Poppy was getting close to powerful, dangerous people. Too close.
On the way to the station, we passed by a theater on the Ku’damm. The last production Poppy had directed in the same theater was a musical by Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill called The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny. He had told me that in the last act, Mahagonny goes up in flames, destroyed by actors carrying signs reading, let’s destroy the other fellow. The final refrain was a chilling reminder because it had been banned a few years before, when Stormtroopers, Germany’s special assault troops, marched past.
Now a concert by Wagner was being performed by Berlin’s famed Philharmonic conducted by Wilhelm Furtwängler. His name was prominently displayed on the marquee, and Poppy knew him well.
“He’s regarded as one of the greatest in Germany. But recently, we’ve had our differences.”
“You’re both great conductors, how do you differ?”
“Furtwängler was critical of Hitler’s appointment as chancellor, and I very much supported him. But as the Third Reich took hold, he compromised, to save his orchestra.”
“Was he a collaborator, Poppy?”
“He did what he had to do, Max.”
“What’s the difference? Aren’t you doing the same, doing what you have to do?”
A long silence fell between us.
I posted a letter to Sophie, because I was thinking about her at every turn. After waving goodbye to Poppy standing on the platform, I was still wondering what could be so important to send me home alone. The endless rhythm of the wheels over the tracks offered welcome distraction from these concerns.
Opening my notebook, I was hoping that I was learning to write better, even copying articles I’d read, imitating style, of course not original, but it was a practical lesson. It felt like the drills in football training, practicing moves and set pieces. I was learning and honing my craft.
Passing ice-cold lakes outside of Berlin’s great green forests and birch trees. Putting my face to the window, I see two children are ice-skating along an endless ribbon. They skate as fast as they can, trying to keep up with our train. We speed beyond them; they reach their arms toward me, waving goodbye. We pass a picture book of houses. I’m leaving a country and I have the feeling it will be a long time before I return.
The birthday festivities were moving south and so was Viktor Mueller. The private train taking him to Bavaria was known as the Blue Train. It was green with gold lettering on the side of each wagon, spelling out berlin-münchen-salzburg. The carriages had blue upholstered velvet chairs, table lights with rose lampshades, blue curtains, and crystal fixtures. Leading the carriages was a locomotive pouring out streams of white smoke, and a gleaming gold watch pulled from the conductor’s pocket was a sign that the journey was about to begin. There was a whiff of delicious sauces from the mahogany-paneled dining car, and the endless rhythm of the wheels over the tracks. In a few hours, there were mountains, and on the other side, another landscape, another life. Every car had attendants dressed in starched white jackets with a gold eagle signifying their rank.
Viktor pushed a porcelain button on a brass panel above a polished table. A porter appeared. Any request could be serviced and satisfied. A bottle of brandy was served.
The hideaway chalet, designed by Hitler, was high in the Bavarian Alps. On the second floor, from a pine-paneled living room, a terrace with large red umbrellas opened to the outdoors. Inside, past a telephone switchboard, was a study with books, and in the center of the room, a globe of the world. Beyond it, a floor-to-ceiling window opened to views that stretched forever. Wearing lederhosen and embroidered braces, with Eva Braun at his side, Hitler gave a clipped bow to Viktor Mueller. He was face-to-face with the man who wanted to impose his will, to conquer the world. Viktor asked himself how he could be there. What could justify this visit? He wondered, what if there was an explosive planted inside his camera? One click would be all it took. He dismissed it as a fanciful notion.
The Führer was comfortable around children, especially the blond, blue-eyed kids playing on the terrace who were the children of his personal photographer, Heinrich Hoffman. Eva Braun had been Hoffman’s assistant when Hitler first met her. Viktor spoke with Hoffman about the latest Leica he was sporting. “Best lenses in the world,” he said. It was true, Leica lenses gave the sharpest contrast between black and white and were made with precision.
He stayed in the background taking lots of pictures, with the camera Frau Schmidt had given him, a Rolleiflex with a double-lens system. General Heydrich had secured an invitation, and Hitler was pleased to have a great patriotic conductor attend this gathering. For Viktor, there was the unmissable chance to observe Hitler, to study him, see up close this peculiar, nervous charisma, this clash of imposing, overwhelming self-belief and something close to neurotic anxiety. This man, of whom Viktor was taking candid images, was another Germany, not the personification of his beloved country.
When he let his camera drape from its strap around his neck, the guests approached him with every courtesy and professed the pleasure they took from his conducting and his son’s assured performance. They were fascinated with the barrel-organ. He smiled as he accepted the praise and fielded the questions about the future of German music.
At lunch, he was seated at a table hosted by the Führer, a vegetarian who ate mostly salads and vegetables. Viktor had little appetite for the food, for the surroundings, for the company.
Afterward, some guests retired to a private viewing theater to watch newsreels.
“Come, children,” Eva called. “We shall go for a stroll, for the air.”
