While the Music Played

by Nathaniel Lande

  REMEMBRANCE DAY 1943

  On that very same unseasonably cold, overcast night, Captain Viktor Mueller arrived at the theater. He brushed off the beads of wet mist that had gathered on his gray overcoat. At the stage door of the Berlin Philharmonic, now known as Hitler’s Berlin Band, the porter guarding the backstage entrance saluted, “Heil Hitler.” He was always glad to see the great conductor. “Good afternoon, Captain. The orchestra is waiting for you.”

  The captain carried a medium-sized brown leather suitcase, with two secure straps with brass buckles at each side. Inside the polished luggage were three bombs.

  “Can I check your bags?” the porter called to him.

  “No, thank you. Personal belongings.”

  His instructions were to place a bomb before the performance in each of the grand boxes in the great hall where the German generals would be sitting at the Remembrance Day concert. Pierre Burger was a demolitions expert, and had shown Viktor how to activate the timers, just by lifting a switch. It was not something that he wanted to do, it was not his style; he didn’t want to blow up any part of the State Opera House where members of the audience would be killed. The hall was a sacred place; it housed all that symbolized everything for Viktor Mueller, and that was music. He moved into the shadows of the first tier, where he found boxes 412, 413, and 414. Each contained six chairs with gold-leaf and red-velvet seats.

  In front of each balustrade, he would reach around to find a circular rim of pipes holding theater lights with gels that would softly illuminate the stage during his performance. He was uneasy and even offended. Why had Churchill ordered this action? He wanted no part of killing, at least not yet, even if it meant eliminating the German command in one sweeping fatal disruption and he felt the electric charge of his heart skipping a beat when he heard the approach of security guards, and their German shepherds.

  “Captain,” said a voice through the darkness, followed by a barking dog. “Need any help?”

  Viktor froze briefly but was composed, practiced enough in the management of preperformance nerves to think quickly: “No, I’m just making sure the lights are in place.” He pointed to the spotlights projecting from the pipes in front of the boxes.

  “And please, if you don’t mind, German shepherds scare the life out of me. Can you keep them at a distance?”

  The guard laughed. “Of course, Captain, they are not here to attack, just sniffing out explosives. You never know these days.”

  Moving silently to the outside perimeter, he had to get his suitcase out of range. Otherwise, he would be shot then and there. What in the hell was he doing carrying bombs anyway?

  Viktor knew he had to abandon this mission immediately. It was over and he would make sure to return the suitcase to Pierre.

  In his dressing room, a valet had carefully laid out his white tie and tails. As he dressed, Viktor was relieved, and slipped into his polished patent leather slippers. He loved wearing formal clothes; they helped him prepare for a performance because they represented a custom and tradition that was part of him. He had lived almost entirely for his music, but all that was changing.

  Wilhelm Furtwängler knocked on his door. Viktor had always respected this man who was a great conductor. But he knew his sentiments. Furtwängler had decided to remain in Germany, ignoring politics. Unlike Viktor, he was not in the German army, but their relationship with Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party was a matter of concern to both, and part of the bond between them. Furtwängler had never joined the Nazi Party, nor did he approve of it; much like the composer Richard Strauss, he made no secret of his dislike of the Nazis. And like Viktor Mueller, the Nazis treated him with respect because he was an important cultural figure. Their concerts were held within occupied territories and were broadcast to German troops to raise morale, and tomorrow’s concert was useful propaganda that would be broadcast all over Germany. It was Remembrance Day for Germany’s heroes. Furtwängler looked curiously at Viktor’s brown leather suitcase, but any thoughts about it remained unspoken.

  “I deeply regret you are not conducting Mendelssohn, but it wasn’t approved by Goebbels. It upsets me greatly that we can’t play his music. It’s a terrible struggle, Viktor, but we are still responsible for German composers; we hold the legacy of Bach and Beethoven, of Mozart and Schubert.”

  “But Mendelssohn? Of course not. We understand this, we two.”

  “Yes, we can only do the best we can, in our own way.” Furtwängler’s voice was hollow, there was a tone of defeat there. He had compromised with the Nazis to save the best orchestra in the world. He had gotten financing and the support he needed, but Viktor saw he had lost something along the way. “I’m pleased, Viktor, pleased that you’ve come; it’s an important event.”

  The orchestra loved Mueller. His style of conducting was a masterful show, and they had not only played for many of his productions, but also toured Europe together. The orchestra never thought of it as propaganda, only as performance. Each member of the orchestra treasured music for what it meant to them, how it connected them to one another, to the composer, to the audience. It was more than a profession to them; it was a calling and each performance was an experience during which just for a moment, they could take solace through a series of notes, through ineffable ideas that could find expression only in this way, these urgently needed reminders that there was beauty in their unsettled, unstable world.

  “We do what we must do,” Viktor replied. “Music is not a voice of the state; it is for the people.”

  But the Berlin Philharmonic was Hitler’s favorite orchestra, Viktor Mueller his favorite conductor.

