The Melody of the Soul

by Liz Tolsma

  The stab of pitchfork tines in his back prodded him to his feet.

  “This way.” With the farming implement, the man directed Horst to the left, down a street paralleling the main one. “Fast. We want to catch the beginning of the line.”

  Horst, hands still raised, obeyed the command. After a few blocks, the farmer found a sliver a daylight between the people. “There. March there.”

  They made their way to the happy throng.

  “Coming through. Let us by. German prisoner here.”

  The people around them ceased their cheering. Horst stared at the ground and moved forward. A wet wad of spit hit him in the cheek. He flinched. Another one. And another.

  “You monster. Look what you did to us.” More spit.

  “I hope you get what you deserve.”

  “Good riddance. May you rot away.”

  The jeers bounced off him.

  He glanced up. Crowds swarmed the American tanks. Women kissed the soldiers. Everyone waved American flags. Where had they gotten them?

  The farmer prodded him forward. They approached the tank. Horst’s heart pounded at the same rate as the motors ran. He stood tall.

  And uttered the few English words he knew. “My name is Hauptmann Horst Engel. I surrender.”

  “Babička, Babička, wake up.” Anna shook her grandmother as hard as she could without rattling her bones. “Don’t you hear that noise? Listen. Singing. Music. The Americans are here.”

  Babička roused and sat up. “Is it true? Go to the window and see. Tell me what is happening out there.”

  Like she had almost two years ago, Anna parted the curtains to observe the scene outside. This time was different. This time, she didn’t peek out of them, afraid of what she would see. There were no Nazi officers. No one being pulled from their homes.

  This time, she threw open the blackout shades and unlatched the window. A cool, damp gust of air invaded the room. She tingled. “You should see it. Come here. The American tanks are rolling down the street. Look at all of those flags. Czech and American. But, Babička, the best part is the music.”

  The bells pealed their triumphant song. The reverberations traveled through the floor and into Anna’s soul. Her long-still fingers moved as they would if she held her violin. Like most of the city’s residents, she wept.

  Wept for joy.

  Wept for loss.

  Wept for uncertainty.

  Babička came and wrapped her in an embrace. Tears, too, flowed down her lined cheeks. “I know, beruško, I know. They should be here. They should share in our joy.”

  “I’m glad I have you. What would I do if you weren’t here?”

  “You know.” Babička paused, fighting for control. “Your parents accomplished what they wanted by leaving us behind. We survived. They would be happy to know that. To see one of their children make it to the end.

  “Now, we need to celebrate. Dry your tears. They would want you on that street, searching for Hauptmann Engel, cheering and singing with the rest of the people. Enjoy the moment.”

  Anna took a deep breath and blew it out. “Come with me.”

  “I’ll only hold you back. And I might get crushed in the mad rush.”

  “I won’t let that happen. You should rejoice, too.”

  “It would be fun.”

  “Good.” Anna squeezed Babička, then dressed for the day. She slipped on a red polka-dotted dress that the lady of the house had given her. She combed her dark hair, no longer a danger to her, and held it back with the barrettes she’d worn the day they escaped from the train.

  If only she had a better fitting and prettier dress, one in blue, and had the tools to roll her hair the way many of the young women did. She should look her best for Horst. If she found him.

  Georg joined them as they clomped down the stairs and into the flood of humanity, all pushing and shoving for a glimpse of the Americans. “What a day of rejoicing.” His voice, though, held a hint of sadness.

  Was Patricie rejoicing as well?

  Anna held tight to Babička. The people waved flags and threw flowers. A few brazen women climbed on the tanks and kissed the soldiers. Heat flooded Anna’s face as the memory of Horst’s kisses filled her mind. Ne, she wouldn’t greet the Yankees that way. Her kisses belonged only to him.

  Dragging Babička behind her, she pushed through the crowd and toward the front. “Look, look.” She pointed down the street. “They’re marching prisoners of war this way.” She couldn’t voice the words. Maybe, just maybe, Horst was among them. She could know where he was. Know he was alive.

