“What are you doing? Give me that violin!”
Bronislaw held it tightly, then with tremendous regret, his cheeks scarlet with rage, he handed the precious violin and bow to Sauckel, who was exultant as he exhibited it to the others, as if he had made it himself. Bronislaw noticed that one of the guests who had not tossed them any money was observing him with eyes filled with admiration. He had seen the face before, noticed that he was wearing a Wehrmacht uniform, not an SS one; he must have been a well-known musician who’d been mobilized. The man approached and, with no attempt to conceal his action, placed a large bill in the violinist’s hand.
“Out of here, now! Raus!” Sauckel shouted as he turned around.
The Commander was clearly anxious for the banquet to begin. Delicious food no doubt lay beneath the silver cloches on the white tablecloth. A profusion of flowers, countless bottles of red wine, sparkling champagne glasses … as if no concentration camp existed, no war.
Bronislaw—robbed of the violin—and the accompanist with his cello hurried out of the house to change clothes, as they were always ordered to do.
“We’ll split the money among the three of us,” Bronislaw told the cellist as he opened the bill to see how much it was.
He found a tiny slip of paper folded inside the bill. On it were written incredible, blinding words, so blinding they seemed engraved in gold: “I’ll get you out of here.” Quickly, he hid the paper from his companion—then swallowed it so no one would know.
Bronislaw finished the piece with the last two strokes: crisp, emphatic, and soft, all at the same time. He hadn’t performed this piece for a long time, but its melodic contour had taken flight from the first notes, dazzling, never hesitant, perfectly on key. The violinist was the first to realize.
He closed his eyes as he played the final measures; he didn’t need to see in order to do justice to the piece. He waited during the brief moment of silence that followed as the air settled. His thoughts wandered from the music: he was wondering if his performance would have satisfied the Commander, if it would have saved his life and Daniel’s. The roaring applause banished the bitter mirage. Good Lord, what had happened? Beside him stood a pianist, not the cellist who had accompanied him so many years ago. The two of them took their bows as the stage was strewn with flowers. The applause continued, a standing ovation. The accompanist signaled to Bronislaw to move forward, alone, to take his bow. A beautiful little girl came onto the stage and, with a charming gesture, offered each player a bright red rose, then handed Bronislaw a branch of orchids.
It all seemed like a dream, despite the fact that he had played like a virtuoso, conducted himself with assurance, smiled, signed programs for the melomaniacs who petitioned him, and praised the smorgasbord that followed the concert.
Only then could he return to the peace of his own home, but he wasn’t ready to go to bed. He was certain that the familiar nightmare would reappear.
“I’m going to read for a while,” he told his wife Ingrid, who immediately understood. She knew the story of Daniel’s violin that her husband had played in the Auschwitz camp. She knew the pain associated with the Corelli sonata.
The heat was turned on and the house warm, but Ingrid had built a fire. He poured himself a glass of cool, refreshing white wine and sat down by the fireplace, something that always gave him pleasure. He closed his eyes for a moment before he began flipping through the pages of the book he had been reading that week. Maybe it would keep his mind off things, especially today, keep his memories from surfacing. But they were tenacious. It was his fault. He should never have played Corelli’s “La Folia,” a piece he hadn’t wanted to perform for years. It carried him back to the lager, the image so vivid it was almost a hallucination.