  On Remembrance Day, Viktor Mueller had a lot to remember. They would all be in attendance: Hitler’s generals, the whole lot—Göring, Goebbels, Himmler, Hess, Keitel, Rommel. And they would never know how close they had come to a violent end on that night of music and celebration.

  All the members of the orchestra were onstage warming up. The house lights dimmed as the concert master, one of the first violins, indicated to the principal oboist for a tune note for the orchestra. An A was repeated three times, for the strings, the woodwinds, and again for the brass.

  Then Viktor Mueller entered the stage with two soloists, a soprano and baritone. He lifted his baton, and like magic, the evening began, the orchestra began to play.

  He knew the Führer would have preferred the religious ritual of Wagner. In counterpoint, he had decided on Brahms’s Ein Deutsches Requiem. He loved the beauty of the piece, and the choir, and in many ways it reminded him of Max, who loved the melodies as much as he did. Max, he thought, what have I done to you? What bargain have I made?

  The music overcame time. It was a higher calling. Tears came to Viktor’s eyes, from the music and from the deep well of his memory. When the concert finished, the great hall was quiet. Then came the traditional rumbling of the musicians stamping their feet in appreciation and respect for their conductor. The long accolade finally trailed off, leaving just the sound of a German officer’s footsteps approaching the stage to present the Great Viktor Mueller with an envelope containing a handwritten note: The Führer thanks Viktor Mueller for Remembrance Day and the tribute to the fallen.

  After the performance, at a café, over coffee, Viktor confided to Pierre, “I can’t do this sort of thing.”

  He handed over the suitcase that had never been activated. “I don’t want any part of blowing people up. I can’t do this. I simply can’t.”

  It was a missed opportunity, Pierre thought, but some part of humanity within him understood. It was more than destroying uniforms, more than humiliation. It was life and death. He knew he would have to condition Viktor for tougher action and it would take time.

  Pierre placed his coffee cup carefully on the saucer in front of him: “Viktor, I know that you are a good man, a great conductor, a sensitive artist. But this is the world as it is and you can’t turn away fr
om the facts. Every day, Jews, political dissenters, Catholics, and others are being rounded up and sent to camps, and for slave labor. We must find ways to stop it. Doing nothing is no longer an option. There’s someone I think you should meet. Another good man, a courageous fighter.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Raoul Wallenberg.”

  SANCTUS

  On a miserable morning at Hanover Barracks, David was hunched over a desk, editing the next edition of the paper.

  Sitting down beside him on his bunk, I said, “Well, I’ve got some news, but we can’t print it. I’d be dead by morning.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I told him about the man in the black overcoat.

  “I can’t believe those bastards think they can just—”

  A siren blasted through the camp, a noise always followed by an announcement, an ominous one: “Everyone remain in your barracks and away from windows.”

  Immediately, we raced across the room, disobeying the rules, risking punishment, especially for David, fewer rations, or none at all, our foggy breath from the freezing barracks almost blurring the view. We saw the line—a group of children who were holding hands in the pouring rain. Torn and dirty clothes hung from their bodies as they walked alongside a column of SS men. Closely guarded, they were led to the infirmary building for the usual disinfection and delousing, a rule for everyone. Huddled together, they had refused to undress or wash or to have their wet rags exchanged for dry clothing. Where had they come from? Some of the kids were strangely familiar to me. Where had I seen them before?

  A letter arrived at the post office from Colonel Eichmann in Berlin addressed to the SS. I was hesitant to ask Fritz about it and finally my curiosity prevailed. I opened it in secret. It was about the children. After my encounter with the black overcoat, and covering for Ava’s brother, all bets were off.

  It couldn’t be.

  Resealing the letter, I rushed over to the barracks as fast as I could make it back to David. He was fiddling with an old typewriter, trying to get it to work. Hopping from one foot to the other and rubbing my hands together, I protested, “Must it be so cold in here, David? I think my brain is frozen.”

  It was a dumb, rhetorical question. I understood that fuel, like everything else was in pitifully short supply now. David tightened his ever-present maroon scarf. “Okay, what do you have for me, Max?”

  “The children are from Poland.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Don’t ask me. I just know. They were taken from their parents. I know these kids! Hans conducted them at a concert in Prague. Except for you, we were all there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive, they are part of the Szymon Laks group.” My teeth were chattering.

  “Did you ask Freidle if he knows anything?”

  “I doubt if he does.”

  David shook his head. “He is not a very helpful Nazi, is he?”

  “Nope, but he’s the only one I’ve got.”

  I discussed the children with Sophie. “They’re tired and dirty, hungry; they’re beaten down. We must help them, Sophie, we’ve got to do something. I’ve found them! We must give them a sense of purpose, of belonging, if only for a while. We have to do it for them and for Hans, too, because, finally we’ve found the voices for Brundibár !”

  I ran over to Hans’s quarters and told him.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Hans, they need this. We all do.”

  I started my campaign.

  “These kids are special,” I told Freidle, arriving at his office. “They have a gift that I know you’ll appreciate. They need to sing and people need to hear them.”

