Past Lives

by Chartier, Shana

  “Ok,” he agreed, whatever he was going to say next swallowed as the charge was led, and we began our sprint towards our enemies. The first volley took down our entire front line, and we leapt over the bodies of our own soldiers, desperate not to stumble and lose our footing completely. Bodies blew around me left and right, limbs shattering, men screaming in agony. The air smelled of hot iron, both from the blood and the weaponry, and it penetrated my nostrils as I collided with the heaving bulks of men. Bastian stayed by my side, both of us watching our flanks.

  I stabbed and stabbed through man after man, but there were too many this time. My arms began to burn with fiery exhaustion, my lungs bursting from a lack of oxygen. My side cramped up, piercing straight through me. Everything in me screamed to drop, to let go. My weapon lowered inch by inch. I knew then that I wouldn’t be walking out of that fight. Glancing over, I could see Bastian’s exhaustion taking over him, too. He was locked in combat with a large, brutish man. In the distance, as if in slow motion, I saw a second Union soldier come running, ready to cut Bastian in half.

  “No!” The word ripped from me like paper tearing from a book. I dove in front of Bastian, the Yankee’s knife-tipped weapon slamming deeply through my side, cutting all the way through me. Already in agony, I screamed as he pulled the weapon back out, and twisted as I fell to the ground. I heard Bastian call my name before he gasped, and before I knew it we lay, chess pieces on a blood-smeared battlefield. With my last ounce of strength, I rolled to face Bastian, ignored now by the fighting men. Violence continued to rage around us, and we stared vacantly at each other in resigned disbelief.

  Had I been able to speak, I would have asked him if he thought we’d be joining Jack in heaven. As it was, neither of us could say anything, and we stared sadly at each other as once again, the blood drained from our bodies, and we began to float away.

  Part Three—Austria

  1938

  Chapter Fifteen

  Vienna

  I was very fortunate, it would seem, to be born a blonde catholic in Vienna at the end of the First World War. Of course, that never really occurred to me until later, when people I had considered friends were torn from my arms and led to places I dare not imagine. My mother died shortly after my birth, presumably due to the complications of giving me life. I always believed that my father blamed me a little for that, which was why he was such a cold and distant man.

  My father was a doctor, and a good one. He was very well respected. We lived in a comfortable bourgeois house in the sparkling city of Vienna, the crown jewel of Austria. His profession allowed for a certain lifestyle that provided me with nannies and governesses to do all that nasty upbringing business. I had several women whom I wished to call mother who disappeared after my father determined that their knowledge did not run deep enough to provide me with the best education possible…even for a girl.

  Sometimes, when he had no choice, my father would let me go with him to his practice, and I got to meet the men he worked with day to day. It never occurred to me as important that his coworkers were Jewish men. They were kind to me, and often snuck me candy behind my father’s back. In fact, many of them were more fatherly than my own, and I would lie awake in my bed at night and daydream about what it would be like to have been born to their family instead. Then I would suck on a piece of candy until the roof of my mouth began to peel and fall asleep.

  I was very young when I started taking voice lessons, as was the usual practice. My young voice rang out as clean and clear as a perfectly tuned instrument, but no matter what I sang, a melancholy tone would settle on every listener, enchanting each audience that came to hear me. I was declared a prodigy at a very young age, one of the most promising up and coming singers of the time. My father fought it for as long as he could, and I think that was why a lot of my caretakers were let go—they wanted me to pursue my talent and apply to enter a conservatory. Instead, I was trained in math and science, learning about politics and history, all the while wishing that I could get to the piano to practice my scales. I wanted to be a singer more than anything in the world.

  Finally, when I was seventeen, a man knocked on our door. He was the head of one of the most prestigious conservatories in the city, and he wanted to hear my voice. I practically danced with delight, my plain brown-checkered day dress swirling around my ankles as I shifted nervously from one foot to the other. My father had always been a practical man, and I never dressed extravagantly. In spite of what wealth we had, he always behaved as though we were poor, and spent very little outside of my education. With trembling fingers, I made my way over to our slick, wooden piano and sat daintily on the padded bench. I took a deep breath, and flicked my gaze quickly over to the man to check his expression, which was frighteningly blank.

