And After the Fire

by Lauren Belfer

  As Inge went on to explain the specifics of her search for the Genslers, Susanna thought, disappeared was such a neutral term, compared with rounded up or murdered. Disappeared implied that the family might even have vanished of its own free will, to avoid paying taxes, for example, or to escape responsibility for an armed robbery.

  “We do know they went to Theresienstadt. From there they went to Auschwitz.”

  Inge’s tone and language implied, at least to Susanna, that the Genslers had enjoyed some choice in the matter.

  “After Auschwitz, the record ends,” Inge said. “From what we’ve learned, we know it was a small family. The Genslers had one child, a son, but he died when he was a boy. We searched for their cousins, and more distant relatives, but everyone was gone.”

  Gone where, exactly? Inge wasn’t saying.

  “So we felt confident . . .”

  An inclination to mourn the Genslers overcame Susanna, as if they’d been members of her own family.

  “But if you believe your family has some link, and that you might be entitled to restitution . . . well, we would never want to—”

  “We didn’t own the house,” Susanna broke in. “Far from it.” She tried to sound upbeat. “My uncle was an American soldier, and he was stationed in Weimar at the end of the war. He visited this house.”

  “Ah.” Inge looked relieved.

  “When my uncle was here, he found some . . .” Susanna was at a loss to describe what he’d found, but plunged on. “Curiosities, relating to Jews. We were wondering who owned these items, and whether we could find any family members to return them to. We were also wondering if anything else survived. I know it sounds foolish, to think anything would have survived, but my uncle died recently, and we were close. I’m trying to do what I can to remember him. To visit the places he visited.” Such as Buchenwald, on its high plateau.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Inge said.

  “Thank you.”

  “When we bought the house after reunification,” said Inge, “it was in terrible shape. We learned that after the war, four families moved in. Then a Communist Party grandee took it over. Communism was hard on people, I understand that, but honestly. We’re from western Germany originally. From Dortmund. My husband was transferred here for his work. We never found any Jewish valuables, but the renovation uncovered such awful things, you can’t imagine. Bullet holes in the solarium floor and walls. Bloodstains.”

  Susanna began to piece together what had happened to Henry here.

  “We had to replace the floorboards, because even sanding wasn’t good enough. However,” Inge added, “a piano survived, in the solarium. A Bechstein, over a hundred years old. Too big to move easily, out of that room. I assume that’s why it was never sold, or appropriated by the Communists. It created quite a scene here, when we were replacing the floorboards, trying to maneuver around that giant piano.”

  “I’d love to see it,” Dan said. “Although I don’t want to impose on your hospitality.”

  Evaluating her options, Inge looked into the distance. “All right. The children can spare me for a couple of minutes.”

  Susanna and Dan followed Inge across the lawn. Inge exchanged a few sentences with the nannies, who paid little attention. She walked up the three steps to the terrace, Susanna and Dan behind her. The glass-and-wrought-iron table held the remnants of the children’s snack.

  “Your children are adorable,” Susanna said, trying to find a way to connect with Inge.

  “Thank you. Two are mine. The others are their friends.”

  They entered the oval-shaped room off the terrace, with its skylight, glassed bookcases, and intricately carved mantel. The view across the valley was painted onto the far wall.

  “We restored the fresco. Enough of it had survived that the artist we hired could match the style.”

  In the middle of the room was the massive Bechstein.

  “How fantastic!” Dan said.

  “Yes.” Inge was clearly pleased. “I’m afraid only my seven-year-old plays it. Do you play? Would you like to try it?”

  “I don’t really play. Only enough to teach my classes.”

  “I believe he’s being modest,” Susanna said.

  “Please,” Inge said. “My husband and I don’t play at all. You can’t imagine how tedious it is, hearing a seven-year-old run through scales day after day, followed by nursery songs like ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.’”

  “Let’s not forget that Mozart wrote variations on that same melody,” Dan said. “It’s quite a delightful tune.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Hearing the piano played properly would make me happy.”

