I turned to David. “Do journalists have a way of making things okay?”
“I’m not sure that’s exactly our job, but we help. We tell the truth as best we can,” David confirmed. “Nothing ever happens at the right time. We must be ready. It’s the best weapon we have.”
“Better than guns?”
“Words are better, the truth is better, more powerful. But actions are most powerful of all.”
My world was becoming much larger than I could have ever imagined. It was also becoming more frightening. I was learning more but was also more confused with every passing day. Part of me wanted to know more, to know and understand everything, while another part, the weaker side of me, wanted to go back to a time when I knew nothing, when the world was a small and safe place. But one thing I knew for sure: I could never go back.
On my way home, I knew more than ever that I wanted to watch and listen and learn and report, to fill a red notebook scored with dark blue lines.
Anna realized that the past few days were just a preamble for her assignment. There was no one in the office she could enlist. She knew that right away and needed someone who could anticipate coming events. But who? Apart from a few colleagues, there were still Jews in Prague who denied that there was danger ahead. Anna had Pierre Burger’s address in her pocket, and in very short order, she would contact him.
NEW AND OLD FRIENDS
“What can I help you with, young man?”
The man inside the kiosk wore a nameplate on his shirt. sam raggle, news agent.
“I was admiring your selection of newspapers.” I took in all the titles: the Prager Tagblatt, Munich Post, Lidové noviny. He had papers in Czech, German, English.
“I can tell you are keen on news. I don’t think I’ve seen you at my stand before.”
“Yes, I am. I need to read as much as I can,” I said with some authority, “especially The Observer.”
“That’s a good paper. I see you are a worldly reader. The only boy your age who comes around is David Grunewald, and I give him the papers left over.”
“David’s my best friend.”
He smiled. “Well, in that case, I have more confidence in your generation than I have in mine.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ve been here for twenty years and I hope to be here for another twenty,” Mr. Raggle continued.
“Why wouldn’t you be?”
“You know we may be facing a German occupation. I’m not sure what will happen to us all. It causes me a lot of sleepless nights, I can tell you. I could lose my stand. Things are heading in a dangerous direction according to the papers coming out of Berlin. I’m wondering what’s going to happen. Here, take a copy of the Prager Tagblatt. It’s on me. The Bohemia is not publishing much these days.”
I raced home to read what was inside. As I ran, I saw a heavyset man sitting on a park bench across from the newsstand. His daunting black overcoat caught my eye. Was it the same man who had followed David and me? I wasn’t sure. Perhaps there was an army, and they all lived in the same overcoat. I looked again. His black coat matched his black hat, the wide brim shading most of his face. It was a uniform. He was there alone, making notes in a black book. Like David, I had an urge to approach him and try to discover what he was writing. But I had a stronger urge to flee, to get away from this man and return to the safety of home and Poppy. I set off running, not looking back once.
Spreading the paper out on the living room floor, I read the Tagblatt page by page, accepting every word. There were articles about everything—features, editorials, advertisements, a calendar of concerts. Would there be news about Sophie, about her new home? Something about Germany? I scoured the paper over and over, reading every piece of hard news I could find and storing it away in my mental file. There was just enough to help me understand things at least a little better. I couldn’t find an account of the demonstration that Poppy and I had faced recently, or anything about the violence, about fighting in the streets, about bloodshed, about ideals. I had the feeling that the paper wasn’t reporting everything.
Was there a gap between what was real, what was happening, and what was reported? Do the papers tell the truth? The whole truth? Perhaps that was my job. See everything, record everything.
Overcome with unshakable self-confidence, I scribbled away, just as David had told me to, one word at a time. It was important to see everything around me as it was and to write entries about what I saw and felt. I was going to have to determine what really happens and what doesn’t, what matters and what doesn’t. I was on my way to finding the tools that would be needed one day to become a good journalist.
The Basilica of St. James was tucked away in a fairy-tale huddle of seventeenth-century houses.
I made my next entry.
Against a background where the sky is clear and blue, there was a painted church contrasted by faded yellows.
Inside, statues of angels were flanked by fresh bouquets of flowers. Extra chairs lined every aisle. The pews were filled to overflowing. The Great Viktor Mueller found seats in the packed church.
“Ready for the big attraction?” Poppy asked.
Rising from a balcony was a carved and gilded organ that had been played since 1705, representing a long tradition of keyboard excellence. And on that morning, with the sound of deep Slovak basses, and what Hans called “skirling sopranos,” the choir and organist performed one of the seventy-six eighteenth-century masses in their repertoire. Poppy closed his eyes and listened to the echoes swirling around the vaulted ceilings. Behind us were twenty-one altars, and at the foot of each, groups were sitting on the stone floor, motionless, listening to the choir.
Sounds float out through the doors, filling Old Town with music.
Poppy took a moment, explaining to Anna, “It is a product of a troubled history speaking in a very personal way.”
