by Aubrey Flegg
November 9th 1938 began like any other day but the hammering at the door was unlike any normal knock. Had the Germans found them? Izaac hastily placed his violin in its case and hurried towards the door. He didn’t want his elderly parents getting a shock, but it was Lotte who got there first. She had just opened the door of the apartment, and was facing a German army corporal when Izaac arrived. Izaac noticed that the man had placed his foot in the door so that she couldn’t close it. Behind him, in the dark of the landing, Izaac could see a tall figure in the all-black uniform of the SS. The two lightning flashes on the man’s lapels glinted stark in the half-light. What could have brought one of Hitler’s elite bodyguards to his door?
‘Heil Hitler,’ the corporal snapped. ‘This is the residence of the Jewish family Abrahams … Ja?’ Izaac put his hand on Lotte’s arm and drew her back.
‘I’ll handle this, Lotte,’ he murmured. Then to the corporal: ‘Yes. What can I do for you?’ At this, the SS man stepped forward into the light from the door. So far, the peak of his cap had kept his face hidden. Now Izaac could see it; surely he had seen that face before? He remembered his encounter with Gretchen’s half brother, Klaus, in the Volksgarten. There was certainly a similarity, but this wasn’t Klaus. And when he spoke, this man’s voice was different, tight but courteous.
‘Thank you, Corporal.’ Then he turned to Izaac: ‘May I come in?’
‘Certainly,’ said Izaac, though he had no choice in the matter. There was a clatter of steps coming down the stairs, and Izaac had a brief glimpse of the Zelmans, the elderly couple who lived in the top flat, being half carried, stumbling and slipping, down the stairs by a group of militia men.
‘Close the door, Corporal,’ snapped the officer. ‘We are not to be disturbed.’
Izaac felt he should protest about the Zelmans, but realised that there was nothing he could do for them; also he had his own old people to think about. He led the way into the music room and turned to face the officer who seemed to tower above him, his peaked cap rising like the prow of a ship. Izaac felt as if it was bearing down on him. He heard Louise whisper; ‘Don’t shrink, Izaac!’ He straightened himself up.
‘To whom do I have the pleasure?’ he asked formally. The officer clicked his heels:
‘Untersturmführer Erich Hoffman.’ Izaac guessed that this was equivalent to Second Lieutenant; a new recruit, in other words. The young man was unbuttoning the flap on his breast pocket; he took out a black notebook, which he flipped open and commenced questioning.
‘Family name: Abrahams?’ Izaac nodded. This was entered in the book.
‘Christian name?’ then he corrected himself: ‘Forename?’ as if remembering that Jews didn’t have Christian names.
‘Izaac.’ For a moment the man hesitated, his eyes flicked up and made a quick search of Izaac’s face.
‘The Izaac Abrahams! Excuse me, I didn’t recognise you. ‘Occupation … violinist, obviously.’ Izaac was used to having his name recognized, but the information seemed to have upset the officer, who was now drawing himself up to make a formal speech.
‘It is the intention of the Führer to acquire, on behalf of the people of the new Greater Germany, works of outstanding artistic merit. These will be displayed for the benefit of all Germans in a new gallery, the Führermuseum, to be built in the Führer’s hometown of Linz. My information is that you possess a picture from the Dutch School referred to as …’ he consulted his notebook, The Girl in the Green Dress?’
Izaac’s jaw literally dropped. What was the man talking about? It couldn’t be Louise, nobody knew about her portrait outside of family and friends. She was private property. But the man had said acquire. The Nazis acquiring pictures! It just didn’t fit.
Louise had darted behind the SS man and was frantically signalling ‘no’ to Izaac. But what could he do? Try to deny the existence of the painting? But there it was on the wall directly behind the man. All he could do was play for time.
‘I don’t think your information can be correct.’ (But where had the information come from, he wondered.) ‘The picture I think you mean was bought by a common pedlar in exchange for a few pots and pans over a hundred years ago. It’s been in our family for generations. It is unsigned and quite worthless.’ Perhaps he could divert him. ‘We have a small Picasso which we might lend.’ This was, in fact, true, the fruit of an unpaid bill accepted by Father to help an impoverished customer.
