While the Music Played

by Nathaniel Lande

  I felt my heart cracking in my chest. But I still had so many questions.

  “Can you tell me more about Frau Schmidt?” I asked. “Why did she really come to Terezín?”

  “You remember her guesthouse in Berlin?” I nodded, recalling it as though it were yesterday. “The Nazis accused her of protecting enemies of the state. We huddled with Viktor and found a place where she was needed, and lucky for us, it was Terezín. I’m sure with her experience, she managed quite well.”

  “So you know Sam Raggle?”

  After taking a moment, Pierre admitted, “Quite well. He’s a colleague. He was very much a part of our team. Max, when you were delivering papers, you were not just delivering news, but information we had placed inside each paper to get to our network. We had Anna Kingsley, our operative in London, working for The Observer, who published our reports. While you were at Terezín, everything you sent to Sam, along with all of Viktor’s information, got to us.”

  David and I stared at each other, without a word.

  “Everyone was suspect,” Pierre said.

  “Including me?”

  “Including you. It’s complex, Max, we work in strange ways. Viktor was our inside source in the Chancellery. He sent strategic information in newspapers from Berlin to the stand, intelligence that we needed, and reports that went to London. That’s the way we distributed the news. That’s the way we got the word out.”

  Pierre chose his moment carefully. “I’m deeply sorry about what happened to Viktor, Max. I know it’s too painful to talk about when it hurts so much. I lost my family too. And I wish I had news about your parents, David. I don’t, except my sources tell me they are safe.”

  I barely knew Pierre, but I knew his every word was accurate.

  How about Hans and Sophie? Surely, he would know if they were alive? But he said nothing. David was white-faced, his hands gripped in fists.

  I looked across at him, and then back at Pierre: “I have to go back and get Sophie.”

  Pierre shook his head slowly, closed his eyes for a while, and finally spoke: “Let things settle a bit, Max.”

  He was trying to tell me something that I wasn’t ready to hear.

  I wept quietly, and Pierre said, “Viktor was a heroic man, but in the end, what you need to know is that, more than anything, he loved you.”

  We wore customary blue housekeeping aprons. In fact, David had all the brass in the pension gleaming in no time, and I took to polishing Mr. Hoff’s shoes, leaving them outside his room in the morning. We were free in the afternoons. Once more the city was ours.

  We were anxious to visit all the places we had known, but for the first week, Pierre thought it was a bad idea. “It’s better to hold some things in your mind as they were,” he said. “The places you lived are different. The Nazis have seen to that. Some Germans are still here, the Russians will be coming soon, the Americans are nearby. You might be safer in Český Krumlov. It’s an agreeable thirteenth-century town, situated where the Vltava begins, near the border, not far from here. I have friends if you want to go there.”

  “We’ll take our chances here. Prague is our home.”

  But even as I said the words, another plan was taking shape in my head.

  “It’s time we went out and walked the streets.”

  I decided that, risky or not, we had to get out into the city. We had identification papers. We packed up my hurdy-gurdy, boarded a trolley, and with the familiar clang-clang, David and I were on our way to the Companie Musik. I hoped that Mr. Mannheim, the blind music master who used to give me my piano-tuning jobs remembered me.

  When we passed the park, Mr. Raggle’s newsstand was gone. Out of respect, I stood and saluted.

  So many of the places I had known had disappeared. I was relieved when we arrived at Mr. Mannheim’s Companie Musik.

  Nothing had changed in the shop except perhaps a little more dust had collected.

  “I didn’t forget you, Mr. Brundibár,” Mr. Mannheim said, when we arrived at his shop. “I’ve missed my partner.” He had a wide smile on his face. “How was your performance?”

  “It took me to Berlin, and Terezín.”

  “Terezín. You’re Jewish then?”

  I smiled at David. “It’s a long story, but yes, we’re both Jewish.”

  “And you escaped, you’ve survived?”

