And After the Fire

by Lauren Belfer

  If the cantata proved to be authentic Bach, he wanted it to be entrusted to the MacLean. Down the road, as the situation developed—and if Susanna Kessler was able to prove that she did, indeed, own the cantata—he would approach the MacLean’s director about making her an offer. He needed to remain in Susanna’s good graces, or more correctly get himself into her good graces, to smooth his way on this. If only he’d had the foresight to be nicer to her. He’d said a few things that were way out of line. At this point, who could say what she would do with the manuscript. He couldn’t dismiss from his thoughts the idea that she might even destroy it. He’d have to start afresh with her. Apart from the fact that she’d found the manuscript in her family home in Buffalo, Dan had told him nothing about her. He’d do some Internet research. Once he discovered where she worked, where she’d gone to school, where she lived, he’d find their mutual connections.

  His thoughts leapt ahead. The MacLean had fantastic Web designers on staff, and when the time came to go public, they could take the discovery in several dozen directions. He imagined the Web pages they’d create . . . link after link of visual, aural, and textual material aimed at a wide audience. With the new exhibition techniques, you could clink on a link and hear only the oboe line extracted from the recording of a piece, or only the violin line.

  As Scott worked through this, his rational side kicked in to warn him: the manuscript could turn out to be a spectacular forgery, perhaps even produced by the Nazis. If he allowed himself to be seduced by a forgery, he could end up humiliating himself in a way that would ruin his career.

  On the other hand, if he and Dan kept their wits about them, they could get an interesting, if minor, article out of a Nazi forgery, too. So in a sense this was a win-win situation. Professionally speaking, that is. And personally? Forged, authentic . . . either way, the cantata was grim, hideous, and bleak. It concerned a topic he preferred not to think about, one that was far too close to home. This must be part of Susanna Kessler’s family history, as well: Kessler was predominantly a Jewish last name, and indulging in common stereotyping, Scott would have to say that she looked Jewish, too. Judging from Dan’s reticence, the cantata’s unsettling topic touched his family history, too. From the other side.

  As a Jew, maybe he should refuse to work on this piece, with its gruesome text. Maybe he should tell Susanna Kessler to suppress it. Had he been letting scholarly enthusiasm take priority over loyalty to his heritage?

  He thought this out. He’d always advocated the opposite of suppression in regard to uncomfortable truths. That was still the right path. In fact, he concluded, as a Jew he had a special responsibility to bring the cantata into public knowledge, to promote discussion and understanding of the dismal history that the cantata represented. He hated the word transparency, but he believed in the concept.

  Back to work. The authenticity question remained.

  When all was said and done, the music would be its own proof of authenticity. On the theme-finder sites, he typed in the letters that represented the first six notes of the opening. True, the sites weren’t definitive, but there was always a chance of a hit.

  Nothing.

  He printed out his digital photographs of the cantata’s first pages of music. He took them to the piano in the living room. He had a Steinway baby grand. He still took lessons, nowadays from a delightful woman on the Upper West Side who taught only adults. He played in recitals with her other students, attendance forbidden to friends and family, which suited him because he didn’t take the lessons in order to perform for family and friends. He took them because of the Zen-like state he entered when he practiced, clearing his head of all distractions except the notes. This year in his lessons he was inching his way through the third movement of Beethoven’s op. 110 sonata.

  He opened the keyboard, sat down, and arranged what little he had of the cantata score on the stand. He played the basso continuo part with his left hand and as much of the string parts as he could manage with his right hand. And he was caught. Captured by the rich harmonies and the formidably complex counterpoint.

  This was music by a true master. If not Johann Sebastian Bach, who?

  Chapter 15

  BERLIN, PRUSSIA,

  UNDER FRENCH OCCUPATION DURING

  THE NAPOLEONIC WARS

  1808

  In the performance hall of the Sing-Akademie, Sara placed her hands into position above the keyboard. She waited for the conductor to give the signal to begin. On this gray afternoon, and despite the large windows, little natural light filtered into the hall. Candles, guttering, were attached to the music stands. Given the intricacies of her part, Sara had memorized the music so she need not struggle to read it in the inadequate light.