His hair now white, in the calm of his own home, he was finally—after so many years of relative peace—able to confront those memories without trembling. What had become of his companions in misfortune? He almost never talked about that period in his life; he could hardly recall what many of them looked like. He could remember Daniel, however, as if he were standing before him, as if the flames from the fire were illuminating his face. Those eyes that not even hunger could dull—eyes that reflected every movement of his spirit: courage, fear, anger, desperation the day he learned of the bet, him against a case of French wine. He could see Daniel’s thin, skillful hands—the backs slightly scraped—the insidious tattoo that both of them bore. Those hands that had waved good-bye to him when he had the immense good fortune to leave the lager with an elderly male prisoner and eight sickly women. That was the Dreiflüsselager quota on the shopping list. Yes, Count Bernadotte had bought them—and many more prisoners from other death camps—in exchange for trucks. Bernadotte had run the Swedish Red Cross and had organized the “white buses” that carried thousands of Jews to Sweden. Bronislaw had always assumed that he had been included on that list because Bernadotte had known the kind-eyed Schindler or the Wehrmacht official who had given him the bill after he had performed for the Commander. My God, what a journey: difficult, never-ending, the devastated countryside, the intense hope. A wild sort of joy, but also regret, a sense of blameless guilt for all those who remained among the Nazis, especially the other two musicians in the trio. Especially Daniel.
Clearly, he wasn’t going to be able to concentrate on his book tonight. He put on some soft music but didn’t pay much attention to it. Tomorrow evening, after the banquet that was being held in his honor, he would be able to enjoy himself. They were going up to their bungalow in the forest of birch trees, beside a lake where swans and ducks swam. He had never wished to leave Sweden, the country that had welcomed him after Auschwitz. Never. One of the marks the camp experience had left on him was a certain phobia, an insecurity that manifested itself as an irrational fear of travel, of leaving the country. He never felt safe away from his new home, and he soon abandoned the concert tours that provoked nightmares. The exception was an occasional performance in nearby countries: Denmark; Norway; Finland, the land of Sibelius. As soon as he had been given his papers and granted Swedish nationality, Bronislaw had accepted the position of full professor at the conservatory. His rare concerts became quite celebrated. Violinists from around the world visited him to learn his fingering technique and his classical cadence.
No, he decided, I will never again do “La Folia.” It was the first piece ever played on the violin crafted by his friend, performed before the despised tyrant, performed with all of his being. Bronislaw remembered how he and Daniel couldn’t tolerate the idea that the precious instrument would remain in the hands of the Commander; they had even devised impossible schemes to substitute it! It all seemed so recent.
The day after the performance at the Three Rivers Camp, Bronislaw had found it difficult to calm Daniel. The anguish had resurfaced when he discovered the Commander had announced that the two musicians could continue in their present jobs “for the time being.” The despicable man had said nothing about the luthier’s fate. Had the violin been finished in the agreed-upon time? They thought it had but weren’t completely persuaded, and that uncertainty plagued Daniel.
One evening a few days after the performance, Daniel told Bronislaw that he’d been summoned to the Commander’s house at noon on the previous day. To his amazement, Sauckel had congratulated him on the beautiful violin. Daniel had stood there, his heart pounding furiously, hoping to learn that he was off the hook and wouldn’t be sent to Rascher. Then he’d heard these words:
“I’ve decided to give you a bonus, even though you did nothing more than comply with your obligation.”
“Thank you, sir.” It had been such an effort to utter those three words. But what came next was unexpected:
“Take him to the kitchen and give him some food. Make it snappy, the factories can’t stop.”
The deception was so great it had almost taken Daniel’s appetite away, a fact he quickly forgot as he gulped down the plate of stew the cook placed before him. He explained to Bronis
law that, as he’d worked that afternoon, he couldn’t rid himself of the idea that the Commander suspected he knew about the bet and was playing with him. But that wasn’t all. The day after he had been served the plate of stew, a kapo had appeared at the workshop looking for two carpenters, Daniel and another, younger man. “Come along with me.”
The two men had put away their tools and followed him as best they could: the kapo was agile, had good shoes, and walked fast.
“Schnell, schnell!” the kapo had yelled at them, turning around and giving them a shove. “Hurry up, you lazy bastards, a van has to be unloaded at the Sturmbannführer’s.”