  Then I began to sing.

  I allowed my voice to fill the room, to warm it with the timbre of the pleasing sound that I could somehow generate without a single thought. The music flowed through me; it was everything I was and everything I wanted to be, and so much more. I let my soul slip into the song to be carried away, my nerves giving way to pure emotion. When I finished, the man jumped enthusiastically to his feet and clapped wildly, and I smiled politely. If I could impress him the path to my dreams would open—he held the key to my happiness in his weathered, aging hand.

  I listened outside the door of my father’s office as the man, Herr Eisler, practically begged my father to allow me to attend.

  “This country is falling apart, Herr Doktor Senner. That girl’s voice could lift the spirits of an ailing nation!” he cried. I tried not to let his words affect me, but I would be lying if I said my naive self didn’t blush with pleasure at his praise. Finally, after going round and round in circles, my father finally agreed to let me go, so long as it was what I wished. I scurried back to the piano, where I feigned silently playing the keys. Both men came in at once, Herr Eisler looking like a starved man about to eat a delicious meal, my father looking tired and worn down.

  “J, this man would like to take you away with him to the conservatory. All you would study from that point on is music, and assuming your voice doesn’t give out you could have a lucrative career. Is this something you would want?” he asked, his loaded question revealing his opinion far too obviously. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by looking too excited to go. In spite of the fact that he was a distant man who involved himself in his profession more than his child, we still only had each other. I hoped he wouldn’t be too lonely without me.

  “I would, father,” I answered, my hands folded respectfully in my lap. I nearly cracked a smile at the fiery light in Herr Eisler’s eyes. In them, I saw the star I would someday become. Holding a perfectly somber face, I waited until he acquiesced. Sighing, he turned toward Herr Eisler.

  “We can get her out to you for the start of the next session then. It will allow her the last month of summer to get in a few more weeks of study at home.”

  Herr Eisler shook my father’s hand, then came over to me and took mine.

  “We will make a star of you, young lady. Just wait and see!” he whispered giddily over my hand. I smiled and wished him well, expressing how much I looked forward to working with him soon.

  And then I spent the longest month of my life waiting to go.

  ***

  The conservatory as a building was large and quite stunning. Glass windows glinted in the light of a morning sun, encased in cream-colored brick walls. It was capped with a red tiled roof, which towered above me as I gawked at the splendor that would be my new home. A few men, who I assumed were part of the janitorial staff, came out and lugged my suitcases into the building. When I thanked them, they glanced up in surprise but said nothing. Along the right side of the building, I caught sight of a park in the distance and a few dirty men sleeping under the shade of its trees. I frowned.

  As long as I had been alive in Austria, the country had suffered. The currency was depreciating, money became harder and harder to grasp
, and the unemployment rate was skyrocketing. People like my father were glared at in the streets, but the people of Vienna did not glare so hard at him as they did his dark haired companions. It was fairly common to hate the Jews, though of course I could not. They had been so kind to me as a child that I failed to see why they were hated at all.

  I was led on polished wooden floors up a narrow staircase to the dormitories. A long hallway with many doors on either side lay before me, and I waited in anxious anticipation as the thin man in front of me passed door after door, finally turning to the right and reaching for the knob of door 333.

  “Here we are, miss,” he said, his voice light, like a tenor. I wondered if he sang. My dorm room was very, very, small, and had two twin beds on either side. The beds each faced a small closet, and I found myself despairing that any of my trunks would fit in such a place. Leaning against a beige painted wall, a girl with dark hair and eyes lounged with her face buried in a book, green skirts draped around her bent knees. When the door opened, she sprang off the bed and stood before me.

