In Another Time

by Jillian Cantor

“Hello.” Elsa picked up the line, and her voice rang through, so clear and familiar. Elsa, Johann, Max, and I had dinner together on Saturday nights sometimes, when Max was around and the two of us were together. And I’d come to consider Elsa my friend, too.

  “Elsa,” I said. “It’s me. Hanna.”

  The other end of the line went silent for a moment, and then Elsa said, “Hanna Ginsberg? Is that really you?”

  “It really is,” I echoed back. I dreaded having to retell my unbelievable story, or nonstory as it was, again over the phone like I had to Julia, but I let it all out in a rush and then asked Elsa if she knew where Max was, what had happened to us.

  “Well, I think you were arrested,” Elsa said. “Do you remember that?”

  I shook my head, forgetting she couldn’t see me. Had the SA banging on the door arrested me? Is that what happened next? “And when was this?” I asked her, still not believing it.

  “Oh my, well . . . years ago. Let’s see. Before the war. Goodness, ten years ago, maybe?”

  Ten years. “And where is Max now?” I asked, holding my breath. If I could talk to him, see him again, touch him, he could explain everything. He could fill in all the gaps in my memory, make me whole again, the way he always had when we were together.

  Elsa hesitated for a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know, Hanna. We weren’t exactly sure what had happened to you. We thought you’d been arrested, and he was looking for you. But then one night, he just disappeared himself. I haven’t seen him in years. I mean, you know how he was . . .”

  Though Max loved Germany, he was filled with wanderlust. He would disappear with no notice for weeks at a time whenever the whim struck him, which we fought about intensely. Not only because he didn’t tell me where he was going, how long he’d truly be gone, but also because he never invited me to come along. And deep down that was the part that hurt me the most. I would’ve turned him down—I had violin and Mamele to keep me here. But still, I would’ve liked to have been asked.

  “So you don’t know what happened to him . . . during the war? Or me?” I asked Elsa now.

  “No,” Elsa said. “Johann and I have been hoping . . . But it has been many years.”

  “The shop burned down,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “Yes,” Elsa said. “I think he was arrested that night. But Johann doesn’t believe it . . . he likes to think Max ran away first. Maybe he is drinking wine and reading a book on an island off the south of Spain right now.”

  “Maybe,” I echoed back, though I feared it was Elsa who was right, not Johann.

  “Hanna, I’m just so happy you’re okay. That you’re here,” Elsa said. “Will you come see us sometime? We miss you. The girls have gotten so big, you wouldn’t believe it.”

  I told her about Julia coming to get me and then I gave her Julia’s number and address in London and asked if she would have Max contact me if she heard from him.

  “Of course,” she said, sadly. Then she asked, “Do you still play violin, Hanna?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I think that’s the only thing I still know.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that. I never forgot how beautifully you played for us. I always thought you’d be famous one day.”

  I laughed a little. As a girl I’d believed that was my destiny. I’d imagined the symphony with bright lights and packed concert halls. I never imagined that by the time I was good enough, the symphony wouldn’t allow Jews. Or that my home country would be destroyed from the inside out.

  “Take care, Hanna. Stay in touch,” Elsa said. I promised I would and I hung up the phone.

  The next day Julia arrived on the ten o’clock train, and I left Berlin for good. And I would not return again for thirteen more years.

  Max, 1931

  Hanna returned to Max’s shop a week later, having finished A Room of One’s Own. Every time he’d heard the bell over the door, he’d looked up, hoping it was her, and when at last it was, he could barely contain his joy, and he leaped from his stool behind the counter, nearly tripping over his own feet, and ran to the front of the store.

  “I would’ve read it quicker,” Hanna apologized. “But I have a recital. I’ve been practicing even more than usual.”

  “A recital?” Max asked. “Can I come?”

  She laughed, then looked at him. It took her a moment to understand he was serious. “It’s not just me playing,” she said. “It’s all of Herr Fruchtenwalder’s students. It’ll be quite long. You’d be bored.”

  “I want to come,” he said quickly. “When is it?”