So that’s it, the luthier had thought, he regrets congratulating me, and now he wants to make me pay for the plate of stew, turn me into a beast of burden to demonstrate that no privileges will be derived from crafting the violin. This wasn’t the first time someone had suddenly appeared with orders like this. The two carpenters had been surprised to find Sauckel standing with his dog at the foot of the stairs to his house, beneath the greenhouse filled with plants and blooming flowers, apparently waiting to give instructions.
They’d soon understood: new plants had just arrived. The two men had been ordered to the van, and Daniel had proceeded to unload—one after the other—three huge planters with roses. He wasn’t accustomed to the heavy work, and his knees trembled. He was exhausted. After the third trip up the stairs in his clumsy wooden shoes, carrying the heavy plants, he had begun to wobble and felt dizzy. He’d stopped for a moment to catch his breath, and the aide had beaten him on the buttocks with his cane.
“Ja, Markus.” The Commander had smiled approvingly. “Keep them working, they haven’t finished.”
As his co-worker carried the last plant upstairs, Daniel had summoned all his strength and crawled to the back of the van, preparing to collect the last load, a large box that had stood behind the planters. Suddenly he’d frozen. His eyes had flickered across the large red letters, his ears imagining the clinking of glasses. It was a case of Burgundy wine. A thick fog had shrouded his eyes, and he had fainted.
“We won!”
“No, you won, you’re the only winner.”
They hadn’t been able to see each other until that evening. They sat on a rough stone bench, hugging, laughing, weeping unashamedly. No, Bronislaw thought, the Swine didn’t win the bet, Daniel did, but at the cost of ruining his health, judging by the look of exhaustion on the luthier’s face. The violinist rested his hand on Daniel’s fragile shoulder and listened affectionately to the details of the story. They had thrown a glass of cold water on Daniel, and he had regained consciousness. Still lying on the ground, dizzy, and extremely weak, he could hear the Commander and his assistant laughing. The co-worker had finished unloading the van, and Sauckel had allowed him to help Daniel up and accompany him to the infirmary to have the cut on his forehead dressed.
“Take him to be treated, so the frail little man can work this afternoon.”
The taunts didn’t bother him. They had won. He had crafted his violin, his Daniel Krakowensis, in the stipulated time.
Now that Rascher was no longer at the camp, the infirmary functioned much better. Orders had been given to treat all “curable” prisoners. The Jewish doctor who worked under the German physician did what he could for the prisoners. As the doctor was disinfecting and treating his cut, Daniel whispered to him: “I won! I won’t have to take the cyanide you gave me.”
Daniel had shared his secret with only this person, the taciturn, compassionate doctor who had agreed to give him the cyanide capsule. The day he’d finished the violin, Daniel had purposely cut the back of his hand so that he would be given permission to visit the infirmary.
Daniel described how he had discovered the case of wine and realized that he had won the bet. The doctor shook Daniel’s hand and slipped him a box of vitamins, whispering: “You need them.” Daniel wouldn’t have to swallow the poison. He wouldn’t be led to a place worse than a tomb: the icy water ruled by the heartless doctor with the treacherous eyes who spied on the agony of the dying.
“The time limit must have been almost up,” Bronislaw told him after a moment. “So that was why I was given the mornings off kitchen duty and told to help you in the workshop.”
The truth of the matter was that he had hardly helped Daniel. But Daniel had reassured him that just having Bronislaw stand beside him had given him courage. They’d had no opportunity for conversation in the carpenters’ shop, other than about the violin. As was only natural, the luthier did most of the work. The musician had served as apprentice: handing Daniel tools, helping him test the different varnishes, grinding the aloe powder with the pestle, putting the fine paintbrushes in the jar with alcohol, wiping with a cloth whenever requested, warming water on the stove to remove excess glue. Small jobs that gave him pleasure.