  “In that case, okay.” Dan pulled out the shiny modern piano bench and removed the pillows that the seven-year-old sat upon to reach the keys. He opened the keyboard cover. He played a series of scales. “Don’t worry, I’m just loosening up.”

  In the solarium, the tone of the piano was full and resonant.

  “In honor of your seven-year-old, I’ll continue with Mozart. Especially because the first movement from the Piano Sonata in A Major, K. 331, is among the few pieces I can play without the sheet music.”

  He began. With the soft iteration of the notes, the melody sequencing down the keyboard, Susanna felt a weightlessness fill her spirit.

  Chapter 48

  On a Saturday morning in September, the day of Helen Krieger’s bat mitzvah, Susanna made her way to the front of the sanctuary of the Rodeph Sholom synagogue on West Eighty-third Street. With its long windows and Romanesque arches, the sanctuary was soaring, airy, and expansive. A good-sized crowd was in attendance despite the 10:00 start time, and teenage girls, Helen’s friends, filled several pews. Susanna felt touched by an atmosphere of affection that had surrounded her from the moment she arrived.

  “Congratulations,” Susanna said to Miriam, giving her a quick hug.

  “Thank you for being here.” Miriam’s smile looked pasted on.

  A line of friends waited to greet Miriam and Ben, so Susanna didn’t linger. Looking for a seat, she spotted Sofia, Miriam’s grandmother, sitting at the end of a pew and talking with friends. Even in her evident happiness at this occasion, her expression was defiant.

  The lights dimmed and brightened, signaling everyone to take their seats. Helen was seated on the front platform, or stage, or altar—Susanna was disappointed with herself, to realize that she didn’t know the correct word for this part of the synagogue. Surreptitiously, she used her phone to look it up. It was called the bimah. Helen, with her long dark hair and simple white dress, looked innocent and apprehensive, not the feisty girl that Susanna was accustomed to.

  As the service began, Susanna followed along in the prayer book. She was surprised by how the service drew her in, especially the singing. The cantor was a woman, her operatic voice impassioned.

  Susanna had returned from Europe weeks ago. Through further research before they left Weimar, she and Dan had confirmed what Inge had told them about the Gensler family. Knowing the family’s fate, Susanna felt free to consider all options for the cantata, even including destroying it. But the centuries of protection it had received, from Sara Levy through Henry Sachs, stopped her from taking that irrevocable step. Before she did anything, she needed to consult an attorney to confirm that she actually owned it. She hadn’t wanted to deal with an attorney right now. Resuming her daily life of work and friends in New York, she’d put the manuscript’s fate aside.

  As to Dan . . . they’d exchanged texts when their flights landed, assuring each other of safe arrival, and since then they’d corresponded about superficialities. They’d spoken on the phone a few times, but the conversations had been so awkward that e-mails and texts seemed better. She knew this was odd, even strange, but she didn’t know what to do to resolve the situation. She didn’t know if she wanted to resolve it. They’d parted as friends, as lovers. Would they be able to build a future together? Could they commute back and forth long term, with
a child’s schedule to balance? Could Dan secure a job in New York, assuming he even wished to? She hoped for children, but the difference in religion might be an obstacle for them, especially with Becky to consider. Susanna didn’t want them to end up with an awful confrontation that would forever color their memories of the happiness they’d shared. Judging from the evidence, Dan felt the same. And yet, she missed him, thought about him, wondered what he was doing each day. She imagined his voice, his body, his being.

  The rabbi, a bear of a man, and the cantor accompanied Helen to the Ark. The Ark was opened, and the cantor took out a Torah scroll and positioned it in Helen’s arms. The rabbi told Helen to carry the Torah in her heart for the rest of her life, and to work to make the world a better place.

  With the cantor’s help, Helen made her way down the stairs from the bimah. The Torah was large, Helen was petite, and the scroll concealed much of her body. It didn’t conceal her face. Her happiness was open and pure. As she carried the Torah through the sanctuary, the onlookers touched their prayer books to the Torah scroll and kissed the books. Susanna felt profoundly moved. She sensed herself part of a continuum, past, present, and future. She didn’t have to believe in God to be joined to thousands of years of history.