  For two years, Napoleon’s forces had occupied Berlin. Frederick William III was still king, but the royal family had fled Berlin. Prussia had essentially become a vassal state of France, subject to outrageous monetary demands. In the audience today, the festive uniforms of French officers contrasted with the shabby clothing of Berlin’s citizens. As the occupation dragged on, financial hardship had forced some of Sara’s friends to sell their homes and leave the city. Resentment toward the occupiers was ever-present.

  This concert was a form of resistance, or so Sara viewed it. Bach’s music was a paean for an independent Prussia. And to represent their cause, Carl Friedrich Zelter, director of the Sing-Akademie, had chosen Sara Levy to play the brilliant harpsichord part in Bach’s Concerto in D Major for flute, violin, obbligato harpsichord, and strings.

  This was a public concert. The audience had purchased tickets. For the first time in her life, Sara was performing as a professional musician.

  How could this be, that an upper-class woman was performing music as a professional?

  Sara knew the answer: she was a widow, and she had no children.

  Because Samuel was not among the stalwart Berliners sitting in the audience, keeping their cloaks upon their shoulders in defense against the cold, and because she was barren, she’d been able to escape certain rigid bonds of society. Two years had passed since Samuel’s death. He was only forty-six. He died the same month the French marched through the city gates, October 1806. The occupation and his death were forever linked in her mind. The pain of missing him was piercing, and she never wanted to stop missing him.

  Zelter coughed to gain the ensemble’s attention. Sara sat up straight. She met his eyes. He was an arresting presence, with his shock of white hair, sharp nose, and narrow chin. She nodded. He raised his hands.

  They began. She played continuo with the string ensemble as they performed the concerto’s insistent ritornello. Soon the violin and flute were interacting as if they were partners in a dance. Their dance became an interweaving duet of love. Sara’s continuo part moved smoothly in the background, before gradually coming to the fore, her right hand first playing chords, then obbligato, then onward to the section of arpeggios, in preparation for her long unaccompanied solo.

  She’d practiced this piece for months, for years, playing at home with friends, Samuel on the flute. This piece was part of her very being.

  A return to D major, as if the piece were about to end, and the music jars the listener with a C natural in the bass line and returns to material from the movement’s beginning. Then once more one senses that the piece is going to end, but the music plays another trick, not an A to D in the bass line but an A to F-sharp—the beginning of the accompanied bravura lead-in to a wildly virtuosic extended solo.

  She leapt into the solo, abandoning herself, the phrases ever more complex, faster, frenzied, a feast of notes. She closed her eyes. She saw the keyboard within her mind. Breathe, she told herself. She missed a note. Don’t think about it. Keep playing, she heard her teacher’s voice. Don’t stop. Joy filled her in the sheer pleasure of the notes. Nothing else mattered but this music, here, now.

  And then the herculean solo was over. The movement ended. She opened her eyes. She’d done it. The rest of
the concerto was easy, at least in comparison. Zelter began the second movement. Her continuo part resumed. She was damp with sweat. The violin and flute took over, while she maintained the continuo line, keeping the beat. Slow down, she cautioned herself.

  Would there be cake at the reception later? Focus. The second movement came to the end. On to the third. She was becoming tired. Where was her energy?

  There, her vigor returned as the flute line became the main voice, their parts intermingling, the flutist lifting his eyes to hers. He might have been Samuel, standing beside her.

  The concerto concluded. She lifted her hands from the keyboard. Yet she remained frozen within the music.

  She heard applause. The audience. She’d forgotten them. She wasn’t ready to face the crowd. She sensed the other musicians standing up and bowing.

