

  “School’s in already,” says Lev, amused. “Teachers don’t waste time, do they?”

  “I’ve got three years of high school to catch up on, myself,” I groan.

  “Look at their faces”—Lev smiles—“the kids’ and the teachers’. They’re in heaven.”

  We stop in the middle of the square at the announcement board that lists jobs and training opportunities. The camp pulsates with this collective energy, gearing up for change. Everyone is hungry to engage their minds and hands.

  One advertisement in particular grabs my attention: I sign my name on the list for the new camp musical society.

  Auditions are to take place at ten. There are a lot of people in the line, more than I would have expected. Some have their instruments in beat-up cases like mine. Some just hold them—a tarnished flute, a mandolin missing three of eight terribly corroded strings. I’m thankful I still have some rosin left for my bow, but it definitely needs new horsehair. I wonder whether the relief agencies will see value in helping us get these trifles.

  “Gerta?” a light voice calls from behind me, and someone touches my shoulder. I turn and see a face I might have known once. Who can tell—no one is the same as they were.

  “Roza.” She points at herself. “We were in Theresienstadt together…?” I study her through squinted eyes.

  “Ah,” I say. “Of course. How could I ever forget you.” It’s not exactly thrilling to see her, but there’s a kind of weighty relief in seeing anyone with whom I have a history. I put my arms around her, and the viola case hits the back of her shoulder. “You made it. Good. That’s good.”

  “You kept your viola, through all this?” she says. “How in the world?”

  “Women’s Orchestra. Auschwitz,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

  “Oh,” says Roza.

  “How about you?”

  “They sent me to Ravensbrück after the Red Cross came. Hard labor.”

  “Mmm.” I nod. “But you’re here. Alive. And auditioning?”

  “Yes, when I saw them bring in the baby grand, I thought I’d take a chance. I’m really out of practice. A piano, you know”—there’s that old smirk again—“not as easy to carry from camp to camp.” We have a seat, and I catch a glimpse of her hands folded on her music. Some of her fingers have been broken and healed badly. I remember we used to say she had the hands of a princess.

  “Long fingers,” she says, noticing my stare, “better for making munitions than playing Mozart, I guess. Oh, but it is good to see you, Gerta. You look well.”

  I laugh sardonically. “It’s okay, Roza, you don’t have to lie. I can’t seem to gain any weight. Anyway, you must’ve gotten into the clothing line early. That’s a pretty dress.”

  “Thanks.” She smooths the dress self-consciously.

  The director is calling us to take our seats in the hall.

  “So—I see the viola,” Roza whispers. “But please tell me you’re going to sing, too. I never got to tell you this—I was a different person then—but I always loved your voice.”

  This stops me cold. I haven’t sung a note since the day we were liberated. I can’t. For all the time I’ve held on to the hope of a singing career, nothing in me wants to utter a note.

  “We’ll begin with woodwinds, please,” says the director. “May I have flutes, clarinets, oboes—I don’t suppose we have any bassoons? Ah! But there is one! Come up, come up!”

  The players assemble together on the stage. Most don’t even have an instrument, but the director has several salvaged pieces. He has the musicians tune and do some basic exercises to establish levels of skill. Brass follows next, then percussion.

  “Next, strings. May I have my violins, please?”

  The violinists are everywhere, at least half the people here. But of course—what respectable family wouldn’t have had at least one child playing violin? This must have been why Papa chose the viola instead. He never was one to follow a crowd. A pang of grief hits me. I still feel like he’s going to walk through the door any minute.

  The violins alone take forty-five minutes, half of which they spend being chatty. If Papa were here, he’d be whispering violist jokes to pass the time.

  If you’re stranded in the desert, should you look for a good violist, a bad violist or an oasis? A bad violist. The other two are just mirages.

  Have you heard the one about the violist who played in tune? Neither have I.

  Why shouldn’t violists go hiking? Because if they get lost, no one will realize they’re gone.

  “Cellos, please,” says the director. I stir as I realize what a wry smile I’m wearing.

  “Double basses,” he says next. He is just about to go to percussion when—

  “Excuse me, Herr Direktor, violas?” exactly three of us say at the same time, turning midsentence to locate each other, bursting into laughter.

  “Of course, of course, I am so sorry! Come, come!” We ascend the stage, and an older player asks me quietly for a bit of rosin.

  “My oversight brings up an important point, friends,” says the director. “The orchestra would be incomplete without the viola. It is the soul of the orchestra. You may not always be able to discern its sound, but you always know when it is missing.”

  Roza’s audition is rusty, but technique will come with practice, and even with her twisted fingers, she’ll find a way, I can tell. She plays with more heart than she used to, and heart can’t be taught.

  Without the threat of death hanging over us, we finally have the luxury to melt into the music. Afterward, Roza and I walk to dinner, satisfied and smiling.

  * * *

  —

  A few evenings later, Lev and I are sitting in the grove as the first few stars appear through the treetops. He is twirling the long tzitzit from his vest.

  “Have you noticed that almost every day now, there’s a wedding?” he says. “Crazy, isn’t it? All these strangers? A lot of them are really young, too. I saw, the other day, two fifteen-year-olds under the canopy!”

