I’ve considered several titles, including “Max and Nadia,” “The Tale of Three Women,” “Private Lives,” “The Graveyard by the Sea.”
My themes are the same themes that writers have addressed since writing began and that storytellers in the Homeric tradition told of before then: love, hate, revenge, ambition, jealousy, destiny….
The same themes you see in Shakespeare and in soap operas. The only difference is in how the story is told. This is something I haven’t concerned myself with. I just described what happened.
Some feel that the manner of telling is more important than what is told. A thousand years ago, in the introduction to his Shahnameh, Ferdowsi said that everything there was to say had already been said, and the only thing left was to say it in a more beautiful manner.
But I’ve told this story because I felt it needed to be told and not in an attempt to create something beautiful.
I’m thinking about quoting a verse from Paul Valéry’s, “The Graveyard by the Sea” at the beginning of the book, but I haven’t decided yet.
When I began this book, only two of the main characters in the story were still alive. Now Max is gone, and I’m the only one left.
After I went through immigration and picked up my bag, I got into a taxi and went straight to Massachusetts General Hospital. I didn’t want to waste time checking into my hotel because I didn’t know how bad Max’s condition was.
I’d heard that American hospitals are very strict about visiting hours, but I had no problem getting in to see Max. I just gave his name at the information desk and they directed me to his room on the fourth floor.
Max was pale and seemed thinner, but he still looked like himself, and as soon as I saw him, I realized how much I’d missed him. When he saw me his eyes shone with joy, and despite how weak he was, he tried to sit up in bed. I went over and kissed him on the cheek.
“Nancy told me you were coming. I didn’t want you to go to so much trouble, but I was happy to hear you’d come. I wanted very much to see you one last time.”
“One last time?”
“Yes, one last time. There’s nothing left to hide. I’m dying, my suffering is coming to an end. But you already knew that in Istanbul.”
“No, you didn’t tell me anything.”
Max laughed.
“I’m not that naïve, Maya. Do you think I didn’t notice the change in your attitude after I got out of the hospital?”
“Max, I know it means opening old wounds, but I brought you some things, some mementos.”
“What sort of mementos?”
“From Nadia!”
He suddenly went pale and I felt a bit alarmed.
I sat at the foot of his bed, opened my bag, and took out the yellowed score of Serenade für Nadia.
He looked at it in disbelief, as if I’d performed a miracle. He began humming the melody, then stopped, and turned to me.
“How on earth did you find this?”
I told him about my talk with Matilda Arditi, about Scurla, the archives at Bad Arolsen, and the documents I’d found. I took the photos out of my bag and showed them to him.
A nurse came and told me that I should let the professor rest, and that I could come back tomorrow. Max immediately protested.
“No, please let her stay. It’s very important to me. She’s brought some things from my past that I have to see.”
He said it with such conviction that the nurse allowed me to stay and left us alone. While he pored over the pictures, I went over to the window. It was dark out, and the room was reflected in the glass. I could see Max even though I had my back to him, though I don’t know if he was aware of this. At one point he pressed Nadia’s picture to his chest and muttered something in German. Later, when I turned to face him, he thanked me.
“I brought something else for you too.”
“What is it?”
“This might be upsetting, but I felt you should see it, that somehow it would be like visiting Nadia’s grave.”
I turned on my laptop and loaded the DVD. Then the wreck of the Struma appeared on the screen. Max stared intently, barely breathing.
The divers’ lights pierced the darkness of the Black Sea, illuminating the skeleton of the Struma, its hull covered with barnacles and seaweed swaying from the rusting iron. The camera moved in closer, following the deck and then moving through an open door to the interior. This was where Nadia had spent the last months of her life. She’d walked down this corridor. This was where she’d slept, where she’d eaten, where she’d written her letters.
It was like diving into a tomb, an underwater tomb. There was some wreckage scattered on the seabed, and when the divers went down to take a closer look, they raised a cloud of sand. Max and I watched in awed silence. Sixty years later, he was seeing the ship he’d watched so desperately from the shore, that he’d scanned with his binoculars day after day in the hope of seeing Nadia. It was on that deck that he’d caught his last glimpse of her.
When the DVD ended, we sat in silence for some time, not knowing what to do or say. Then I turned off my laptop, put it in its case, and placed it next to my suitcase. Max didn’t even seem to know I was there. He just sat and stared at the wall. I waited for a time, then gathered my things quietly and tiptoed out of the room.
On the way to my hotel I suddenly felt bad, and began to wonder if I’d done the right thing. Had I come all this way just to reopen old wounds? Had I been tactless, had I caused him unnecessary pain, had I robbed him of the chance to die in peace?
As soon as I got to my room, I unpacked, took a hot bath, and then ordered clam chowder from room service. Then I went to bed but found I couldn’t sleep. I was too uneasy, too restless. Too many things kept turning in my mind. I finally took a pill, and sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I called the hospital after breakfast to ask if Max wanted to see me. The duty nurse told me that Max was scheduled for chemotherapy and probably wouldn’t be in a condition to see anyone. She took my number and said she would call tomorrow.