  She, too, must stand and bow. She rose. She turned toward the audience. She looked out upon them. She felt dazed. The throng shouted their approval. She couldn’t identify individuals. She knew that her vast family, at once infuriating and encouraging, was here, along with her many friends. Also here were people she didn’t know, strangers, concertgoers, French officers from the occupation force, drawn to this event by the program. By the music of Johann Sebastian Bach. The hall gleamed in the candlelight. She’d fulfilled the promise of her girlhood.

  Zelter made a special recognition of her to the audience. As she bowed alone, the applause swelled. The musicians bowed together once more. They left the stage. They returned to the stage. Seeing the French officers in their colorful uniforms, Sara knew that some of the applause, which continued far longer than she or her colleagues had any right to expect, was because of those French uniforms. The music of Bach rebuked the French army, saying, you may occupy our city, but you have no power compared with the force of our culture. You may defeat our armies, but we will endure.

  The applause subsided and ceased. Sara and her fellow performers left the stage. In the anteroom, the musicians shook hands, praising and congratulating one another with two-handed grips. She, too, received this two-handed gripping handshake. Instruments were put away, clothing adjusted. Sara and her colleagues walked down the hallway and joined the reception. The high-ceilinged room, with its arched windows, was crowded with her countrymen, not a single French uniform among them.

  Amalia was the first friend to reach her. “My dearest, you were wonderful.”

  Next, Brinkmann. “You are my heroine,” he whispered. “How proud I am, of you.”

  Others gathered, congratulating her. She felt a wave of affection sweeping over her.

  A pause. She looked around.

  Carl Friedrich Zelter approached. She steeled herself for his critique. He was renowned for his blunt honesty. If she were lucky, he’d offer only a sentence or two about what she could do to improve. He almost never gave praise. He might very well deliver an extended lecture on her faults, right here in front of her family and friends. Whatever he said, he’d be correct.

  “My dear Frau Levy.” Since the occupation, she was Frau instead of Madame. He took her hands in his, like a father. “A splendid performance.” He nodded sagely, fulfilling the role of the wise man he believed himself to be. “Exactly as I expected. Next week we shall begin work on Bach’s magnificent Concerto in G Minor. That is all I have to say to you.”

  He dropped her hands and walked away.

  She felt alone, even though she was surrounded by people, everyone talking, praising. Amid the din, she couldn’t make out exactly what anyone said.

  “Tante, Tante.”

  Some French words would never be replaced, and cut through any clamor. Sara turned. Could it be?

  “I wanted to surprise you.”

  Lea, her dearest niece. The daughter she might have had. “You were brilliant.”

  Lea lived in Hamburg, married to Abraham Mendelssohn, son of the philosopher Moses Mendelssohn. Abraham was a banker, partnered with his brother Joseph in the internationally successful Mendelssohn bank. Every member of Sara’s family agreed that Abraham wasn’t good enough for Lea, but she would have him and no other.

  “It means the world to me—” Sara’s voice caught “—to see you here.” Hamburg was a long journey.

  “I had to be here.”

  “You could play the piece I performed today. All you have to do is practice.”

  “And don’t stop.” Lea was as much of a tease as Sara herself once had been. They’d often had fun together, before Lea’s marriage and her move to Hamburg, Sara as teacher, Lea as student.

  “By now you know all my good advice.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “When did you arrive in Berlin?”

  “Last night. Mother promised to keep my visit a secret. She didn’t give you so much as a hint, did she?”

  “No, not even a hint. How is your little one?” My granddaughter, Sara wished she could say. Fanny was three years old.

  “Thriving. Already she sits on a pillow and tries the keyboard. Her hands are perfect. She has fingers for playing fugues.”

  “She hears her mother creating beautiful music, and she wants to do the same.”

  “Oh, Tante.” Lea blushed, still a girl herself, despite her husband and child.

  “And when she’s older,” Sara said, “we shall teach her the music of Bach.”