Bronislaw had stood by and looked on approvingly when Daniel chose the oil-based varnish, observed how carefully he mixed the ingredients (he had forbidden Bronislaw to weigh them on the tiny scales): aloe, sandarac, Venetian turpentine, coloring extract. Daniel had cooked the mixture over a very low flame, then poured it little by little through a gauzelike cloth that he used as a filter. There had been countless tests while Daniel put the finishing touches on the violin. All the odd pieces of spruce and maple lying around the shop bore witness. When the varnished pieces of wood had dried, the two men examined them, scratched them, until finally the luthier’s experience—not Bronislaw’s—allowed him to choose the most appropriate mixture, though the differences among them were slight. For that matter, Bronislaw didn’t even know the exact proportions, but he was able to help Daniel install the four strings and check the tuning.
The euphoria had passed, and Bronislaw scrutinized his friend, who seemed more exhausted than other days. Don’t let yourself slip away now, Bronislaw thought. It was time for Daniel to rest; all one had to do was look at the dark circles under his eyes, the extreme paleness of his skin. Bronislaw was determined to find him some extra food in the kitchen, no matter how closely guarded he was. Despite the concern for Daniel’s health, they parted happily that night. With the anxiety of the time limit behind them, and the knowledge that Daniel had probably escaped Rascher’s grip, Bronislaw hoped the young violin maker would sleep soundly. The night was free from fog, and a tiny star was shining.
VIII
Thick as the leaves in autumn strow the woods.
—VIRGIL, Aeneid, Book VI
The flames were spent, only ashes remained. Bronislaw always felt despondent when the fire was extinguished; the ashes reminded him of the dead. Taking the poker, he scattered them among the tiny embers and poured himself a glass of cool Rhine wine. Ingrid was in bed. Everything had gone perfectly: the tribute dinner, the municipal award. He had noticed some absences, the odd colleague who was sick, another who was probably jealous. Flowers, toasts, medals … ashes, everything except music.
What followed had been a tremendous surprise. Neither Ingrid nor any of their friends had dropped the slightest hint. He still felt deeply moved and wanted to ponder the events calmly before going to bed. He would be able to sleep late the following morning in the calm of the house, with only the sounds of birdsong and waves lapping on the lake, like a violin played with a mute.
Ingrid had left the banquet early. “I’m leaving now for the lake house,” she’d said, “to turn on the heat; my daughter will drive you up.”
Bronislaw had been surrounded by friends and colleagues, including the director of the opera house, but by midafternoon it was over and he was tired, glad he could rest. He closed his eyes as they drove up to the house and began to feel refreshed. When he opened them, he could see the glimmering water of the lake and the well-lit house.
A small group of musicians were awaiting him and applauded as he entered. He was astonished to spot the well-known trio: Gerda, Virgili, and Climent. He remembered Climent, who had traveled to Sweden as a very young man to attend one of his courses on cadenc
e and improvisation. The director of the conservatory had also come, and a blue-eyed woman whom he didn’t know but who looked vaguely familiar. Everything had been carefully organized. He had no say in the matter; he was led to his seat by the fireplace, Climent and Ingrid beside him.
Then Ingrid put a finger to her lips, and it began. He remembered it all, note by note. He could sing it now if need be. Just the night before he had been thinking how few composers could make a violin sing. They forgot about the melody, the complicity that used to exist between musician and luthier. But tonight all three musicians “sang.” The novelty, the surprise, had made the first movement fly, but when the violin solo began the second movement, he tried to recall—as he listened, unconsciously retaining every note—where he had heard that sound. After all, this was a trio playing with an unfamiliar woman, and Climent’s piece had not yet been performed in public. With a flash Bronislaw realized: the woman was playing Daniel’s violin, the Auschwitz violin! He was certain, he didn’t need to be told.
When the woman (Bronislaw tended to think of most women as musical notes) concluded the achingly beautiful interpretation of the Mytilene Trio, she drew near.
“You see the violin? I was sure you would recognize it. I’m Regina, Daniel’s daughter.” She kissed the violin, then placed it in Bronislaw’s hands and kissed him on the forehead.
The Violin of Auschwitz Page 7