I had a whole empty, pointless day ahead of me, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. In the end I took a taxi to Harvard Square and spent most of the day wandering around the university, unable to escape the feelings that kept gnawing at me. In the evening I ate alone at the hotel, then tried to distract myself by watching television, but couldn’t find anything to focus on. I took a pill again and waited for that sweet numbness to start spreading through me.
The next morning the nurse, Barbara, phoned to say that Max was asking to see me. I rushed straight over, and as soon as I saw him I knew he wasn’t upset with me. Indeed, he looked at me with great warmth and affection. He took my hands and told me how very much he appreciated that I’d gone to so much trouble, that I’d brought him a connection to his past that was profoundly meaningful to him.
“There’s one more thing I’d like to ask of you. I’ve thought about this a lot, about whether I have the right to burden you with such a responsibility. If it’s something you feel you can’t take on, I’ll understand completely.”
I saw that he was struggling, that he couldn’t bring himself to say what he wanted to say.
“You know that I’ll do anything for you, Max. Please tell me. Don’t hesitate.”
When he told me, I was completely taken aback. I knew I couldn’t say no, but it was going to be very difficult.
A doctor came in to examine him and I was asked to leave, so I went down to the cafeteria and had a latte and thought about what I was going to do.
They wouldn’t let me see Max that afternoon. I asked Barbara how he was and she was noncommittal, but I could tell from her expression that it wasn’t good. He didn’t have much time left.
For the next two days, I wasn’t allowed to see him, and when I called Barbara on the third day she told me that he had passed away during t
he night.
Even though I’d been expecting this since I arrived, it came as a blow. Somehow, I suppose, I’d been expecting a miracle, or at least to be able to spend a bit more time with him. It took some time for the reality of it to sink in. I spent the rest of the day lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, remembering and trying to sort out my feelings.
The next day Nancy called and asked if we could meet. I invited her to my hotel, and she arrived in the evening after work with a large package.
Her voice had given me the impression she was quite young, and I was surprised to meet a woman in her fifties. We went to the bar and had a drink, talked about Max and about the funeral arrangements, and toasted his memory. Then she gave me the package.
“He wanted you to have this.”
I took the package and started to open it, but she put her hand on my arm to stop me. But as soon as she’d gone I rushed up to my room and tore it open. It was Max’s violin. The one he’d played by the seaside that morning in Şile.
Inside the case there was a letter addressed to Kerem. It wasn’t sealed, so I read it.
Dear Kerem,
This violin was given to me by my father eighty years ago, and I would very much like you to have it. We met only briefly, but this was long enough for me to see that you are an intelligent young man with great depth. It pleases me to believe that you will learn to play this instrument, and that it will bring as much beauty into your life as it did to mine.
The greatest spy, Max.
Kerem is now taking lessons from a Dutch woman, a retired music teacher who lives in Bodrum. He’s very enthusiastic about it; he loves the violin and is determined to learn to play well. But unfortunately until then, his practice sessions are almost torture to have to listen to.
Before Max’s funeral at the crematorium, there was a memorial service for him at the university. A number of colleagues spoke of his friendship, his character, and his work. Then I was invited to say a few words.
“I have nothing of substance to add to what Professor Maximilian’s friends and colleagues have said. If you will excuse my broken English, I should like to talk briefly about his years in Istanbul. A few months ago he returned for the first time to the city where he’d lived from 1939 to 1941, and it was during this visit that I had the good fortune to become acquainted with him. Through him I also had the opportunity to learn about the work of other scholars who had escaped from Nazi Germany and worked at Istanbul University.
“In the talk he gave at our university and in our private conversations, Professor Wagner touched on a very important matter. With his The Clash of Prejudices he built upon the ideas presented in Professor Huntington’s ‘The Clash of Civilizations’? and Edward Said’s ‘The Clash of Ignorance.’ During the Second World War he personally experienced the destruction, the disaster that arose from prejudice.”
I paused for a moment. The room was completely silent.
“I would also like to mention another person whom, had Max been with us, he would have wished us to remember—his dear wife, Nadia Deborah Wagner. The love between these two remarkable people proved stronger than the hateful prejudices that tried to destroy it.
“May their memory light our path.”
Later, about fifty of us gathered at the crematorium. There, a young woman stood and played Max’s Serenade on the violin. I turned on my digital recorder, closed my eyes, and pictured Max playing before the crashing waves on that cold, stormy day. It was the first time I’d heard the piece all the way through, and it was truly a magnificent piece of music. I could understand why it had moved Nadia so deeply.
As I listened to the beautiful “Serenade for Nadia,” I spoke silently to Max: “Now I know, Max,” I said. “I know that the letter you sent to the rector changed Nadia’s destiny. I know you’ve always condemned yourself. And that burning question never left you alone. In your mind, you always saw Nadia’s begging face, urging you not to send that letter. I didn’t dare to ask you about it then, but now I know. I understand. I’m sure Nadia has already forgiven you. Rest in peace.”