Eva Braun was a natural beauty with bright-blond hair. She was full of energy, wearing a sundress patterned with blue cornflowers and a matching sweater. The whole afternoon unfolded like a strange fantasy, the walk through the stunning Bavarian countryside, the rarified mountain air, an extraordinary setting, the seeming friendliness of everyone there, Viktor capturing much of it through the lens of his camera, making him feel like the observer of something, a peculiarly ordinary drama unfolding in front of him. And just for him. With every click of the shutter, the mechanical routine of changing reels of film, he couldn’t shake the sense that this could be a very different process, each click echoing within his imagination as the squeezing of a trigger, the detonation of a device that would mean instantaneous oblivion for him and everyone there, the Führer and his cohorts, but also the children, a single event that would freeze this image forever.
Late in the afternoon, still in his dream, still the observer of this emerging movie whose ending he could have dramatically changed, Viktor shook Hitler by the hand and thanked him for “a most joyful, inspiring day,” and as he turned to leave, Heydrich took him aside confiding, “I’ll see you back in Berlin.”
Entering the Chancellery, the general and the captain were glad to be indoors on a late summer day.
“I hope you enjoyed our afternoon, Viktor?”
“It was a remarkable occasion. Thank you, Reinhard. Something to remember always.”
“I didn’t know you were a photographer. A man of many talents! It’s a picturesque setting, I must agree.”
In the center foyer, there was an architectural model of Germania, the planned capital that Hitler had designed and given to Albert Speer, his architect, to realize. The model had been replicated in marble and was white, as if under an early Berlin snowfall.
“You’re a great success, Viktor. You were at home there, among devout patriots and we are indeed a special few. We have much to look forward to. You’ll have an office just next to mine, even if you won’t be spending much time in Berlin, but when you are here, it’s important that you be at the center of operations.”
The offices of the Third Reich all had alcoves with doors to rooms that were home to the generals, and at the end of the long corridor was an impressive office, one with a large whit
e-marble swastika displayed above a wide oak double door. When the captain was invited to attend a meeting in an adjacent conference room, it was so large that the great round table at its center seemed empty, even when it was surrounded by generals and aides. He placed the generals in two categories, the short and the tall. The shorter ones, like Himmler and Goebbels, aimed for power and were more aggressive and dangerous, while Göring and Rommel were much taller, and appeared relaxed.
Wondering how much time he would be needed in Berlin, Viktor spent most of his stay there carrying out Heydrich’s promotional plan. But it was in these headquarters that he would collect information. Gossip, conversation, plans—all of this would be valuable to his role. He had secured an arrangement to dispatch information in an invoice packet to Pierre Burger in Prague by way of a trusted Berlin news agent, who delivered the Berlin Post to Prague each morning by train, a five-hour journey each way. Other reports, not demanding urgent transmission to London, he would personally give to Burger.
Viktor was standing in Heydrich’s office, mentally running through the logistics of his secret work, when his thoughts were interrupted by Heydrich’s declaration: “We’ll be marching into Poland soon.
Viktor was unsure that he had heard correctly: “Poland?”
Heydrich stood up from his desk and strolled across to the window, staring out at the platoon of soldiers on a routine drill outside, the hint of a smile playing around his lips as he announced solemnly, “The show is about to begin.”
A THREE-DAY VISA
London was suffering from an unusual spell of hot weather. Running to St. James’s in spitting morning rain, Anna dashed into her office looking for a place to deposit her umbrella. On her desk was a letter from Max Mueller inviting her to an opera. It was not only Hans she missed, but Max, and in the back of her mind, a visit with Captain Mueller would be helpful, a chance for current updates on an impending, inescapable war. Chamberlain, in all his naivete, had returned from Berlin, negotiating concessions with Hitler, waving a white piece of paper to the reception committee at the airport, proclaiming, “Peace for our time.”
Borders were closed to anyone wishing to leave German-occupied territories. Journalists and diplomats could still visit, but Anna’s editors thought it a foolish risk and that she was either the most poorly informed person at the paper, or the most courageous. Churchill thought otherwise. There was still the Kindertransport program he had authorized. In any event, there was always a reason, a cover, an excuse, and whatever it was, nothing was going to stop her from returning to Prague.
David had a million questions when I arrived back at the Grand Hotel Krása.
“Did you write everything down? How was Berlin? Tell me, I want to know.”
“It was amazing. I felt more like a world traveler than a journalist.”
I didn’t mention the concert, or that I had sung for Hitler, or that Poppy had gone to Eagle’s Nest to do whatever he had to do there.
“There’s a forest in Berlin named after you David. You must go someday.”
“A whole forest? A park maybe, but a forest?” David loved the notion.
Then to my immense surprise, I spotted someone easy on my eyes. It was Anna!
“If you won’t come to me, then I guess I should come to you,” she announced flushed with exhaustion.
Hans’s house quickly returned to its former brightness with Anna in residence. Bunches of fresh flowers appeared in every room, and Lucie celebrated her arrival by baking a chocolate torte.
Anna seemed particularly happy to see Poppy, who looked after her with great courtesy. Hans was occupied with so many last-minute details for the show. But his happiness more than matched mine. That she had come, and indeed how she had done it, was a mystery.
Opening night came too soon. I spotted David in the orchestra, and he gave me a wink for good luck. Anna and David were always nearby when I needed them most.