  “A lot happened, and along the way, you were with us.”

  “You’re music makers.”

  “Yes, that’s just what we are.”

  “Then, I want to know, how was the hurdy-gurdy?”

  I carefully unpacked it and passed it to him after all those years. “She sure is a beauty,” I said.

  Mannheim smoothed his hand over the wooden box.

  “Working well?”

  “Like a charm, but it might need a tune-up.”

  The instrument was designed to play eight tunes on a single cylinder.

  “Do you have any other rolls?”

  “I have another hurdy-gurdy that takes twelve, nice condition, nice melodies.”

  “I’d like to keep the one I have, I’m used to it, but I need a few new tunes.”

  Inspecting the box, he mumbled to himself, “Standard size. I have about forty. What do you require?”

  “I could use three rolls—Czech, Russian, and German tunes.”

  Entering a room that had several dozen violins and bows on consignment, Mr. Mannheim unwrapped three wooden rolls that were already pinned.

  “David, pick out a violin.”

  David frowned and pulled me aside. “How are you going to pay for it, Max?”

  “I have enough for the down payment with some of the money Poppy gave me. I didn’t give all of it to Pierre.”

  “Max, I can’t let you do that. Who knows when you’ll need that cash?”

  “David, you know as well as I do that Poppy would be happy if we were spending funds like this.”

  David smiled. “I’ll do it for the Great Viktor Mueller!”

  “I have recently acquired a D. Soriot you might like,” Mr. Mannheim said, gently removing the polished instrument from its case as if it were a masterpiece.

  David soared up and down several scales; the violin was responsive, the tone resonant. “Max, why are you buying me such an expensive gift?”

  “You deserve it, and besides, I’m booking us on every street corner in Prague.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to play for my father.”

  Mr. Mannheim knew exactly what I had in mind, and what we would need. He referred us to his son, who managed a shop that carried formal wear.

  “Max, you both have to be very careful. Don’t assume anything.”

  “After what we’ve been though, nothing can be so dangerous. Music will protect us.”

  He nodded. “I suspect it will.”

  “We need to dress for our assignment. Would he have anything in our size?”

  “Everything for gentlemen of your stature. Mannheim II has a warehouse full of the stuff. I’ll take you there; it’s just around the corner.”

  A few minutes later we were each fitted out in black tails, white shirt and vest, white tie, and wing collars. And on a makeup table, I found a fake mustache like I’d worn in Brundibár.

  “Pretty dapper,” I said, selecting a new top hat. “I might even dance with Ginger Rogers.”

  David decided a black fedora would go well with his scarf. The hat was one size too big, but it didn’t matter; he liked wearing one.

  “David,” I announced, “we’re going to perform as if we were playing with the Berlin Philharmonic.”

  The way I figured it, even with the danger from German troops still occupying the city and Czech Resistance fighters on the streets, music was international; everyone loved music. No guns would harm
us.

  Our first performance was in front of Hradčany Castle, where the German high command still had offices. It was not far from Pension Burger.

  We attracted a small crowd of officers as we played “Denn heute da hört uns Deutschland, Und morgen die ganze Welt”—“For today, Germany hears us, and tomorrow, the world.” Before we finished, the Germans had formed a patriotic circle. David had his violin case open, and it was filled with deutschmarks and crowns. I took part of the collection to Mr. Mannheim’s shop at the end of the day.

  The hurdy-gurdy roll swept into Strauss’s nostalgic “Radetzky March” and the group clapped along with the music. I cranked the barrel organ; David played his new violin like a virtuoso. Our next stop was in Old Town, where we wasted no time changing rolls to some trampská hudba, romantic Czech folk songs. If a unit of Germans came along, we could quickly switch rolls. It would be a while before Soviet forces would enter Prague and we would have the opportunity to play Russian songs.

  We aimed to fill every street corner we could with music. When Pierre found out, he asked us to report any unusual activity coming from different quarters. Like Poppy, we too could be part of the underground movement. We were part of the Resistance.