  Chapter 16

  On a Thursday morning in December, Susanna stood on the rooftop of the Booker T. Washington High School in Brooklyn. She tried without success to ignore how cold she was. Anita Randolph, the school principal, and Raffie Espinal, a science teacher, stood beside her. The rooftop was wide, empty, and blackened by soot.

  “I know it’s freezing out here, Ms. Kessler,” said Raffie. “The winds of Brooklyn are blowing. I’d tell you to hold on to your hat, if you were wearing one.” Raffie was in his mid-thirties, a small, lean man who, despite his thick parka, moved like a dancer. “It might be winter on our roof, but here’s what I’m seeing.” He gestured expansively. “Lettuce over there. Carrots over here. Cherry tomatoes. Kale, even.”

  From his enthusiasm, Susanna saw the garden, too. Other New York City schools had established green roofs with combined support from private foundations and city funds, but this would be a first for the Barstow Foundation. According to reports she’d read, green roof projects could easily cost upward of a million dollars, more than her board would allocate for this, but Susanna felt confident that once the project was moving forward, she could coordinate donations from other foundations as well.

  “This is the time for us to order the tubs, the soil, the seeds. Think of the potential. Every class will be involved: science, mathematics, poetry workshops. Art classes, making paintings and drawings of what’s growing.”

  “We’re proud that we still have an art program here,” said Mrs. Randolph. She was a severe-looking woman whose stout body was like a bulwark against the wind.

  “The only reason we still have it after the budget cuts is that Mrs. Randolph fought for it. And keeps on fighting,” Raffie said. “For our kids.”

  “I want you and your foundation to know,” Mrs. Randolph said, “that everyone in the school is on board with the green roof project. Teachers, administrators, students, as well as the maintenance and custodial staff.”

  “The students especially,” Raffie said. “But don’t take my word for it. What’s that sound I hear?” he said loudly, signaling to unseen companions.

  A group of about two dozen students made their way up the stairs, clapping their hands and stamping their feet in a unified rhythm. They arrayed themselves across the roof. They wore matching green scarves around their necks. As they began to sing, Susanna took out her phone to film the performance:

  It looks bad now but don’t despair,

  We just need time and money to prepare.

  We’re making plans,

  Can’t grow pecans . . .

  The song progressed through multiple verses.

  . . . Stories to write
,

  Poetry to recite . . .

  The group joined hands and raised their arms as they approached the end:

  And we hope that soon you’ll say

  Hey, hey, this is the way!

  They dissolved into laughter.

  “That was fantastic,” Susanna said.

  “Well done, students,” Mrs. Randolph said, clapping.

  “Okay, now listen to this,” Susanna said to the students, who gathered around. She resisted the urge to speak in a rap rhythm herself. “You’ve given me a terrific presentation, but I need more than a presentation. I need forms filled out.” Groans. “I know it’s boring, but if you want the money, you do the work. That’s part of the project, too.” From her tote bag, she took a copy of the standard grant application and gave it to Mrs. Randolph, who gave it to Raffie. “If it were up to me, I’d give you an A-plus-plus and all the money you need. But the foundation has a board, and the board has a director, and they’re the ones who make the decision.”

  Glancing through the papers, Raffie said to the kids, “I see we’ve got a tough job ahead. Back to the classroom to get started.”

  With their energy and enthusiasm, the kids seemed to glide down the stairs.

  Susanna said to Raffie and Mrs. Randolph, “Let me know if you need help with this from people who’ve worked on similar projects. Your best first step is to apply for enough money to hire a consultant and an engineer. I’ve heard that city regulations can make this process more complicated than you’d ever think possible. Questions of handicapped access, insurance, safety issues. The list goes on and on.”

  “We can deal with the city regulations,” Mrs. Randolph said, “but I want the kids driving this as much as possible, learning as they go. They may be young, but they have to own the project. I don’t want this to turn into just another bunch of rich do-gooders pushing stuff onto us. No offense meant.”