While the Music Played

by Nathaniel Lande

  Tuesdays were my piano-tuning days, and even though I received a few crowns for every piano I tuned, it wasn’t so much the money that gratified me, but the glorious compensation of knowing that I was making some contribution to music, not just playing, but making it resonate. I was giving back to each piano her pure and lovely voice. But my job now offered a way to observe people and things. I never paid any attention before. A tuning journalist, I thought. A red notebook now found itself snugly secured in my little black bag, keeping company with the hammer and those red felt ribbons.

  The large brass plate announced the German embassy, a grand house with a handsome limestone facade across the Charles from Old Town, fashionable and smart. I rang the bell and was escorted in by a housekeeper dressed in a white starched apron. She spoke with a pronounced Berlin accent: “Come with me, Herr Piano Tuner, ja, to the living room.”

  And soon I was weaving my red felt between the strings, and letting my fingers hit an ivory key. I was at home here, as I always was with my work. A short while later my focus was interrupted when I saw a tall man in a smart tailored German uniform looking down at me.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Max Mueller.”

  “I’m General Heydrich. How old are you?”

  “Twelve, nearly thirteen.”

  “And you tune pianos?”

  “I do. And this is surely a lovely one you have here. It’s an August Förster, a very fine grand, sir.”

  I could tell the general was amazed. People always were. And I took special pains to show anyone who might be interested something of a tuning performance; it always was a way to make friends.

  Then to test the notes, I played a German tune, currently popular in the Music Halls called, “Die Liebe macht das Leben schön.”

  The general enjoyed my playing immensely and called a few members of his service staff into the room.

  “An encore, please, Mr. Piano Tuner.”

  The staff, dressed in their black-and-white uniforms, looking like a chorus, hummed along—the general tapping his foot in time.

  They were a very appreciative audience.

  “Mueller, that’s a German name, not Czech!”

  “Yes, my father is Viktor Mueller, from Berlin.”

  Gratified to hear something of my background, the general said, “Viktor Mueller. Of course.” By that I assumed that he believed we had a certain kinship, which I supposed we had.

  “I’ve watched your father conduct in Berlin, Max. He is quite brilliant. You must take after him. Good German genes. My father was Bruno Heydrich, also a composer, so we have much in common. I’m delighted to welcome you to my home in Prague.”

  “Bruno Heydrich. That’s quite interesting. I’ve studied a few of his compositions with my teacher, Hans Krása. Let me know if he ever needs his piano tuned. I’ll gladly do it for free.”

  “I applaud your generosity.”

  “Thank you, Herr General. Anytime you need my services, just hit a few notes. I won’t be far away.”

  The tall man smiled, and left the room, calling to his housekeeper to bring some fresh cider and apfelstrudel, which made for a lovely afternoon, and after this brief refreshment, I finished my work and left the embassy for my next call. I made an entry in my notebook about this man Heydrich.

  Szymon Laks, a composer from Poland who had founded a Polish boys’ choir, came to Prague on tour.

  Poppy was invited to conduct a Mozart program. To open the concert, he and Hans would play the Sonata for Two Pianos in D. The Great Viktor Mueller took me aside and paused dramatically.

  Another story coming …

  “There was a young man in Rome called Gregorio Allegri, who composed one of the most beautiful pieces ever written. It was so special that even the pope declared it could only be performed within the Sistine Chapel, that is, until Mozart visited the place and transcribed the entire piece after hearing it once. He was almost fourteen.”

  We were practically the same age.

  “What’s it called, Poppy?”

  “The Miserere. You’ll hear it tonight!”

  I took Anna. I knew she would enjoy it. Of course, I went onstage for a moment to make sure the pianos were perfectly tuned. They were.

  The choir was pitch perfect. Poppy was spot on: it was all so beautiful, and I thrilled to hear it, along with an equally appreciative audience. Anna said, “There it is, Max. There’s the power of music. I’ve always believed that we have a soul, not just individually, but something shared and inexpressible in any other way. I recorded her words in my notebook.

  Music gives our imagination wings.

  Backstage, I met one of the leading members. His name was Jan, and he had the yellowest hair and clearest blue eyes I’d ever seen on a boy. We didn’t speak the same language but managed to communicate in some form of silent understanding.

  Finishing the evening, Jan and I walked over cobblestone streets and saw a comet in the sky. I had never seen one before. I suddenly felt connected to something. Was I part of it all?

  We looked up and followed its path. It was a moment without words, shared together.

  KARLOVY VARY

  After Anna had told me about her country, I thought she should know more about ours. I mentioned it to Hans and he agreed. Maybe to a spa town like Terezín?

  “We should be invited there first, Max.”

  “Then, how about Karlovy Vary?” I suggested.

  Perfect!

  The fairy-tale village was about an hour away by train; it was easy enough, even without Poppy tagging along as a guide. Having been a frequent visitor, I knew the place fairly well. The spa itself was in a narrow valley surrounded by hills, with a river running right through the center of town. The architecture was called Belle Époque, and it looked like a village of wedding cakes. Perfect indeed.