  I asked Mr. Mannheim for a music roll of Yiddish songs so we could play them in Josefov. What we should have known before we went there was that none of the Jewish population had survived.

  “Everything Jewish has been destroyed, Max. Where are the houses and shops and libraries?” David couldn’t control his rage. “Utter madness, Max. Look, even the monuments in the graveyard have been overturned.”

  David picked up his violin case.

  We went to another part of the city to play. We never accepted another coin.

  The end of the war was near and this had a powerful effect on Czechs all over the country; their bitter hatred strengthened by Nazi uprisings from the last of Hitler’s soldiers. Pierre led what he called the “battle of the rails,” disrupting German troop trains and damaging tracks and bridges. When Radio Prague announced that the Allies were at the outskirts, the city’s remaining residents began streaming into the streets to welcome the victors, tearing down German traffic signs, flags, and store inscriptions, attacking any Nazi in sight, seizing their weapons. But it wasn’t over yet. Armed Resistance fighters overwhelmed the Waffen-SS defending Gestapo headquarters.

  There was still the daily briefing Pierre received not only from Radio Prague, but by shortwave. We knew that partisans had managed to reoccupy half the city before the Germans reacted in force. The Germans again responded by cutting off electricity, water supplies, and telephone wires. Pierre left for hours at a time and when he returned, David and I received the latest information and updates—we could feel that this was an important moment in history. The remaining German forces outside of Prague were moving toward the city center. As their advance ran into significant resistance, Luftwaffe planes dropped bombs, and David and I took cover. We listened as Czech Radio, the national station, broadcast an appeal to the United States’ General George Patton, whose Third Army was just twenty kilometers away; but there was no response because of an agreement the Allies had made. The Russians would be permitted to claim victory and occupy the capital.

  Pierre was back in the streets again until morning. David and I stayed at the pension; we dared not go back out just now. Frustrated by the lack of decisive progress, the German infantry had launched several furious tank attacks. The situation was grave. Germany’s air force raided Prague out of pure spite, destroying many historic landmarks. Then the Germans began to scatter. Mr. Hoff, our only guest, left in a hurry. Pierre and many partisans barricaded the block; there would be no more German guests at Pension Burger. German civilians residing in Prague—administrators, officials, and family members of the military—were all targets of Czech anger. They fled by any means, even stealing vehicles when they could find no other way. Their army was trapped both inside and outside Prague. On May 9, 1945, Radio Prague announced that the Red Army had entered the city, and the conflict ended. Along with everyone, David and I welcomed the Russians, playing “Kalinka” on a street corner to waving commanders passing by in their tanks.

  Music always took me back in time. Just hearing the tinny tunes from the barrel-organ, I thought about the six long years we had lived under Nazi tyranny. Pierre told me that General Patton’s Third Army had overpowered the Sudetenland. Then he told me the most important news of all.

  Anna Kingsley was traveling with Patton.

  One of Prague’s newspapers was back to printing a daily edition and reported that the German army was literally melting away; thousands of its soldiers deserted daily. Finally, American and Soviet forces linked up and the rebuilding of the country began. Then one day, there was a new guest arriving at Pension Burger.

  With a knock at the front door, there she was. It was Anna. When Anna walked into a room, the room came to her. I cannot describe the joy I felt. She had appeared so many times that it was just too wondrous, too magical to account for it. Except to say, in the great scheme of things, it was meant to be.

  “Friends are treasures that come our way,” David said. “They walk in when the world seems to have walked away.”

  Anna never walked away.

  “You built a raft!” she cried as I ran into her waiting arms. “Max Mueller, Horatio Nelson himself, First Lord of the Admiralty!”

  David and I shrugged our shoulders and stood there in a casual modest pose as if we had just made an ordinary outing, a few days on the river.

  “I’m here, Max. I’m here to take you home.”