Surprisingly, the officer grimaced and shook his head. ‘We have no interest in degenerate art,’ he said. ‘Kindly show me the picture I have asked to see.’ Izaac turned to Louise but she was too distraught to be able to help. There was nothing else for it.
‘It’s there on the wall behind you.’ Perhaps he would choose the wrong picture. The SS man turned, glanced at the wall and gasped.
‘Liebe Gott!’ He took a few steps forward and stood directly in front of the portrait while Izaac and Louise watched helplessly.
‘Stop him, Izaac!’ Louise was beside herself with fury.
‘It’s a pretty enough painting, officer, but it is just pedlar’s junk from the last century,’ Izaac said despairingly. ‘If you look closely you will see that it has a bad tear in it.’
But his observations were falling on deaf ears. The man had whipped off his cap, as if out of respect, and was standing mesmerized in front of the picture.
‘Herr Abrahams,’ he said slowly; ‘I must disagree. This is seventeenth century, probably from Delft. It is not a Vermeer, nor yet by Fabritius, and it is not rough enough for Rembrandt. But yet there is something about it that reminds me of one picture in particular … a picture of a beggar? I’ve got it: The Singing Beggar!’ I could swear they’re by the same artist. Rembrandt’s the only other master who makes his white lead like that. Because he never signed his paintings, we don’t know this one’s name but we call him ‘The Master of Delft’.’ Louise gave a whimper.
‘He’s right, Izaac. Izaac, you can’t let him take me!’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Izaac challenged.
‘I have just completed my thesis here in Vienna on Dutch and German Art.’
The young man turned. Izaac was more certain than ever that he had seen his face before, but where? It was Louise who made the connection.
‘Izaac, remember that night in Mödling when you were attacked by a group of scouts up in the woods? He was the younger one; the one who spoke up for you, I’m sure of it!’
They watched the man’s back as he took out a lens to look more closely at the brushwork. Then he stood up, clasped the picture, lifted it from its hook and examined the back. ‘That canvas was stretched by the same apprentice as stretched The Singing Beggar. I’d know his style. And just look at this mend! What amazing work!’
‘Izaac, he was decent to you once; work on him,’ Louise pleaded. ‘Say that you need me for your music; he’ll understand.’
‘I remember you now, officer,’ Izaac said. ‘You were kind enough to help me when I was attacked by scouts one summer in the woods. I know that you appreciate music. If I said to you that this painting is the principal inspiration behind my playing, I think you would understand.’ Had he struck a chord?
The man had turned his back to them and was running his fingers over the mend in the canvas. He turned around, but his face was grave. ‘It is my duty, Herr Abrahams, to acquire this painting and thus ensure its safety. God knows what will happen to it if the mob out there visits your apartment. Also, you are one person, while the German people are many. You don’t play for yourself; you play to an audience. This picture should have a wider audience than you can ever give it here. Also, I have my orders.’
‘I don’t want to end up in a Nazi gallery, Izaac; I couldn’t bear it!’ Louise was desperate.
Izaac lost his temper. ‘How dare you! You are a thief! This picture belongs to us. It’s our property and you have no right to take it!’ Even as he said the words he realised that this was a mistake. In this new Austria you didn’t
question a Nazi’s right to anything.
The man’s features hardened, his body went rigid. There would be no further argument.
‘It is my duty to acquire this painting on behalf of the Greater German people. You will receive compensation in accordance with the laws of the Third Reich. This is your receipt.’ He wrote in his notebook. ‘You will see that I have made a generous valuation. I apologise that printed forms are not yet available, but this will be perfectly valid.’ He tore the page from his notebook and handed it to Izaac. Then, taking up the picture, he called to the corporal. ‘Bring the packing, Corporal!’ So, they had come prepared. The corporal wrapped corrugated cardboard and brown paper around the painting. He tied the package firmly with string.
While he was working, the young Nazi walked uneasily about the room, looking at the other pictures. He saw Izaac’s violin lying open in its case and touched it, then withdrew his hand quickly.
Louise, panic stricken, was being pulled in two directions.