  For centuries, the noted and the famous came to take the waters. The bathhouses were magnificent structures and, in the evening, orchestras played in the great square. Poppy told me that people had walked the promenades for hundreds of years. And on this excursion, it became obvious to me that Hans and Anna liked each other a lot. The way they acted was very real. Not so different than me and Sophie.

  At the Grand Hotel Pupp, behind acres of gardens and in front of a rim of mountains, the general manager greeted us. He was formal, friendly, dressed in a double-breasted suit and polished black shoes that shone like mirrors. I could even see my reflection in them.

  “Welcome, Mr. Krása,” he said graciously. “Would you prefer the Beethoven Suite or the Bach, or the Mozart or the Chopin Suite? Brahms, Grieg?” They had all been guests.

  Hans turned to Anna for her choice.

  “I seem to be in the mood for Chopin.”

  “Very well.”

  My room was part of the suite, and it had yellow-striped chintz curtains and white painted furniture—not exactly my taste, but it had cheerfulness, like Sophie.

  The rooms were so large that Anna twirled in and out of them.

  “What, no string quartet?” she asked.

  “Not even a piano,” Hans lamented, until he found one in a salon beside the living room and played a few bars of Chopin’s Nocturne E-flat Major, op. 9, no 2.

  The music stopped Anna in her tracks.

  “You really think I need the cure?” Anna teased.

  “I think you’re incurable!” Hans replied.

  “Well, I’m getting better.”

  “Sounds promising!”

  I sensed they wanted to be alone. Understanding such things, I couldn’t blame them.

  The waters were said to refresh the spirit. With concerts in the evening and a lot of good food, I looked for something to do. I walked over to the colonnade with my own cup, and every hundred feet or so, I stopped at a drinking station, each with its own name: the Market,
the Lower Castle, the Nymph and Park. It was called “taking the waters.” All the while, I thought about Sophie, where she was and what she was doing.

  Finally, Anna and Hans caught up, with apologies, as if they had been neglecting me.

  I didn’t mind. I knew they had spent enough getting-to-know-you time. I would have felt the same way with Sophie.

  The next day, I left, feeling sure they needed to be together. The train station was several hundred yards and five minutes away, so I left a note so as not to worry them and sent a postcard to Sophie. Then I returned to Prague.

  In my carriage, between being awake and falling asleep, the rackety-clack of the steel wheels lulled me into a daydream.

  “It’s the baths,” I said to Sophie; “I’ve booked a special one.”

  Sophie was surprised. In the center of a green-paneled room was a huge bathtub, bubbling with hot mineral water. It had been built for Edward VII.

  “Built for a king?” Sophie asked.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, we put on our suits. Daydreams are that way. You can do most anything you want to do.

  “There is nothing like a hot bath,” I said, stepping into the water.

  “Well, after all, we are friends.”

  “Girlfriend,” I reminded Sophie.

  Sophie followed, laughing. “You, Max, are the most adventuresome boy I’ve ever known. In fact, just too bold for words!”

  As we were soaking opposite each other, an attendant popped in to check the temperature and left a large pitcher of cold lemonade.

  “Lemons from the Orangery.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “London, my dear. I shall take you there.”

  “You are a daring one, Max Mueller. I’m a very proper girl.”

  We exchanged gazes from opposite ends of the tub.

  “This is something I could get used to,” I said.

  “The baths?”

  “No! You, silly!”

  Sophie flushed. “It must be the waters.”

  Under the green iron arches, the sound of a whistle announcing my arrival at the Prague station woke me out of my reverie. On my way out, along the dusty-tiled murals of the station were ladies with silver trays selling inviting-looking sugar-dusted fruit pastries that seemed as though they should be eaten only by gentlemen in white gloves and dinner jackets. They tasted so good that I treated myself to several.

  A few days later, Anna and Hans stepped down from the green-and-red carriage at the station. She waved to me, waiting on the platform, and I presented her with an arrangement of flowers.

  “Did you have a good time?”

  Anna couldn’t stop smiling. It was the same smile Hans had when he first returned from London.

  THE GENERAL

  ATTENDS A CONCERT

  The most celebrated figure in the city’s musical life was Bedřich Smetana, who years ago had opened a school in Old Town Square that attracted pupils from the city’s nobility. But Prague’s indifference to his compositions, and his disenchantment concerning the future of Czech nationalism, caused the composer to immigrate to Sweden, writing, Prague does not wish to recognize me, therefore I have left her. But within five years he returned, having missed his beloved country. Smetana had once proclaimed, “Music is the life of the Czechs,” and the evening’s performance was inspired by this patriotic composer.

  Reinhard Heydrich, a rising star in the Nazi Party who Poppy said would soon be the Reichsprotektor of Prague, had come to pay his respects. David had told me how Hitler was expanding his hold on Europe, and Heydrich was one of his most trusted generals.

  Anna invited me to the opening. She was fast becoming my concert-going partner.

  “Wait until David hears about this. Sitting in a press box with you, Anna!”

  I was so proud that my father was conducting. We got to our seats early. The musicians filed in, with scraping chairs and rustling sheet music.