František Zelenka had transformed Mrs. Blomberg’s living room into an engaging stage. He managed to hang lights with gels overhead, creating a dramatic atmosphere in an unusual space. It was a house that had become a home and a home that had become a theater. Zelenka had built a set and provided props. I could smell gauze and grease paint. At the center of our makeshift stage my hurdy-gurdy stood alone under an oval yellow light, waiting to be played. It was a magnificent setting. Most of the small Jewish community remaining in Prague came. David played violin in the orchestra and supported every scene with a thumbs-up. Mrs. Blomberg wiped away a tear, not a sad one but one of unescapable joy. The show was such a success that we should have played in the biggest theater in town. I was sure it would have won another prize for Hans, but there was no other place we could perform.
My only disappointment was that Poppy was called away. Had he appeared, however, he would have done so in uniform, and I think the cast and audience would have been uncomfortable. I would have been uneasy and still unable to reconcile the father I knew with the one who was serving in the German army.
But he sent a telegram with love and good wishes and made sure a shipment of refreshments arrived for the occasion.
The evening was a glorious success but a bittersweet one for three reasons: the show was over, Sophie was not there, and Anna, who had arrived a few days earlier, was returning to London almost as soon as she arrived.
“You were quite wonderful, Max. You belong on the stage.”
I still couldn’t get over the fact that Anna had thought enough to come, to travel so far. Could it have been just to see Brundibár ?
The next morning, I went around to the shop Sophie had loved and selected one of the few hats remaining on the shelf, a round straw one with a brim showing off a spectacular ribbon. Perfect for Anna, I thought.
Hats were becoming my trademark to the people I cared about most. When I presented my gift to Anna, she was quietly pleased, put it on at once, adjusted it to a rakish angle, and then rewarded me with a huge grin.
“Max, you’re a charmer. I am so sorry it is such a flying visit, but I’ve only been allowed a three-day visa. But I intend to make every minute count.”
Before she left, she asked me how I felt about Poppy being in the German army, working with Heydrich. I could tell that she was concerned. I told her that I knew it was for our future.
Hans averted his eyes from me, staring out of the window instead. “You are our future, Max.”
I tried to assure them that Poppy was a good man, doing his best in very difficult times, but I don’t think they understood, Hans at least.
She turned to him. “I’ve heard Hitler is going to march. If Germany invades Poland, no more concessions will be given and the sequel to the Great War will be on. David and Max belong in London with me.”
She took his silence as an agreement. “I’ll contact Whitehall.”
She made the call at once and five minutes later came back into the room, trying to look calmer and happier than she was. She rationalized to herself that it was too late, and Viktor would never have agreed to it anyway. She wanted to believe that David and I would somehow be safe in Prague.
“I understand how much you love your friends, Max. It’s always comfortable to be with those you love most.”
She may have been telling a white lie, to herself as well as to me, but it didn’t matter. I believed without a doubt that Prague was the place for me.
But was it? My confidence was shaken when I saw men in SS uniforms speeding through the streets in black cars decked out with red-and-black swastika flags. They would stop and arrest people for no reason. I saw the man in the black overcoat sitting casually on a bench in a park, making notes. Then another, and another, all over the city. They were everywhere now. They were as much of a presence as the clock chiming the hour in Old Town. I was becoming increasingly scared, scared for myself and everyone around me. What made it so unsettling for me was that I
realized I had every reason to be frightened—and it would be crazy not to fear what was happening, not to fear the men in overcoats and everything they represented. And then I had a recurring nightmare. What if someone my age, just like me, were picked up in one of those cars? Anna had to leave and had to leave fast.
A SUNDAY AFTERNOON
On a perfect Sunday morning a few months later, the sun shone down from clear sparkling blue autumn skies over the British Isles, but it was unlike any other Sunday I had ever seen. Before the day was over, Germany and England were at war for the second time in the twentieth century.
As September began Germany invaded Poland with these words from their leader: “I have secured for the German people the land they are entitled to in Europe.” With Austria and Czechoslovakia’s western Sudetenland taken, the conquest of Poland was just another notice from Mein Kampf. Powered by a vision of distortion and falsehoods, propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels issued an unequivocal warning: “Germany is forced to find a solution to problems that can never be solved in peacetime.” The Polish army was destroyed in two days. To honor their treaty obligations, Great Britain and France had declared war.
Outside my window in Prague, streaming rain. Rain bouncing like silver coins, rain making puddles, rain spitting over red-and-black flags, rain sliding down garden leaves, rain splashing sidewalks, rain running with couples, rain peeping over red-tiled roofs, rain sloshing old ladies, rain dripping from broken black umbrellas, rain under footfalls, rain no longer laughing, no longer dancing. Rain everywhere.
The following Tuesday afternoon, the very flowers—once rivers of pink tulips bordered by cold green grass, planted by the Dutch ambassador in Petínské sady—bowed their heads. The heavier presence of the Nazis changed the spirit of the city, spreading an uneasy truce, and causing further intrusion into my world. It changed my will.
While the Music Played Page 17