  “Hello there! You must be my roommate!” she said, a peculiar light dancing in her eyes. She was as transparent as glass—her insecurity and fear of being disliked radiating from her in waves. Wanting her to feel at ease, I smiled warmly. I wondered vaguely how many others this poor Jewish girl had been through before me. It wouldn’t be uncommon for people to demand not to share a room with her. In response to my smile, she beamed like the sun, the tension in her shoulders quickly disappearing.

  “It would seem so,” I said, holding out my hand for her to shake. She did so gratefully. “And you are?”

  “Janika,” she said, pumping my hand. “I can’t tell you what a…pleasure it is to have such a kind and beautiful roommate! I just know we’ll be friends,” she breathed. Her gratitude was endearing, and I found that even though we had just met, I knew we would be friends, too. I introduced myself before bidding adieu to my helpful guide, who gave a reassuring smile to Janika as he closed the door.

  “So what do you do?” she asked, bouncing back onto her bed and crossing her legs. I brushed down my skirts and sat down on my own narrow bed, which was lumpy and creaky as it reluctantly accepted my weight. It would certainly take some getting used to. I quirked an eyebrow at her, confused, before I realized she was asking for my particular musical talent.

  ‘I sing,” I said shyly. My father had never emphasized my gift, and I didn’t want to come off as vain. “And you?”

  “My half-brother and I are piano prodigies. We were discovered playing together far too often, much against the will of our mother, if you can imagine. Never got anything useful done to be sure!”

  I wanted to ask how they were related, but knew better than to pry. In those days it wasn’t unusual for a half-sibling to have a mother who once bore an illegitimate son to a member of the royal court, and I didn’t want to make my new friend uncomfortable by snooping into such a situation were that to be the case. I was saved from having to come up with a response when a letter slid across the room from under the door.

  “Well, isn’t that a funny way to deliver the mail!” Janika announced, launching back up to grasp at the piece of paper on the floor. Unfolding it, her eyes began to glisten as she gazed mournfully at the contents of the letter. As her shoulders slumped, the paper dropped from her fingers and back onto the floor. Janika stood above it with her head folded against her chest as if in prayer.

  “Good heavens, what is it?” I asked, sweeping over to the letter and pulling it up to read for myself. Inside the folded sheet was a caricature of a Jewish girl being hung by a noose. The words scribbled inside said Go back to Israel, dirty Jew! I frowned, and turned back to Janika. Large tears escaped her eyes and plummeted onto the dirty wooden floor. I grasped her hand and squeezed, her reddened gaze lifting to mine.

  “Whoever is cowardly enough to do something like this doesn’t deserve a second of your time, much less your tears,” I said, unable to keep myself from folding her into a tight hug. Even though we had only just met, I felt a fierce and inexplicable need to protect Janika. Finally, she heaved a great sigh and pulled out of my embrace, wiping forcefully at her tear-streaked face. Her smile was wobbly.

  “Well, I suppose you’re right about that. Oh J, I’m so grateful they’ve paired me up with you!” I smiled and began to make myself busy creating a home out of our small, sparse room. I unfolded some pictures I brought from my old bedroom and began to set my clothes out, hoping I could find some way to make them all fit properly. I told Janika about my life at home, and how I was discovered by Herr Eisler.

  “We’re so lucky!” she exclaimed, hearing my story. “No one can afford to be educated in music anymore unless they have ties to the rich, or have a particular talent,” she smirked, referring to the two of us. I laughed.

  ‘Well, we’ll certainly see about that,” I said, downplaying myself.

  “Speaking of talent, when do I get to meet this brother of yours?” I asked, wiggling my eyebrows teasingly. Janika laughed.

  “Hopefully soon…he’s usually always tucked behind a piano, scribbling notes. I think he’ll like you, though. He’s always had a thing for blondes.” I feigned a dramatic pose.

  “Don’t you know, music is my only love!” I won another laugh, and was glad to see the pain of that horrible letter dissolving from behind her eyes…though it could never be completely erased.