  She hesitated for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure she should tell him. “Tomorrow night. Six p.m.,” she said. “It’s in the auditorium in the conservatory, where you heard me a few weeks ago.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there,” he said.

  She tilted her head and stared at him, trying to understand him. Though he was twenty, his light brown curls, green eyes, and spattering of freckles that spanned the bridge of his nose still gave him a boyish appearance. Often Max thought his outward appearance didn’t match his inward feelings of responsibility and loneliness.

  “Suit yourself,” Hanna finally said. “But I’m sure you’ll be bored.”

  Max wanted to tell her that most nights he was upstairs in his apartment by himself reading a book, so he could not imagine how a recital would be boring in comparison. Instead he asked if she enjoyed Virginia Woolf.

  “I think so,” she said, handing him back the book. She was still working it out in her mind. “I mean, I liked the idea of what she was saying, but she says it all in such a roundabout way.”

  Max laughed. “You’d rather read something more to the point?” He’d already collected a stack of books that he might suggest to her next: more Virginia Woolf, his favorite Shakespeare plays, and a new American author he’d gotten in, William Faulkner. They were behind the counter, just next to the cash register and Elsa’s latest pile, and he’d been adding to it all week. What would Hanna like? What would Hanna think? Concise, he thought now, and he eyed the stack. “Poems?” he asked her. She wrinkled up her nose and made a face. “Short stories?”

  “Yes, maybe those would be good to read to Mamele.”

  He hadn’t put it in his pile for her, but his favorite recent collection was Hemingway’s In Our Time, perhaps because he saw a bit of himself in Nick Adams. And he walked to the shelves to pull a copy. He had both the translation and the original in English and asked which she would prefer. English, she said, as her mother enjoyed listening to the sound of it out loud. “I wouldn’t call these hopeful,” he said, handing her the English copy. “But they are timely and short, easy to read a little at a time.”

  She took the book and thanked him. And then she said, “Do you like Mozart?” He knew Mozart was a composer, but otherwise knew nothing about him. He shook his head, embarrassed to admit how little he knew about music. “That’s what I’ll be playing, if you make it there. Sonata no. 21. It’s one of my favorites.”

  As Max got dressed to go to the recital the next evening, putting on the only suit that fit him, a hand-me-down from his father, he searched through his mother’s old records for any Mozart. But she had mostly opera, the liner notes in Italian, which he couldn’t read.

  He stopped at the fresh market on the way to the train and spent a 10 reichsmark on a bouquet of fire lilies. He chose them because of their vibrant orange color, which reminded him of Hanna’s playing, of Hanna herself. He felt nervous as he walked toward the auditorium, though he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why. Inside, it was quite crowded and he found a seat toward the back.

  He had never been to a recital before, any kind of concert of live music, and contrary to Hanna’s insistence he would be bored, he was enthralled. All the violins were beautiful, haunting, but none more so than Hanna and her Mozart. She wore a black dress on the stage, and unlike most of the other players, she did not use a music stand or sheet music. She closed her eyes, and the sound of the violin
seemed to pour from her body, her fingers, her heart. When she finished, he realized he’d been holding his breath, and he exhaled, overwhelmed with emotion, tears pricking his eyes.

  The fire lilies were limp by the end of the two hours of performances, and he tried to pluck them back up with his fingers before walking up to the front of the auditorium in search of Hanna. All the violinists were surrounded by family, mothers and fathers, younger brothers and sisters, and all the violinists were in black, so he couldn’t find her at first. But then he saw her, standing off to the side of the stage, all by herself, and he pushed his way through the crowd to get to her.

  “You’re here.” She sounded somewhat surprised. He held out the flowers, and she took them. “They’re lovely. Thank you.”

  “Fire lilies,” he said. She nodded, looking at him. “They remind me of the way you play the violin.” She sniffed the flowers, inhaled, and broke into a smile. The first time she ever seemed happy, not annoyed, by his presence. “Where is your family?” He looked around, for anyone else approaching them. Perhaps her mother was too sick to come, but she must have someone. Even with his parents both dead now, he still had Johann and Elsa, who were practically like family.