‘Izaac, if he takes my picture, I will have to go. I daren’t lose touch with it. When we went to Mödling I knew where it was and I had you to take me back to it. But if I try to stay with you now, and he takes it, it will be like separating my body from my soul. I want to stay with you, Izaac, but I’ve no choice. I must go with my picture!’
Izaac looked at her in despair and saw the same beauty that the Master had seen nearly two hundred years before, but now it had a delicate transparent quality as if she was already fading from him. He gave a groan that made the SS man half turn towards him.
Louise was thinking ahead: ‘Izaac, you may not see me again. But think of me when you play. Play for me, and listen for me. I will be with you in spirit. In that way we may still be able to work together.’ The corporal was tying the last piece of string. ‘Goodbye Izaac.’
The SS man strode towards the door, then hesitated. Izaac thought he was about to say something but he clearly thought better of it. He clicked his heels, and saluted.
‘Heil Hitler,’ and he was gone.
Izaac turned in dismay to where Louise had been standing and found that she was gone too.
CHAPTER 19
On Second Thoughts
Erich walked stiffly down the stairs from the Abrahams’ flat. His uniform felt like a strait jacket across his shoulders. He had done it! He had acquired his first work of art for the Führermuseum, and an outstanding one at that. But yet he felt like dirt. The uniform that had made him feel like a god on their triumphal entry into Vienna that spring now stifled him. He thought longingly of the worn comfort of his climbing clothes; all he wanted now was to be swinging loose-limbed down the path from Montenvers to Chamonix after a week climbing in the French Alps.
What was he doing here? He stopped on the landing; the sweat that had sprung up during his interview with Herr Abrahams was cooling uncomfortably. Why, when Klaus had told him about the picture, had he not given him the man’s first name? He must have known that this was the famous violinist. Was he testing him, or was Klaus getting his own back for the time when he had stood up for Abrahams in front of the boys? The Jew would, of course, be compensated, he consoled himself, and he was a musician, not an artist, but when Erich recalled touching the wood of the maestro’s violin, he felt as if he’d burned his fingers. The arguments against the Jews seemed to lose their power when faced with someone like Izaac Abrahams.
Looking down the stairwell, he could see the corporal waiting at the door; he’d better get on. There was a motley group of militia and civilians skulking under the stairs. A couple of them raised their arms and said ‘Heil Hitler’. He ignored them and hurried out; what were they were waiting for here? The elderly couple he’d seen being dragged down earlier were on hands and knees scrubbing the pavement, their toothbrushes now bald, while a mixed group of local people, some carrying shopping bags, watched and chatted as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
He noticed two men in suits being made to paint anti-Jewish slogans on a shop, probably their own, surrounded by glass from their smashed windows. Erich stopped in disgust. In the distance clouds of smoke were rising from the burning synagogues. This has got to stop, he thought. The sooner the authorities get on with finding somewhere for the Jews the better. He strode on. A new thought crossed his mind. He stopped so suddenly that his corporal, walking behind, nearly bumped into him. Those militiamen under the stairs of the Abrahams’ house … who were they waiting for?
‘Corporal! Take the picture back to my quarters. I have left something behind in the Jew’s flat. I will follow you directly.’ People stepped out of his way as he marched back, his SS uniform clearing a path as effectively as a snowplough. Admiring looks added to his sense of disgust and urgency.
There was a bigger audience outside the apartment now. He quickened his pace. A policeman was holding back the crowd where someone had thoughtfully spilled white paint on the cobbles, and was making an elderly couple scrub at it with cold water. The more water was added the more the paint spread, and the more abuse they got. The woman, dressed only in a light kimono, had obviously been forced from her bed. Erich did not see Izaac Abrahams at once; he was surrounded by a big crowd of his own. They had invented a game. They were throwing tiny groschen coins on the cobbles and making Izaac pick them up, chanting: ‘Yid, Yid, pick up a quid.’ If he didn’t try, he got a clip on the head; if he did, they tried to stamp on his fingers. Erich looked about for help; thank God, he saw the black uniform of a fellow SS officer in the crowd. He pushed his way over to him.
‘Heil Hitler! Officer,’ he said. ‘I think we should stop this.’ The man just laughed.