  “Hmm, I hadn’t noticed,” I feign, chewing a slice of apple. “Good for them. But I’m never getting married myself.”

  “No?”

  “No, I’m a musician!” I protest.

  “Musicians get married, too, don’t they?”

  “Well, they have lovers, mostly.” I carelessly wave another apple slice in the air. “Several, usually, in different cities.”

  “Oh, is that right?” he teases.

  “Well, what do I know?” I admit, blushing.

  “Good luck finding cities full of romance now. I hear they’re all in ruins. But lots of people around here seem to be finding love.” He looks at me just a little too long. “Or something like it.”

  “I just think, why risk it? It’s foolish.” My foot is falling asleep; I get up and walk in a circle.

  “Don’t you think it’s brave, actually?” he suggests.

  “Brave? To enter into a contract with someone you hardly know? It’s certain failure.” I offer him a slice of apple. He smiles and shakes his head.

  “All right, then, Gerta the Prophet, if you know the end from the beginning, why go on living at all?”

  His directness takes me by surprise. “I—I don’t know why. You want to live, you don’t want to live. What’s the alternative, suicide? I don’t have it in me.”

  “You’ve got to think a bit further forward.”

  “No, I mean, there’s something ahead for me. Maybe my voice will come back and I’ll be able to go to conservatory. I’m still young enough; my voice wouldn’t be mature for another ten years anyway.”

  “But don’t you want a family someday?”

  “I’ll marry my music.” I smile at him with finality.

  “But, Gerta”—he is suddenly serious—“why be alone?”

  My heart falls a bit. “Because you can lose. You will lose. We survived this, but I’ll die someday, Lev. You’ll die. It might be typhus again, or just crossing the street, or falling
off a chair, for God’s sake, and hitting your head. It’s better to just take care of yourself.”

  “We all lost someone,” says Lev. “We all lost everyone. This is going to be a hard enough road. Our parents are dead. Don’t you think we all need someone to help us make it through?”

  I have no answer to this. I can only think of Maria’s advice about men and lipstick and how there’s no one left to need anymore. No one who really knows me.

  “I’m glad you and I are friends, Lev,” I say, the tingling in my foot finally subsiding. “I hope you’ll get married someday. And have me over for dinner once in a while. Check in on me. Make sure I’m not living backstage under a costume rack somewhere.”

  “I will make sure of that, Gerta,” he says. “You have my word.”

  * * *

  —

  There’s something attached to the frame of my bed when I lie down this evening. It’s a letter from Lev, written on the backs of misprinted forms and wrapped in an envelope fashioned from a sheet of newsprint. The weather has turned brutally cold and damp; even under my two thick blankets, I’m layered in extra clothes and my coat. In my pocket is a hot potato I took from dinner to warm my hands.

  Dear Gerta,

  How was your day? Congratulations on making the orchestra; I saw your name on the announcement board. It must be good to get back to something familiar.

  The newspaper is up and running, and we’ll have our first edition out in a few days. The British are going to bring in some English papers to sell, so we’re building a proper newsstand as well. It’s a relief to read in Yiddish again. For so long, the only things we had to read were German signs and posters, with those awful caricatures of imaginary Jews. This paper may just get different people talking to each other.

  I’m finally warming up under the covers, so I kick off my shoes. I unwrap the potato from its wax paper, and it steams its lovely, earthy smell under my nose. I keep a little packet of salt in a shoebox under my bed, and I pinch a bit onto the potato and keep reading.

  Anyway, it’s good to turn our minds toward tomorrow, isn’t it?

  Where I came from, my future would have been chosen for me by my mother and father and rabbi, those who knew me best. But they’re gone, and we’re left to make our own futures. I can only close my eyes and imagine what my father would say to all the questions that run through my mind.

  Gerta, I understand your not wanting to get married. Your reasons make sense. They might even protect you. Nothing could be worse than losing everyone we loved. And the sight of you almost dying of the fever haunts me. But you healed, and now you’re my friend. There must be better things ahead.

  As for me, Gerta, I will get married someday. What they stole from us was not merely our lives, but our ability to choose. I choose to live. And I think you do, too.

  But I don’t want a girl who clings to me. I want someone who knows her own mind and speaks it. I want a girl who, despite emerging from hell, lets herself dream—and helps me to dream again, too.

  Lev

  The potato is dry and mealy in my mouth. I desperately need water. Opening my window, I gather some early snow in a cup and chew on it.

  Teams of people are in and out of the camp every day. There are groups of men and women walking through with Red Cross armbands. Chaplains visit, too, trying to comfort the hysterical, whose bellies are at last full enough to allow their emotions to surface. Plenty of people have lost themselves completely; as long as they live, they will never stop screaming unless someone holds them very, very tightly.

  The chaplains have been trying to reunite survivors, a fruitless effort most of the time. Sometimes they will stand and say Kaddish with those who can muster it. They have religious items for those eager to get back to their old ways. Mostly, though, the chaplains simply sit next to people in silence.