  Helen returned to the bimah. The service continued. Helen chanted her Torah portion. Her voice was confident as she stood at the pulpit and recited the ancient language.

  She began her speech: “First I want to thank my parents and my sister for all they’ve given me. I also want to thank . . .” As Helen went through a list of friends and family, she told funny stories that made each person come alive.

  Turning serious, she said, “Today I decided to talk about my Haftarah portion, which I’ll recite after my speech. For visitors who don’t know, the Haftarah is a reading from the Prophetic books of the Bible. My Haftarah portion, Isaiah 54:1 to 10, is very meaningful for me. This passage was meant to encourage people after the destruction of the First Temple in 586 B.C.E. It says that even though things seem bad, the Lord will return and make everything better. Most people think this message is hopeful. I disagree. In verse eight of the passage, the Lord says, I hid My face from you. When I think about that line, I know for certain that I can’t believe in God. If there really was a God, he, or she, wouldn’t turn away and let bad things happen in the first place.”

  Helen’s tone was matter-of-fact. She didn’t sound rebellious, angry, or teenage sulky.

  “My family, like all the Jewish families I know, suffered during the Holocaust. To prepare for my bat mitzvah, I asked my great-granny about her experiences during the war. She never talked about this with anyone, but she decided to tell me because of my bat mitzvah. During the Holocaust, my great-granny lost her first husband, Josef. He was murdered right in front of her. She loved him very much. He was a fine man, very serious. I know this because she told me. He had brown eyes. He had a beard that was soft to touch. He worked as an apprentice to a shoemaker, and he worked hard. She was training to be a seamstress. This is what they were doing when the war began, building their futures and hoping to have children before too long . . .”

  The childlike simplicity of Helen’s presentation made the story even more powerful.

  “ . . . and then great-granny and her husband went into hiding, in a hole in the floor of a barn. A family that wasn’t Jewish helped them. The day came when they were discovered. Great-granny told me exactly what happened next, but she asked me not to tell the congregation, because this part is so awful it’s for only our own family to know about. She did tell me I could say that the Christian family who helped them was murdered, too.”

  Helen stopped, biting her lip to keep herself from crying. Susanna felt her own eyes smarting with tears.

  “When I was young and I first learned about the Holocaust here in Sunday school at Rodeph Sholom, that’s when I first started wondering if there was a God. This made a problem for me, because I’m still Jewish and I always will be. For me, Judaism is about my family, my family’s history, and our holiday parties and the special food that great-granny teaches me to cook from the recipes she remembers from when she was a girl. I also believe that the most important part about being Jewish, and about being alive in general, is helping others. I don’t need to believe in God to share the value of trying to make the world a better place. This year, I’ve been volunteering at an after-school program in Washington Heights and helping to teach first graders to read.” Helen spoke about the individual children she worked with, and about their progress.

  “In conclusion, my great-granny wanted me to tell you that in spite of the tragic story I told today, we should enjoy ourselves and not be downhearted. We shouldn’t forget the past, but we should still have fun now, because that’s what it means to be alive. So says my great-granny, and she should know.”

  Helen turned to the cantor, who hugged her. The service continued along its required steps. Helen recited the Haftarah portion she’d just spoken about. The Torah was returned to the Ark. In his sermon, the rabbi praised Helen for grappling with the most important issues anyone can face, and also for understanding the crucial role of morality and ethics in all our lives. As the service ended, Helen’s family joined her on the bimah. Sofia pushed off assistance and made her way across the bimah. She embraced Helen tightly. Miriam wrapped her arms around them both.

  As Helen and her family filed out of the sanctuary, Susanna saw Scott Schiffman standing in a pew toward the back. She caught up with him as he made his way out.

  “Scott.”