There was always a menu of concerts in churches and squares to be enjoyed in Prague.
Hans and Poppy returned home with apple tarts and cider, to finish off the evening playing musical chess, as they called it. They were never happier than when they were trying to outdo each other on the twin pianos.
We introduced Anna to the Steinway boys. They were my “uncle group,” those who came over to the “Grand Hotel Krása” once a week. I had already told Sophie about them and was going to include them in my notebook. Uncle Fritz played an accordion; Uncle Bobo, a guitar. Uncle Vaclav played saxophone, and Uncle Karl had mastered the bass. Uncle Anton sang and danced. A few irregular uncles joined them on special occasions, which is odd to say, because they were all special occasions to me.
They weren’t really my uncles, but I wanted them to be. Sometimes they played Strauss waltzes, sometimes lively mazurkas, and things really got going when they reached for their playbook of gypsy music. Anton danced, Hans played the piano, and Poppy, wearing a costume consisting of a white ruffled shirt, puffed sleeves, and red turban, took to his violin with such intensity that I thought a string would pop at any moment.
Uncle Vaclav and Uncle Karl were identical twins who often played the same instruments; they looked alike, played alike. They brought a trunk filled with instruments with them, lugging it up the stairs to the flat. Having emigrated from Berlin, they were much in demand in Prague. I’m not the best judge of age, but I suspect they were in their forties, large and balding, wearing white shirts with soup-stained black ties. They completed the musical circle like bookends, and the most fun came when they introduced Anna to a new song from America, with Poppy easily strumming his newly discovered banjo.
Georgia, Georgia, the whole day through
An’ just an old sweet song keeps Georgia on my mind.
Georgia, Georgia, a song of you
Comes as sweet and clear
As moonlight through the pines.
Other
arms reach out to me;
Other eyes smile tenderly.
Still inpeaceful dreams I see,
The road leads back to you.
The tall French doors were open. Hans called from the balcony, “We have an audience!”
Poppy gave an expansive wave to the crowd that had gathered outside to listen to the improvised American evening. They applauded. The neighbors never complained about the songs or even the pounding and thumping, always enjoying the concert.
“Would you like an encore?” Poppy asked the crowd, urging the Steinway boys to play.
“Yes!” I cheered along with the crowd.
“Here’s a song from the great American composer George Gershwin!”
The Steinway Boys performed a song called “Strike Up the Band.” And it was a rousing finale. Anna loved it. It was something to write about. Perhaps, after all, music had the power to save us all from whatever was coming. For tonight, at least, I would hold on to that dream.
LETTERS AND
DISPATCHES
Anna’s visit had been a distraction, and a lovely one at that, but for days now, weeks, I had been checking the post every day, waiting for some note from Sophie, something that would tell me she was all right, that she had arrived, maybe that she was thinking about me a little from time to time. At long last a letter arrived. Bounding to my room, I carefully opened it and looked for how she signed it before I even read the first sentence. Love, Sophie. That ending was a good beginning.
November 1938
Dear Max,
We arrived and are settled, and it is much different from where I once lived or what we had imagined. It is an unusual setting with interesting people, many I would like to meet. They have concerts here, which I enjoy, and I still think about you a lot. I loved every minute with you in Prague, and seeing how you spend your time. I’m afraid we have no ice cream here, but that’s all right. Looking back to our day together allows me to remember so many good memories and sweet thoughts.
Max, have you decided what you want to do? I bet you would like to be a composer like Hans, or a conductor like your father, performing on the great stages of Europe to audiences who love music. Am I right? When I first held your hand, it was soft and meant for the piano. I know that touch, as so many in my family are musicians, and I feel the happiness they have when they play, like Hans, I suspect. Music has always been part of our lives, and that is why it is so hard for me to understand why the Germans came to us the way they did—the same Germans who love music—and made us leave. My father was a soldier of sorts who tried to protect us and fight, but he lost. Are you a soldier, or a poet? Then again, with your curious mind, I suspect you might be thinking of becoming a journalist. And you’ll make a darn good one too. We need to let the world know what matters most in the day’s history. Is it better to win with a song or with words? What do you think? Who are you going to become, Max, when you grow up? For me, I think I would like to find the right phrase for each expression, so maybe a musician or even a poet? But if not, then a nurse like my mother. She likes taking care of me as much as I like taking care of her. I guess I was hoping to find my father here, but we didn’t. I think we would like you to be a part of our family. I don’t have a father anymore, and you don’t have a mother, so in these ways we are alike, and sort of fit, don’t you think? Like pieces of a puzzle coming together. I suppose feelings follow us wherever we go. Well, I’ve always been daring, so I’ll try out a poem on you.
I hide myself in a flower.
At first, I thought it best.
You, unsuspecting, are one too.
And I think you know the rest.
I miss you.