  The long line of German soldiers, Czech collaborators, and Nazi commanders snaked passed. Anna stood on her tiptoes to get a better look. They all raised their hands. Their jackboots sounded on the wet pavement.

  “Do you see him?” Babička clapped her hands like a little girl waiting for her father to return from a long trip.

  “Ne, I don’t. But there are so many. Where are they going? Let’s follow them, if you’re up to it. Maybe those in charge will help me.”

  “Not too fast. My poor heart can’t take all of this excitement.”

  “Shall I bring you back to the house first?”

  “Maybe that would be best.”

  “I can take her.” Georg nodded to Anna. “Go, find Hauptmann Engel.”

  She wound her way through the sea of humanity to the town square. There, American tanks and Jeeps parked around the perimeter, containing hundreds and hundreds of prisoners. How would she ever find him?

  “Horst Engel. I’m looking for Horst Engel.” She repeated her words in German and Czech. She didn’t know the English for what she wanted to say.

  An American soldier came to her, his skin as dark as night. He couldn’t be any older than eighteen or nineteen. He spoke to her.

  She didn’t understand him. “Horst Engel. Hauptmann Horst Engel. Please.”

  He answered in his strange language.

  “Czech?”

  He shook his head.

  “German?”

  Again, he shook his head. This time, he motioned to another just-as-young soldier, his coloring from European ancestors. They chatted, and the fair one smiled at her. “I speak some German.”

  “Good.” She told her heart to stop its furious beating. “I’m looking for Hauptmann Horst Engel.”

  “He’s a prisoner?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Ma’am, we have over three thousand captives to process. Right now, I can’t help you locate him. Come back later, or tomorrow. Then, we might be able to assist you.”

  A shot rang out.

  “Snipers. Take cover.”

  She went cold all over. The war had ended, hadn’t it? She ran and flattened herself against one of the buildings lining the square. She went cold all over.

  Would she ever find Horst?

  One, two shots echoed in the air. All fell still. The Americans did away with the lone gunman in short order. On shaky knees, Anna traced her way to the woman’s house, her steps slow. They’d come this far. So close.

  Once home, she climbed the stairs to the room she shared with Babička. Her grandmother sat on the bed, combing out long strands of her silver-gray hair.

  “I didn’t locate him. They said to come back later or tomorrow.”

  Babička set down the brush and motioned for Anna to sit. She patted her on the knee, like she so often did when she was a child. “All in God’s time, beruško. Trust that it will happen according to His perfect plan.”

  “What if Horst is dead?”

  “This, too, you’ll discover when God is ready to reveal it to you.”

  But would that time ever come?

  December 1946

  Anna stood backstage at the concert hall in Munich, clutching her bow in her sweaty hands. Why this attack of nerves? Since moving to England with Babička, she had performed several times with the London symphony. Tonight, she guested with the Munich orchestra.

  Real
ly, the answer to her question was simple. She was in Horst’s home town.

  She tapped her foot and bit back the tears. More than a year and a half passed since she’d last seen him. Since he’d held her in his arms and promised to live for her.

  The soldier at the train station in Žatec must have done his job. That was her only conclusion. All of her letters to the United States and German governments in search of information as to his whereabouts went unanswered.

  That dream, the one of being his wife, had evaporated like the last notes of a requiem.

  Again, she had no grave to visit, no memorial where she might lay a bouquet of flowers.

  But she had her music. The melody God and Horst had restored to her. The song that remembered a most precious time in her life.

  A prelude to whatever lay ahead.

  “Are you ready?” The concertmaster tapped her on the shoulder and spoke to her in English.

  Now, after much hard work, she understood his words. “I am.”

  He twitched his white mustache and strode onto the stage. Once the audience stopped applauding, he introduced her.

  “This is for you, my love. It is your song.” Anna stepped into the bright spotlights which obscured her view of the crowd.