‘Aren’t they doing a great job?’ he said, looking with interest as a man in working boots slammed one boot down within a centimetre of Izaac’s hand. He grabbed Erich’s arm, laughing, ‘Hah ha! Go for it, get his greedy fingers!’ he called out.
Afterwards Erich would not remember precisely what he had said to his fellow officer, but he did remember lashing out at him before he turned to the mob and shouted:
‘Don’t you realise who this is? It is Izaac Abrahams, one of our finest violinists! You ignorant Yahoos, if you break his fingers you deprive …’ A boy lifted his foot. ‘Don’t you dare!’ In one lunge, he lifted the boy and threw him bodily out of the circle. That, combined with the ominous effect of his uniform, was enough for him to be able to clear the civilian scum from the corner. Herr Abrahams explained that the lady in the kimono was his mother and that she was unwell. Together they helped her and his bewildered father upstairs to their flat. Erich was too angry even to acknowledge their thanks. When he arrived at the ground floor door again he was greeted by the SS officer he had spoken to outside.
‘Congratulations, Untersturmführer, you protected your Jews very well. Perhaps I could have the pleasure of your name?’ Erich felt his tongue dry in his mouth; why this unexpected courtesy, the man had done nothing to help him? Why this sudden emphasis on his rank? Then he looked – as he should have done before – at the officer’s collar. There, next to the three officer pips like his own, were not just one, but two silver bars! The man was a Captain, two whole ranks senior to him! Erich gave his name, which the officer wrote in his notebook. ‘My name, if you wish to make an apology, is Captain Winkler,’ he said, like a dueller dropping his glove.
Erich was marched into the room where he was to be charged with his offence.
‘Left, right, left, right, left, right. Halt! Salute!’
‘Heil Hitler!’ Erich raised his right arm.
‘Cap off!’ He took off his cap and placed it under his left arm while the sergeant major who had marched him in took two steps back, saluted, and positioned himself with his back to the door.
Retribution had been quick. It was less than three days since the incident outside the Abrahams house. The charges against him read: ‘Assault on a senior officer, insubordination, fraternizing with Jews, and disgracing his uniform.’ His friends had told him he was lucky no
t to have been court martialled. Captain Winkler, the officer he’d confronted outside the Abraham’s flat, was making his case to the judges; his accusations rising to a fanatical scream. Erich concentrated on the outlines of his judges, haloed against the light streaming in from the high windows behind them, trying to ignore the fine spray of spittle as Captain Winkler raved. In the centre would be the presiding officer, flanked by Erich’s own colonel on one side, and the one representing Captain Winkler on the other. At the end of the table was a clerk, taking notes. At last Winkler was running out of steam.
‘… this officer, gentlemen, is worse than the crawling Jew he tried to protect – no doubt for his own interests. He is a disgrace to his uniform, to his oath, and to the Führer. Heil Hitler!’ He snapped to attention, and stepped back. Erich noticed his fingers drumming against the side of his leg.
‘Untersturmführer Hoffman,’ Erich’s colonel grated. ‘You have heard Captain Winkler’s accusations; what have you to say to the charges made against you?’
Erich knew he was in deep trouble; if this went to a court martial, not only might he be put in prison and reduced to the ranks, but he might be thrown out of the SS and end up as a private in the army. For all that he knew he could even be shot. He should be conciliatory, but fury at Winkler’s ignorant tirade got the better of him.
‘Fellow officers, I had not expected to hear the language of the Viennese gutter in this courtroom. It is my understanding that the uniform I wear is to uphold the highest standards of behaviour in our new Greater German State. It has been put to me that I am disloyal on the Jewish question, far from it. But if what I saw on the streets last week is the sort of behaviour we can expect from our citizens, the sooner the Jews are protected from them the better. If something has to be done, let it be done soon and with dignity and compassion. Stamping on the fingers of a great musician and artist is not the way. What Captain Winkler has described is substantially correct; but he, wearing the uniform of the Reich, not only failed to intervene but was actively encouraging this gutter behaviour by cheering them on. If I had seen that he held the rank of captain, frankly gentlemen, I would not have believed it. As far as my conscience is concerned, my oath and my allegiance to the Führer are unshaken. Heil Hitler.’