Then each of us got up in turn and stood in silence by the coffin. When it was my turn I placed a bouquet of carnations on the coffin, bowed my head and whispered, “Farewell Max. I will carry out your last request.”
When we had finished paying our respects the stone under the coffin moved and the mahogany coffin began to descend to the crematorium below. I left as Max descended toward the flames.
There was nothing left for me to do in Boston. My flight to Frankfurt wasn’t until midnight, so I had plenty of time. I went to the hotel and packed, and in the evening Nancy and I had dinner together in the hotel restaurant. We talked about Max.
“There are so many things I’m grateful to you for, Nancy,” I said, “but there’s one thing in particular that I’ll never forget.”
A slight smile appeared on her lips and there was a look of bewilderment in her eyes as she gave a questioning glance.
“It was because of you that I first heard the serenade that Max wrote for Nadia,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I did nothing except give the score to a music student and ask that it be played at the ceremony. You were the one who found the music. Ah, Max. What an unexpected gift it was for him.”
* * *
—
Later Nancy drove me to Logan Airport and came with me as far as the check-in counter. After I’d checked in my suitcase she gave me a package and some papers, shook my hand, and left. Then, with the package in one hand and the violin in the other, I went to customs.
I explained the situation and was taken into a back office where a customs officer asked me if the package was metal.
“No, it’s mahogany.”
“Can you open it?”
I took off the paper wrapping, opened the cardboard box, and took out the mahogany urn. The front of the urn was very tastefully decorated with the figures of two white doves.
“Whose ashes does it contain?”
“The ashes of Professor Maximilian Wagner from Harvard University.”
“Where are you taking them?”
“To Istanbul. It was his last request.”
“Are you a relative?”
“No.”
“May I see your passport?”
“Certainly.”
The officer perused it for a while and said, “I presume you’re Muslim.”
“Yes.”
“In your religion isn’t it a sin to cremate the dead?”
“Perhaps, I don’t know, but it might be. There’s no crematorium in Istanbul.”
Clearly the circumstances seemed very odd to the officer; a Muslim woman carrying the ashes of a Roman Catholic professor with a German name to Istanbul. “Do you have the death certificate?”
“Yes, here it is.”
I handed him the brown paper envelope Nancy had given me.
“OK, the international cremation certificate?”
“They’re all in the envelope.”
After he had looked at these he checked the violin.
“OK,” he said. “Everything seems to be in order. I apologize if I’ve upset you with my questions.”
“No,” I said. “But why were you so curious?”
The officer said, “Because I’m a Muslim too.” He followed it up with “Alhamdulillah! Thank God!”
I carefully packed the urn away and went to the waiting area.
I didn’t turn on my laptop once during the journey; I didn’t write anything. I held on to Max’s ashes the whole time, except when I was eating. Somehow, holding that box seemed to be a way of holding on to him, of keeping him in the world of the living.
In the transit lounge in Frankfurt, it struck me as appropriate that Max, who hadn’t been back to Germany since 1939, should pass briefly through h
is home country before arriving at his final resting place.
He hadn’t wanted his ashes to be scattered in Germany, on his parents’ grave, on the Rhine, or at their old house in Munich—whoever owned it now. His life had ended on the shore of the Black Sea, and that was where he wanted his remains to rest.
No one asked about the package at Turkish customs, and as soon as I got my suitcase, I took a taxi home. I put the mahogany urn and the violin in the middle of the table, took a bath and a pill, and went to sleep.
The next day I hired a driver to take me out to Şile. I directed him down the side road and asked him to stop when we reached the ridge. It was a beautiful day, and couldn’t have been more different from the last time I was there. The sun was out and the sea was as smooth as glass.
I carried the urn to the beach without even glancing over at the Black Sea Motel. When I reached the edge of the sea I took out my digital recorder, pressed play, and put it on the sand. Max’s Serenade began to play. Then I opened the lid of the urn, said a last farewell, and scattered the ashes onto the Black Sea. The ashes became darker the moment they touched the water, and I could see the gentle waves pulling them out away from the shore. Max was on his way to join Nadia. With the Serenade still playing behind me, I tossed the urn into the sea and watched it bob on the slow waves.
Then I lay on my back on the beach and watched the high, thin clouds drift past. I remembered Nadia’s letter, in which she spoke of looking up to the sky for a sign, and seeing a flock of birds flying in formation. I, too, looked for a sign, but saw none.
The music ended and there was no sound but the gentle washing of the waves. I closed my eyes, and at just that moment the Serenade began to play again from the beginning.
I must have drifted off to sleep for a moment, because when I opened my eyes there was a man standing over me. I recognized him at once—the strange-looking boy from the Black Sea Motel.
Serenade for Nadia Page 28