  There must have been something in my words or how I spoke them, because at once the commandant gave permission for me to help in any way I could.

  Then I was on to Dr. Citron, the doctor who had come with the group. He had been assigned to their care. I learned about the Warsaw Ghetto.

  “It was called the Jewish District, Jüdisc Wohnbezirk, over four hundred thousand Jews confined within an area of not much more than three square kilometers. Most residents starved or were sent to the camps.”

  I looked at him, bewildered. “Why didn’t they fight back?”

  “They did, but it’s hard, if not impossible for a ragtag band of starving, barely armed men to stand up to let alone defeat a powerful army with tanks. They were overwhelmed and hoped for safety inside the Great Synagogue. The Germans set fire to the ghetto. Countless thousands of people burned on the spot. It’s unimaginable but it’s true.”

  I couldn’t take in what I was hearing. I was physically sick.

  “We managed to save some of the children.”

  “How?”

  “Through tunnels and with the kindness of strangers on the Aryan side. They were sent here. This is their sanctuary.”

  Good God! Terezín was their sanctuary! A place where people were starving and dying and getting transported to labor camps. I was horrified by the thought that this place was better than where these children had been. What had they experienced? What had they lived through? What had they seen?

  I went to visit the children. There was someone in particular I needed to see. I walked through the barracks until I found him.

  “Jan, it’s me, Max. We met after your concert in Prague, and we saw a comet in the sky.”

  The blond boy said nothing. But I knew it was the same boy I had met what seemed a lifetime ago. I remembered those clear blue eyes, even though they now seemed lost and vacant.

  “They’re traumatized,” Dr. Citron said. “God knows what these young people have been through. They won’t talk. They’re mute. All of them. I’ve tried, but not a word. The only thing we can do is feed them, clean them, take care of them until they find their voices.”

  In the end, Sophie came up with a plan. She couldn’t speak their language, but music could. Hans found a spinet in the village that had been acquired for the guards’ quarters. It was old and rickety, but had not altogether lost its polish or its tone. I helped him move it over to the barracks, and within five minutes of concentrated tinkering, I had helped this beautiful battered instrument regain its tone.

  With the kids cleaned up, they gathered around Sophie. Then she spoke to the children in a way they all understood. She struck a resonant D. Nothing. She followed with a D major chord and bass line. It echoed throughout the barracks. There was a long silence.

  She struck the key again.

  A single voice came from the boy with the yellow hair. A pure and lovely sound broke through, then another chord, another voice, with each chord other voices, until a full glorious choir came alive.

  “Well done, Sophie. Well done.”

  Hans returned to the piano. Freidle stood in the back with a few guards in the shadows. Sophie took a seat along with Ava and Fritz nearby.

  The children sang Mozart’s Sanctus. We wept. I had not heard the canon before. Their voices were exquisite, and at this moment Terezín was filled with light. It was that invisible sun that Hans had described to me long ago. Music had not gone away. It was still there for us. We had now surely found the voices Hans needed for Brundibár.

  Could this be an opportunity to get a production going? Freidle could get things done, and I had an assignment for him. Returning to the commandant’s office, I made another appeal, hoping my powers of persuasion would convince him. I wasn’t sure what tack to take with him, but decided to sound as confident as I could.

  “You’ve built a station,” I offered boldly. “Do you think we could build a stage?”

  “Stage? What for?”

  “It’s an assignment.”

  “Assignment?”

  “Yes, we all need an assignment, and this is one for an opera.”

  “Why opera?”


  “Because we can do it, and perhaps we need to do just that. We have a camp orchestra, and music is part of our tradition. Don’t you think it could take the performance to a whole new level? We have great composers here. We have a cast. And you heard those voices! Something to lift our spirits.”

  “And what is this opera about?”

  Rabbi Baeck’s words about the importance of different perspectives rang through me.

  “It’s about the qualities of the German character. I think it would be a great achievement, and with your showmanship, it will be ‘A Siegfried Freidle Production.’” As the Great Viktor Mueller himself once told me, a little flattery never hurts. I tried not to think of Poppy; it was too painful. I pushed him to the back of my mind, only recalling what could be useful.

  Freidle started making doodles, taking pencil to paper. Within minutes he had sketched the rough outline of a stage.

  Before we could even start rehearsals, the children left unexpectedly, just as they had arrived, on a wet, gray afternoon. The wooden barracks were silent again.

  “They were told to remove the yellow stars from their garments, and those who were old enough were required to sign a pledge of silence about what they had seen and experienced,” David said. “They were sent away. No one has been told where.” David could hardly get the words out.

  I determined that the only thing to do was to send a letter to Poppy. I couldn’t write fast enough—my fingers were cramping up.

  They sang for us. It was beautiful. Remember the concert in Prague? We had a cast. Surely you can help. They were taken away.

  Max

  Fritz read the letter, slowly shaking his head. “I think it is best we don’t mail this to the captain. Speak to your father when you see him.”