  She shrugged. “Mamele would’ve come if she could, but she gets tired quickly. And Julia, my sister, doesn’t like music much. Her boyfriend, Friedrich, says it’s a waste of time.”

  “Not like it? A waste of time?” He shook his head, not able to understand how anyone could listen to Hanna play and not like it.

  “Well, they just don’t have any use for it, I guess. They wish I’d do something more . . . practical.”

  “You play too beautifully to do anything else. And it’s what you love, isn’t it?”

  She tilted her head to the side and looked at him. “Yes,” she said, and she squinted her eyes a little as if the oddity of it hit her, that he understood her. Better than her own sister. “I don’t listen to Julia and Friedrich much,” she added.

  “Come on.” He grabbed her hand, impulsively. “Let’s go celebrate.”

  He expected her to pull away, waited for it. But she didn’t. She laced her fingers through his. “My favorite bakery is just down the block.”

  It was getting late, now, nearly nine, and the bakery shop was closing up, the owner rolling down the curtains in the front window. Hanna let go of Max’s hand, knocked on the glass, and when the older gentleman inside saw her, he smiled and waved them in.

  “Herr Brichtman lives just down the way from me,” Hanna explained. “His daughter Gerta plays violin, too. Or she used to, when we were younger. We’re still close friends.” He remembered what she’d told him that day on Maulbeerstrasse—she had friends; she didn’t need more. “Come on.” She pushed open the door. “I hope there’s a strudel left.”

  “Hannalie, how are you mein Mädchen?” He grabbed her in a hug, then stepped back and eyed Max.

  “This is . . . my friend, Max,” Hanna said. “Max Beissinger. He owns the bookshop on Hauptstrasse.”

  Herr Brichtman extended his hand for Max to shake. “Any friend of Hannalie’s is a friend of mine. I’ll bring out your favorite strudel, two forks. Have a seat.”

  The inside of the bakery was tiny, just five small tables with chairs, but they were the only ones inside now. Hanna pulled out a chair and Max sat across the table from her. She rested her violin case on the floor by her feet and put the flowers on top of it, and a moment later, Herr Brichtman brought out a plate, filled with heaping apple strudel and two forks as promised. “I have some things to ready in the kitchen for tomorrow. You two enjoy.” He patted Hanna affectionately on the shoulder and then walked toward the back of the shop.

  Hanna took a fork and dug in, and Max did the same. The pastry was buttery and delicious, the apples and cinnamon melting against his tongue. “This is so good,” he said. Herr Feinstein, who owned the bakeshop next door to him, specialized in bread, not pastry, and having such a sweet treat was a rarity for him.

  Hanna took another bite and then looked at him and laughed. “You have some on your face.” She reached across the table and touched his cheek, wiping away the piece of apple, her fingers lingering there a few seconds longer than they needed to. Her fingers were so small and soft—it amazed him how strong they must be to play the violin as she did.

  She moved her hand back and smiled, shyly, and then without really thinking, he leaned across the table and he kissed her. Her lips were warm and she tasted liked strudel, and once his brain caught up, he thought she would pull back, she would push him away. But then she put her hand back on his cheek and kissed him back.

  Hanna, 1946

  When I first saw Julia again, she hugged me and exclaimed that I hadn’t changed one bit. I said the same thing back to her, though it was a lie. Her hair had turned half gray since I’d seen her last. She looked not only older, but also . . . lumpier around her midsection. That was probably due to the two sons she mentioned giving birth to.

  “Boys,” Julia said while we were on the train back to London. “Two of them. Can you believe that, Hannalie?” Really, I couldn’t. It was hard to picture Julia as a mother, much less to boys. Julia despised messes and loud noises, and I imagined she had trained them to make neither somehow. Either that, or they drove her crazy. Maybe that explained the gray hairs.