  The clapping died away, and an expectant hush fell over the auditorium. She closed her eyes and soared back to the little flat on Salvátorská Street in Prague, playing for Horst.

  And only for him.

  The smell of his cologne and his cigarettes tickled her nose.

  One lone tear eked from her eye as she lifted the violin to her chin. She raised the bow. The orchestra played behind her. She stroked the first note of Vittorio Monti’s Csárdás, one of the first pieces she had performed at Horst’s request.

  As the tune washed over her, it was as if he came to life once more. She witnessed the emotions playing on his face. Joy. Peace. Love.

  Most of all love.

  A love that drove him to shelter her. One that held on her in her darkest days. One that gave everything for her.

  The softness of his lips caressed her cheeks. The warmth of his body radiated to her. The rough wool of his smoky jacket rubbed against her bare skin.

  She played for him. And for Táta, Máma, her sisters, David. So many who were lost in those long, terrible years.

  The music spoke of darkness and violence, but also of hope and trust.

  The piece came to an end, the final note still reverberating in the massive hall, when the audience broke out into cheers, bravos, and calls for an encore. She curtsied. Imagine this outpouring of support from a people who, two years ago, had wanted her dead.

  Was Horst’s mother part of the crowd? Did she know anything about Anna?

  She left the stage and collapsed into a chair. The concertmaster hurried to her. “You must go out there again. They’re demanding an encore. They want to hear more.”

  “I cannot give it. In English, I do not know how to explain, but I cannot. I have no more in me. Already, I give them my song.” Even if she mastered the language, there wouldn’t be words to express how she played for Horst.

  And for a brief moment, made him come alive again.

  Horst sat in the concert hall, the ceiling soaring above him. He and Mutti had made it just as the house lights went down.

  In the silence, the entire audience must have heard his heart pounding against his ribs. He tingled. He would see her once more. In the past year and a half, he’d drawn hundreds of pictures of her. Playing for him in the flat on Salvátorská Street. The night on the farm, standing in the puddle of moonlight. In the chicken coop, straw tangled in her hair.

  But now, he would see her in person. His Anna, here. He held his breath.

  The concertmaster entered the stage, bowed, and motioned for the evening’s star to join him.

  He leaned toward his mother. “There she is, Mutti. That’s her.” His Anna. Very much alive, still so tiny, still so beautiful. Just like the first time he’d seen her and his world changed forever. Though the war had stolen so much from her, it didn’t rob her of her music.

  Mutti patted his hand, her fingers long, like a pianist’s. “She’s beautiful. Everything you told me she was. I can’t wait to hear her play.”

  For a long moment, she stood still, silent. Was she breathing? Her face, her entire body, relaxed. A smile crossed her lips. She touched the bow to the strings, and the melody poured forth.

  The same one she first played for him.

  Oh, his Anna. She hadn’t forgotten him.

  Without shame, he wept through the entire piece. As if she were in his arms, so small, so vulnerable, shaking in fear. He breathed in the rosy scent of her freshly washed hair. The notes spoke to him, declaring her love for him. During the selection, he relived every moment of the two years they had together. Remembered what she, and God, did for him.

  Thunderous applause broke out when she played the final note. The crowd demanded an encore. There wouldn’t be one. She’d given her all. The tilt of her head as she proceeded off stage told him she was exhausted.

  While the audience cheered, he leapt from his seat. “We have to see her. Come, Mutti, and I’ll introduce you.” Together, they hustled back stage.

  A stage hand blocked their way. “I’m sorry, this area is restricted.”

  “We need to see Anna Zadoková. Right now. My mother and me.”

  “That’s impossible. She’s in the middle of a concert.”

  “Trust me, she’ll want to see me. I saved her life in Prague.”

  “You know her?”

  “Better than anyone in the world. I love her, but I haven’t seen her in more than eighteen months. Please, let us through.” What if the man barred his way, and he couldn’t get to her while she was here?

  But, at least she was alive. She’d survived.