  The orchestra began warming up. A clarinet broke into a quick arpeggio, a flute was running scales. The string section straightened their backs, pulling the bows across their instruments in strange, dissonant tones. I loved this moment. I knew that in a few seconds, all those scattered sounds would gradually find something amazing. Little by little, it quieted down as the moments ticked closer for the evening to begin.

  The house lights dimmed. When the musicians were ready, the concertmaster called for an A from the oboe. The Great Viktor Mueller took the podium as if it were his home. Poppy was dressed in his white tie and tails and polished patent leather slippers. The orchestra adored him. He created a direct, electric connection between the musicians and the audience. His conducting was a masterful show, as much an acting performance as a musical one. I was excited. I fought the urge to dance up to the stage to greet him.

  For the briefest time, just a single breath, he paused on the edge of silence. He tapped his baton. I always inhaled and then held my breath in that moment, as the first note was played. But then the music, in all its power and instantaneously overwhelming sound, began. His right hand skillfully held the slender wand, as his left hand both responded to and anticipated the music. He caressed the notes and urged still more feeling from the players—turning, gliding, and gracefully speaking to each instrument in turn, urging with his movement every expressive chord and phrase. Sometimes, he even lifted himself up, his heels leaving the platform.

  Poppy waved his arms; the music became a direct extension and expression of his swirling ivory baton. A cello chased the violins. Other instruments joined in. The music seemed to fall over itself in perfect cadence. A torrent of notes flowed from bows and wrists, the sound filling every inch of the theater’s interior space, right up to the balconies. The orchestra was transported by the sound of Smetana’s music, and they played with patriotic fervor. The audience was exhilarated—you could feel it and were a part of it.

  During the performance, I noticed that Anna was becoming nervous and uneasy. She kept glancing at the man on my left, who had winked at me. He was clearly enjoying himself immensely. But Anna was uncomfortable, with good reason. It was General Heydrich, just as I remembered him from the embassy, polite and cordial, tall with an angular face and a nose sculpted too long for his other features.

  At the intermission, in a large, formal room with pale-blue walls and cream marble columns, we met up.

  “Good evening, Herr Piano Tuner.” He smiled, and I introduced him to Anna.

  “This is my friend Anna Kingsley.”

  He bowed politely. “You’re from London and working on the Kindertransport program.”

  “Ich bin,” Anna responded in perfect German.

  Kindertransport. It was that word again. What did it really mean? I couldn’t find it in my dictionary.

  “Hardly needed,” the general replied. “We love our children.”

  I continued speaking with the general in German, asking if he liked the concert. I think Anna was stunned by my easy willingness to engage him in conversation and was unnerved by the general, who was causing a stir in the house.

  “Are you enjoying the concert, General?”

  “A great evening,” he replied. “For Prague, for the Reich.”

  “It is a great evening and I’m very glad you like music. It’s a fine night.”

  General Heydrich gave a warm smile. “Ich danke Ihnen. Thank you.”

  When we returned to our seats, Anna leaned over and whispered under her program: “Do you know who you’re chatting with?”

  “Yes, of course. I tuned his piano,” I replied.

  “He is very dangerous, Max.”

  “Dangerous, like me?”

  “It’s not a joke. Be serious. Be courteous and respectful, and careful. Heydrich has come to Prague on Hitler’s orders, and if he’s in cahoots with Hitler, he’s probably not someone we would want to in
vite to dinner.”

  After the concert, friends greeted performers backstage with kisses on both cheeks and “wonderful, dear,” “moving, dear,” “amazing, dear …” Heydrich arrived, congratulating the cast, and when he came to Poppy, he was particularly winning.

  Anna remained discreetly in the background, a bit unnerved.

  She was aware of the rumors that had circulated about Heydrich’s Jewish ancestry. His grandmother had married a Jew. Because of his background, Anna thought he was more of a contradiction—but a hard-core Nazi.

  “I know your son, Maestro Mueller,” Heydrich said. “We spoke during the interval, he is an engaging young man. He came around the other day and tuned my piano. Talent clearly runs in the family.”

  “No one could have done it better.”

  “It is indeed a pleasure to meet Viktor Mueller, the great conductor, or should I say, the Great Viktor Mueller? Like his father, your son has a fondness for music. I am very much the same. My father was devoted to music as well.” Heydrich smiled and adjusted his uniform.

  I quickly added, “The general’s father is Bruno Heydrich, the composer!”

  “Yes,” Heydrich said, lifting one eyebrow. “I can’t believe that Max should know his work.”

  “Bruno is a master,” I added.

  “Do you really think that?”

  “I’ve studied his compositions, as I said. You and I appreciate good music.”

  Heydrich was pleased and leaned down. “Max, I hope we meet again at the opera. I enjoy your company.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Then turning to Viktor, he said, “It would be a splendid opportunity to plan a new program for the Reich. Come and see me in Berlin. Yes, come and see me, it will be my honor and pleasure to have tea with the father of the Great Max Mueller. My card, Herr Mueller.”

  “And may I present the general with mine.” With that reciprocal gesture, they exchanged engraved white vellum cards.

  The general clicked his heels and with a regimental snap, raised his arm with a “Heil Hitler!” Poppy bowed politely, holding his baton across his heart.