  “How old are they?” I asked. These two little boys, my nephews, felt imaginary, distant, unconnected to me. I clutched my violin tightly to my chest and looked out the train window. There was so much evidence of war, buildings and cities decimated by bombs and fires, all through Germany, and now into the Netherlands. Many of the stations were still closed and the conductor announced that there would not be stops except for in the major cities, where I assumed repairs had been made the fastest. I wanted to stop looking out the window, but I couldn’t turn away. Where had I been during all this? How could I not remember?

  “Well, Levin is nine, and Moritz is seven. Levin is named for Papa and Moritz for Zayde, of course.” Papa died when I was a baby, and I knew him only in stories and pictures, but Zayde and I had been quite close. It was weird to think of a little boy, my nephew, with his same name.

  My head had begun to throb, and as the train whistle blew, I felt an odd jolt, the sensation of being afraid, though I didn’t know of what, and I wiped sweat away from my brow with the back of my hand.

  “I mean I would’ve saved one for you, but I thought you were dead.” Julia was still talking. “And maybe you’ll have a girl and you can name her Hedy, for Mamele?”

  “That’s the last thing on my mind right now,” I said.

  Julia patted my arm. “I know, but we’ll get you settled in London, and then you’ll see. Friedrich works in the laboratory at the hospital and he knows a lot of nice eligible men. Doctors.” I shook my head. “You’re thirty-four now, Hanna. You can’t be picky.” Was I really? Thirty-four? In my head I was still twenty-four, still in the bookshop with Max. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel him there, standing next to me, just before I played, the warmth of his hand on my arm, of his lips against my cheek.

  “If you want to have children, you’ll have to act quickly.” Julia was still talking, and I sighed. Though she looked older, she really hadn’t changed a bit. That old familiar annoyance crept up in my stomach, like I’d eaten something vile before we’d left Berlin. And I was feeling nauseated. But maybe that was just from the endless rocking of the train down the tracks, the continuing grip of fear. I didn’t want to be on the train. I wanted to get up, to run off, but how else would I get to London? I should be relieved to be here, to have Julia now, someone, something, that I knew. But I wasn’t. I didn’t want her. I wanted Max.

  I held tighter to my violin and turned away from the window. “What about the symphony?” I asked her. “Did it survive the war? Does it still exist?” I’d auditioned in Berlin, twice. The second time I’d actually gotten in, too. Was I good enough now, all these years later, to try again?

 
Julia laughed a little. “I really don’t know, Hanni. I don’t keep up with the symphony.” Of course she didn’t. She reached out and touched my violin. “But aren’t you too old for this nonsense now? Friedrich will get you a nice job with the Civil Service. Maybe in bookkeeping? You were always good with numbers.”

  “Bookkeeping?” I shook my head. “No thanks.”

  “There was a war, Hanni. People needed to eat. No one had time for music.” She held up her hands, exasperated.

  Julia had never had time for music, had never understood what the violin meant, how playing it for me was like breathing or sleeping or eating for her. Without it, I wouldn’t exist. I used to think it was all I needed, all I would ever need. Until I met Max. And now, without him I felt only half, only partially here. But at least I had my violin. I could still play. No matter what Julia thought or said or wanted, I knew that as soon as I got to London I was going to search for a symphony to join.

  London, too, looked broken, tired. Though I’d never been before, I’d imagined the entire train ride that it would be untouched, that it would not look like the rest of the cities I’d seen from the train window, bombed, destroyed. Julia explained about the Blitz as we got off the train, but like everything else, it didn’t feel real, and as I stepped out of the railcar, my legs felt unsteady, as if the ground were still moving beneath me and I was staying still.

  Julia and Friedrich lived in a duplex in the West End, and their neighborhood looked strangely serene, brick buildings and cobblestone streets. “We were lucky,” Julia said, as the taxi car pulled up in front of her home.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, taking in their three-storied brick home from the street.

  “Friedrich works hard and has managed to do all right, even through the war,” Julia said, matter-of-factly. “The fact is, the hospital only got busier.”

  I got out of the car and followed behind her, up the stairs to her red front door.