  “You don’t know what it would mean to me. To her.”

  “Very well. But I will keep my eye on you. If you harm her in any way, I’ll be after you.”

  Horst rushed passed the man, Mutti following close behind. They made their way toward the stage.

  And there she was, right in front of him. She sat in a straight-back chair, hunched over, covering her eyes.

  He went to her and knelt in front of her. “My beruško.”

  She looked up and gasped.

  “I promised I would find you.”

  “Horst? Is that really you? I am dreaming, ne?”

  “You aren’t dreaming, my beruško. I’m here.”

  “I—I thought you were dead. For so long, I searched for you, but you disappeared. No one knew of you.” She threw herself into his embrace.

  He clung to her, afraid to let her go in case she might walk out of his life again. “I’m sorry you thought that. I wrote letter after letter to your address in Prague. They returned to me unopened.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “The Americans detained me for a while. They had to determine if I’d committed any war crimes. They’re prosecuting people like Stefan. Patricie is dead. Executed at Theresienstadt. He fled before her killing, but he ordered it. He’s been sentenced to death for her murder, and the murder of thousands of others.”

  “But they released you?”

  “They found no basis for any charges. But it took awhile for them to clear me. I did everything I could to locate you.”

  “I’ve been in London with Babička.”

  He gestured in Mutti’s direction. “This is my mother. Imagine my incredible joy when she told me about the concert given by a Jewish Czech violinist.”

  Mutti nodded. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Anna. Horst has told me so much about you. And the way you play. I’ve never heard finer.”

  Still half in his hold, Anna shook his mother’s hand. “Thank you so much, Frau Engel. The pleasure is all mine.” She turned to him and stroked his face. “Horst, you found me. I can’t believe you found me.”

  He touched her tear-stained cheek, brushed aw
ay a strand of her dark hair. “Yes, I have. And I’m never going to let you go.” He pulled away and reached into his pocket. He drew a box from it, knelt in front of her, and presented it to her.

  “Anna Zadoková, you are the love of my life. These past months have been torture without you. You bring a melody to my soul that I never want to end. I want to fill our house with music, with love, with laughter. Erase all of the bad memories and build new, good ones.”

  His voice broke. How could he communicate to her all that she meant to him? “You are the song I sing in the morning, the tune I whistle at night, the music that swells deep within me. Anna, will you marry me?”

  She sank to the floor beside him and nestled against his shoulder. “And you, Horst Engel, gave me my music back when I thought it had fled forever. You saved my life. You fill the empty spaces in my soul. Without you, I am nothing. Yes, oh my love, yes, yes, yes, I will marry you.”

  He slipped his grandmother’s sapphire ring onto her finger. As they kissed, the orchestra’s music reverberated, lifting him, filling him. The melody of the soul.

  At Terezín, Egon Ledeč formed the Ledeč Quartet, with himself as first violinist, an amateur named Schneider as second violinist, Viktor Kohn as violist, and his brother Paul Kohn as the cellist. The Ledeč Quartet performed at the Magdeburg barrack. With the establishment of the Freizeitgestaltung (Leisure Time Committee) during the autumn of 1942 and the sanctioning of musical activities by the Nazis, the quartet began to perform for different audiences. Egon was transported to Auschwitz on October 16, 1944, and was gassed upon arrival.

  While Anna and her grandmother go into hiding, most of Prague’s Jews chose to follow the Nazi directive and report for transport to Terezín. Of the tens of thousands of Jews in the city at the war’s beginning, only a little over 200 ever went into hiding. The Czech Resistance worked mostly publishing pamphlets and printing false passports and identity papers. With the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich in 1942 and the subsequent reprisals, the resistance movement was crushed. What little of it remained was splintered and mostly ineffective.

  While Prague’s Jewish residents were ordered to turn in their instruments, I found many instances of Jews awaiting transport at the exhibition hall, playing violins, and many reports of them playing their own instruments once at Terezín.