  We’ve been here much longer than we hoped or expected. The British tightly control who leaves and where they relocate. There’s a lot of chatter about Palestine, about relatives in America. Almost no one seems to discuss the possibility of going back to their own homes.

  I picture myself walking up to the front door of our building and ringing the bell, Maria answering in a silk dress and a cloud of gardenia perfume, laughing with a man who is not my father. Oh, you lived? I picture her saying, with that characteristic wave of her hand. I thought they took care of things when I betrayed you to the SS.

  With that image, any thought I had of going back to Würzburg is crushed to dust.

  Everywhere along the main walls of the camp, people post their names. Relief workers bring cameras and take pictures of the children, holding little name signs, now that they have gained enough weight to be recognizable. Their names are sent to registries, but mostly the photographs wave in the wind, unclaimed. Once in a while, one is taken down when a connection is made by a distant relative who remembers: My cousin had a child by that name.

  In the room I share with twenty other girls, I take Papa’s viola case out from under my bed. Inside, under the blue-velvet-covered chipboard, are the tattered photographs and letters I grabbed from my nightstand two years ago. I’ve stolen countless moments to stare at them:

  My parents’ wedding portrait, so damaged by water that I can no longer see my mother’s face.

  Papa performing Mozart’s Sinfonia Concertante.

  My children’s choir singing for the queen of the Netherlands.

  A tiny watercolor of a peeled orange on a blue-and-white dish, painted by my mother.

  Maria before a rapt audience in Berlin, performing her signature aria from Turandot.

  Me, in the park, six years old, a butterfly resting just below the neckline of my school blouse—when I still went to school.

  I could never part with anything from my viola case. Except one thing. I put the rest away, slide the case back under the bed and take the paper with my photograph to the wall. There are small nails there and some stones that will do for a hammer.

  To the wall I affix the Ahnenpass, what is left of the girl I thought I was.

  * * *

  —

  At breakfast, a boy with a mop of thick black hair walks in like some cowboy from an American film. Every girl turns and whispers to her neighbor. He is coming toward me. It’s Carissimi! I think, for the first time in years. I’m suddenly nervous and fiddle with the top button of my blouse.

  He slings his legs one at a time over the bench across from me and grins. I quickly look down and find something to do with my fork. He stares at me for a good twenty seconds, until I look up at him under my brows. He is impossibly good-looking, tan, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows to reveal strong, sinewy arms. My face feels hot and I get a soft pain in the middle of my chest. Vittoria, mio core!

  “Hello,” he says with a wink. “This seat taken?”

  Obviously, it’s not.

  “Michah Gottlieb,” he says, holding out his hand. “What’s your name?”

  “Gerta Rausch.” I blush and barely touch his fingers.

  “Got anybody left here?” He tears right into a piece of bread and takes a gulp of coffee.

  “Um, no, I only had my father. He’s gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, out of habit rather than conviction. “My mother died here, they tell me. Rivkah Gottlieb. She was a scientist.” He takes a bite of meat. “Bastards.”

  “Oh, Michah! You’re Michah?” All of a sudden, I feel a strange connection to him, like family. “Were you a boxer?”

  He breaks into a surprised smile. “How did you know that? Did you know my mother?”

  “We shared a bunk. I—I was with her when she died.” Suddenly the color and the smile vanish from Michah’s face. He puts down his fork and wipes his mouth. I put my hands in my lap.

  “I thought she was crazy,” I say. “She said she knew you were alive, you and Chaim. How could anyone know that…”

  “Chaim.” He lowers his eyes and swirls his coffee cup. “Chaim died in Auschwitz. He ble
w up the crematorium with his Sonderkommando group.”

  “Yes, I was there,” I say solemnly. “I’ll never forget it. The bravest thing I’ve ever seen. He probably saved thousands of lives. I heard that some of the women working in the munitions factory smuggled the gunpowder to them in their dress hems and under their fingernails.”

  He nods. “You were in Auschwitz, then?”

  “Mm-hmm, the Women’s Orchestra.”

  “Ah. ‘And the band played on.’ A lot of mixed feelings about you girls, from what I hear.”

  That stings. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

  “No. Who did?” He shrugs. “Girls shouldn’t have to endure those things. You should be able to recline on divans and eat bonbons.”

  We both smirk at this absurdity. “Ha. If only,” I say. “I try to think that I gave a little comfort.”

  “That’s human, at least,” says Michah. “What did you play?”

  “Viola. But to tell you the truth, I’m not very good. My father was the violist. He taught me how to play. That’s the only reason I’m alive. I’m really a singer—or at least, I was going to be.”

  “Ah,” he responds, barely listening. We turn to our food, detached, as images we’d rather not face start to fill the silence.

  “So, Michah,” I finally manage, “how did you survive?”

  He chews slowly, thoughtfully, choosing his story.

  “We’re human beings again, Gerta. Let’s not talk about our particulars. Let’s talk about why I’m here. I’m taking people home.”

  “Huh,” I scoff, and look blankly out of the far window, thinking again of Maria. “Where’s home?”

  “Right. Exactly. It’s not in Europe. That much is obvious.”

  “How can you say that?” I puzzle. “All of Europe? That seems a stretch.”