  Anna was dressed in shades of khaki, a British correspondent’s kit, but her face was the same as I remembered. Memory had not played tricks. Her hair was swept back, not much makeup, but she never needed any. I couldn’t say a word, and then David took out his violin and began to play. Pierre and Anna and I held hands and danced and shouted, and laughter brimmed the room.

  “I want to go back and get Sophie,” I said to Anna. “I made a promise. She’s expecting me.”

  She said nothing. For what seemed like a lifetime, she stared out the window, apparently hoping for sunlight. There was none. The day was as overcast as her ashen face. Then she was holding a copy of The Observer dated April 22, 1945. I could see tears forming in her eyes. “I never wanted to give this to you.” She put her arm around me. Then I knew.

  WHILE THE MUSIC PLAYED

  Six hundred British troops liberated a concentration camp on April 15, 1945. I flew into Poland, carrying a war correspondent’s passport with diplomatic credentials. I hitched a ride with Sgt. Ernie Jacoby from Charleston, South Carolina. He was shuttling supplies back and forth between the newly liberated camp and Krakow. In his Southern drawl he said, “Lady, it’s not pretty.” Arriving at the camp at dusk, I entered Auschwitz with the Black Watch Regiment. Captain William McDowell said, “If hell is on earth, this must be it.” Walking through the gates with his men, I saw human beings who had been beaten, starved, and tortured, many standing hopelessly in their striped pajamas, with hollow, deep-set eyes, reaching toward the soldiers in a desperate effort to hand over their suffering. Then I learned the tragedy of what had happened while the music played, something that will forever be embedded in my memory. Sitting around a dying, flickering bonfire at dusk, I stumbled at last upon three men and a woman who told me that they were the musicians, the welcoming group at the station in Auschwitz. To survive the horror, they played to their own people who were coming there to die. They were part of a quartet. When the last doors of the transports were thrown open to a breath of fresh air, the bleary-eyed and tired, barely clinging to life, moved forward in single-file lines to barking orders. Brahms and Strauss and Mendelssohn gave them just enough hope to live for a few more minutes. A violinist, a soft-spoken lady from Prague, told me about a composer she had recognized.

  Hans Krása had arriv
ed from Terezín with a group of children. As he strode past her, a teenage girl was holding his hand. She looked up at him and said, “They’re playing Mendelssohn. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  A member of the quartet told me that they stopped for a moment. The German officers had little patience for stragglers, but they allowed the composer and the girl to stand for a few moments with the rest of the children, listening to the music. I wrote down the woman’s words exactly.

  “The world needs to remember. You need to know.”

  The children were told to follow a line on the right, not for the labor force, but for the showers. The young girl was with them. The men were grouped with the men assigned to the left side to work, but Krása refused. “To the left, you belong left, left!” a guard shouted, pointing to him. But he insisted on staying with the children. He joined the line on the right never letting go of the girl’s hand. The SS officers led everyone to Block no. 11, a concrete room disguised as a shower facility. The gas was turned on, and they were dead.

  These words that should never have existed, never been spoken, never written. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak for a full minute, maybe longer, falling into a chair, my head in my hands.

  Sophie died at Auschwitz.

  In my mind’s eye, I saw children together, holding hands in a single wave, short pants, swirling skirts, sweeping hair, until they disappeared over a field of wild poppies. The pages in my memory became unglued.

  “Sit next to me,” Anna said, patting the couch. I looked across at her, my eyes making a desperate appeal. “I should have never left. Everyone’s gone. Sophie, Hans. So many of them. They’re all dead. All of them. How many did they murder? How many? Millions?”

  Anna stroked my head. She lowered her voice. “I lost someone too, Max. Someone who meant so much to me, meant so much to us, someone who gave everything he had, someone who gave us the gift of music.”

  David was nearby. He had seen it all. A newsman to the end. But his heart was hurting beyond all comprehension too.