  “Oh I don’t know…you might hit it off. You just never know with us tortured musicians,” Janika said, flipping through her book without reading it.

  “Well, what’s his name anyway? So I know him when I find him.”

  “Oh, just the most boring older brother name in the world,” she said. “Sebastian.”

  And my heart leapt for no reason at all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Life is a Song

  The next morning I stood with my hand resting against a beautiful grand piano, Herr Eisler running his hands along the keys as I warmed up my voice. I sang classical music all morning, glowing at his effusive and constant praise.

  “Would you like to come sit in and watch a rehearsal with some of the other singers, my dear?” he offered as we finished up. I nodded enthusiastically. Placing a thin hand along the back of my shoulders, he led me out the door and we made our way to the dining hall for lunch. We talked idly of music and theory before he stopped at the doorway to the noisy room. His hand shifted to my lower back proprietarily, and I resisted the urge to smack it away.

  “This is where I leave you, dear girl. Be at the main auditorium at one o’clock, and you can meet some of your fellow pupils,” he said, exiting down another hallway. Stepping into the dining room, I was suddenly overwhelmed. At least a hundred students were eating and chatting like old friends at various tables, and I knew not a single familiar face. Slowly walking in, I lined up where the food was being dished out, thanking the cook as she handed me a bowl of delicious smelling soup and some light, fluffy bread.

  “You look lost,” a girl with telltale dark hair and eyes came up to me hesitantly. I gave her a grateful smile, and her reservation eased up ever so slightly.

  “Yes, I am, thank you. I wonder if you know a girl who goes by Janika? She’s my roommate,” I explained, the girl pointing to a table in a far corner before I could finish my explanation.

  “Are…” she began, and I stared at her curiously while she grappled with her question. Finally, she hedged, “are you sure you want to sit there with us? It wouldn’t do you any favors with the others, you know.”

  I then took the time to glance around the room and truly see it. Light-haired, light-eyed students populated one area of the room, while anyone with darker, Jewish, complexions lined the walls and tucked themselves into corner tables where they were happy to be forgotten. I knew at that moment that I would have to make a choice. I could either stay popular and stick to the people who matched the accepted ethnic profile, or I could sit with my friends.

  �
�What is your name?” I asked the girl.

  “Giselle,” she said quietly. “My mother always wanted to be French,” she shrugged.

  “Would you like to sit with us, Giselle?” I asked, pointing in the direction of Janika’s table. She smiled and accepted my invitation gratefully. As we passed, the occupants of various tables hissed and whispered derogatory names with the full intention of being heard.

  “Keep your head up,” I told Giselle, who was casting a nervous gaze around before gluing her eyes to the floor. “Don’t let them see that it affects you.”

  Reluctantly, she lifted her head, though not for very long. We reached our table and sat down, exchanging a warm greeting with Janika. “Where’s your brother?” Giselle asked, her eyes gleaming in a telltale way. Janika shrugged.

  “Off causing mischief somewhere. I hate it when he skips lunch…he makes me sneak out food for him!” She pouted.

  “Have you all had a nice morning?” I asked politely, initiating a pleasant discussion of the various techniques we had been working on. I came to find out that both Giselle and Janika would be at practice in the auditorium later. We were all laughing at a keen joke when a girl with light brown hair approached the table, her arms crossed, her posture aggressive. Her hair fell in beautiful tresses down her back, curling just right, and I found it hard to ignore.

  “I think you’ve been fooled into sitting at the wrong table…or are you really a Jew lover?” the girl spat nastily. Her eyes did not stray from mine, as though to even look at the other girls at my table would be unbearable. I dabbed the corner of my lip with a napkin, composing myself. These were the first confrontations I had ever personally received regarding my Jewish connections. Usually my father dealt with this on his own while I stood back and pretended to be busy with a piece of my dress. Still, I had watched his example, and I followed it as best I could.