Love,
Sophie
I slipped her letter into the pages of my notebook. I wasn’t sure how to reply. She was asking me what I wanted to be, and that was a pretty hard question. No one had ever written a poem to me before, and no one had ever missed me. I read it over and over and kept it close by, folded in the pages of my secret journal. It was enough to keep me happy and not so lonely for a while. I thought about her father and her home and music and words; there was so much for me to think about. I wrote back in my best handwriting.
Dear Sophie,
I can’t express myself like you. Your letter really moved me. I’m going to have to learn to untie my feelings, they are knotted up like my shoelaces. I need to make sense of everything.
I miss you, Sophie.
Love,
Max
Anna paced the room, thinking that she should send a dispatch for Travel as MacPherson had suggested, just in case she was being observed and monitored by German agents.
FOR TRAVEL: ANNA KINGSLEY
Prague, like London, Paris, and Berlin, is a city that should not be overlooked, but is one still waiting to be discovered. It offers up a confection of poetry and musical delights that centuries have shaped. Throughout, there are serpentine streets, old cobbled alleys, and Baroque churches and palaces in this place of a hundred spires. Red-tiled roofs rise and fall, creating shadows over drowsy courtyards and gently contoured lawns leading to riverbanks. Prague’s survival has been a matter of luck. It has not been bombed or sacked, yet, but has a special poignancy inspired by a turbulent past.
The Hapsburgs endowed the city with beauty, painted domes, vistas, and churches teeming with angels surrounded by gilded floral swags.
In the evening, Wenceslas Square is filled with music and in summer, people in evening dress returning from a concert find a curbside stall selling hot sausages on fresh, warm bread with spicy mustard and sauerkraut before closing for the night. Then Prague becomes an almost deserted city, ruffled only by the swish of water carts washing down the streets, and the closing rumble of the last infrequent train.
During the spring’s musical calendar, festivals take place, with the opening concert by the Czech Philharmonic played in a courtyard before a splendidly dressed audience. Everyone stands for the national anthem, with its bittersweet opening based on a nineteenth-century song, “Kde domov můj,” “Where Is My Home?”
For a music lover, the most thrilling experience is to sit within the green walls of the Estates Theatre and listen to the music of Mozart rising through the gilded tiers of seats to the narrow oval roof, just as it did on that triumphant first night more than one hundred and fifty years ago. And in these uncertain times in Prague, the future has never seemed so precarious. But perhaps in just a few nights or a few days, the Nazis’ political agenda will spread across the continent and we will come to know if the city can survive—the magic remains, and music will still play.
THE PIANO TUNER
My new, unwavering interest was news, but my focus was music. Once a week, I received my tuning assignments from Mr. Lorin Mannheim of the Companie Musik, the city’s finest music shop. Mr. Mannheim was the most remarkable piano tuner in town. Because he was blind, it was not always easy to make house calls, and from time to time jobs fell to me.
How I acquired this skill I don’t altogether know, because I can’t remember a time when I couldn’t do it. I’ve always had a good ear, and the mechanics, the technical skill, I learned from this extraordinary man, who knew everything about each instrument ever crafted, from horns and flutes to percussion and strings. He could bang out a Strauss waltz as if his hands were dancing and could restore a neglected instrument like no one else.
At a moment’s notice, Mr. Mannheim sat at a piano bench and moved his fingers up and down the keys so fast they were a blur of motion.
“When I was growing up, my parents let me do anything I wanted to do,” Mr. Mannheim told me, “and that was a big deal because I couldn’t see. When I was your age, my parents felt it was time for a piano. We all have a handicap, and in many ways it makes us who we are.” He said this almost if he could see, knowing somehow that I wore a brace.
“Ma
x, you have a special talent. Always remember that an out-of-tune piano makes noise, not music. You’re there to make things right.”
I studied with Mr. Mannheim, who was as patient as he was kind. My father and David knew that I was learning something special, and with their support, I had soon mastered the craft. To mark the achievement, my father gifted me a small black bag at Christmas, and inside it, my tuning kit, which looked like a set of medical instruments. And I was a doctor of sorts, a musical surgeon. The badges of success for a true piano tuner are the felt ribbons woven meticulously in strands between the piano wires. These red ribbons were always with me, and over time, became my signature.
“Each note has three strings per key,” Mr. Mannheim taught me when I first began to learn my craft. “You must first mute the outside strings, so the middle one will sound for each particular note. After you hold it, that’s how you count the beats. I actually don’t count but I hear them.”
I learned to do the same. And with a special tuning hammer and my cherished red felt ribbons, I visited some of the most beautiful houses in Prague.
I soon came to refer to pianos as my ladies, because they were all elegant and graceful and like my mother, a faraway song. It was my love of music and playing the piano that filled so many afternoons with delight. In time, I became known in every pub and concert hall in town.
I particularly liked being alone on a dark stage, just me, my lady, and a work light, and we would speak to each other, note after note, until we reverberated splendidly together.
While the Music Played Page 9