  “Susanna.” He regarded her with surprise. “Good to see you.”

  Part of the crowd lingered for a reception in the lobby. Scott and Susanna went outside and found a quiet spot to talk.

  “How do you know Miriam and Ben?” she asked.

  “I don’t. Do you?”

  “Yes. Miriam and I were at college together.”

  “Helen’s speech was shocking, it was so good. I never thought I’d hear something like that this morning, from a thirteen-year-old.”

  “It’s no surprise to those who know her.” Susanna wanted to ask, but didn’t, What are you doing here, if you don’t know Miriam and Ben?

  As if he’d heard her silent question, or independently felt a need to explain himself, Scott said, “I’m here with my nephew David. He’s studying for his bar mitzvah next year, and he heard a rumor about today’s speech. With his parents busy escorting his siblings to soccer games, he asked if I would bring him. I suspect he also wanted to attend for the cookies at the reception. He left the sanctuary in a flash at the end, saying, ‘They always run out of the black and white.’ He didn’t need to clarify, for me to know. Look,” he said, making a quick shift, “you and I have a lot to talk about. Why don’t we have dinner together sometime? Absolutely simply dinner, nothing else intended.”

  Despite his disclaimer, dinner sounded too potentially romantic.

  “How about lunch?” she countered.

  “Good. Lunch. When?”

  “E-mail me and we’ll set a date.” She wasn’t in any rush to accommodate him.

  “No, wait,” he said. “The upcoming week is crazy for me—wining and dining visiting Mendelssohn scholars, for an exhibition we’re planning. How about brunch next Sunday? One week from tomorrow?”

  “I’m going to Buffalo next weekend.”

  Diane and Jenna, who’d bought Uncle Henry’s house, had e-mailed her. They’d found something that belonged to her, they’d said obliquely, and they didn’t want to entrust it to the mail. They’d always been kind to her and her family, so Susanna had decided to give them the benefit of the doubt and make the trip.

  “How about during the week after? How about that Monday?”

  Susanna was caught. She didn’t want to be rude. She checked her calendar on her phone.

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll make a reservation and let you know where and when,” Scott said.

  “Sounds good.”

 
; In her peripheral vision, she saw Miriam and Ben’s friends gathering to leave for the luncheon.

  “I need to join everyone.”

  “And I need to remove David from his post at the cookie table. I’ll see you soon, then.”

  “Yes, see you soon.”

  Chapter 49

  In the playground, Dan sat on the bench and watched Becky and Lizzie on the swings. Katarina sat beside him. Katarina had been away all summer, doing Smetana research in Sweden, where the Czech composer had spent part of his career. This was their first opportunity to catch up.

  “Becky looks like she grew about a foot over the summer,” Katarina said.

  “One inch and one quarter, according to the doctor. That’s what comes from breathing the pure air of Minnesota.”

  “Or it’s genetics. She’s catching up with you and Julie.”

  Julie was five feet nine. “Maybe so.”

  “How was your trip to Germany?”

  He didn’t want to discuss the details. “It was good. The usual conference politics. The usual great food and terrific beer.”

  That much was true. For the rest, he didn’t know. Maybe he was a coward, not arranging to meet Susanna. Somehow he couldn’t, not after seeing how happy Becky was during the camping trip with Julie’s family, and sensing himself welcomed, in fact loved as a son, by his in-laws. He’d even attended church, keeping his apostasy to himself. He recognized the importance of continuity for Becky, who’d been through so much. He supposed he wasn’t the only parishioner who’d made a similar compromise.

  He couldn’t imagine Susanna sitting in that church with him. Nor could he imagine her at this playground, day after day. And New York was two hours away. These hurdles seemed insurmountable, even though he loved her.

  She must feel something similar, he decided, or she would have insisted on a frank discussion. She wasn’t the type to sit around and wait.

  As far as Dan could tell, Katarina was unaware of Susanna. On the other hand, Dan wouldn’t be surprised if Katarina had heard about her from one of their colleagues at the conference.