Saving Mozart

by Raphael Jerusalmy

  Monday 15 January 1940

  I should never have asked that service of the nurse. I really regret it now. It’s gotten me worried. I’m going to tell her I changed my mind, that there’s no point.

  Or is it better to say nothing?

  What’s the point of keeping this damn diary? I must get rid of it.

  Wednesday 17 January 1940

  This morning, the custodian’s son came and knocked at my door. The boiler has been under repair since the day before yesterday. He found my notebook as he was cleaning. I looked like a fool. He gave it back to me with a sardonic grin. How does he know the diary is mine? Has he read it?

  If I try to get rid of it again, it’ll look suspicious. So why continue? To what purpose? I could write lies in it, to cover myself, to avert suspicion. What am I scared of anyway? I probably won’t last the winter, Hitler or no Hitler. Am I writing for Dieter? To make him feel guilty? My beloved son doesn’t care what happens to me. He left to change the world. A long way from here. To make sure his past doesn’t catch up with him. His bourgeois past. I can’t blame him. My past is certainly catching up with me, after all this time. My Jewish past. All because of a stupid diary. And an out-of-order boiler.

  Thursday 18 January 1940

  As Dr. Müller was conducting his examination, he reminded me that I’m moving to Ward 5 next Monday. I have the weekend to get myself organized before I leave my room. He ran through the house rules as they applied to wards of six beds, and then, in a confidential tone, advised me to be more careful in future. Not to leave my things lying around!

  I promised him I wouldn’t write anything more. I don’t know why that made him laugh. He just repeated that I shouldn’t leave my things lying around just anywhere. Or trust the nurses. And then he gave me the information I wanted, in that grave, neutral doctor’s manner of his. My sister doesn’t live in Vienna anymore. And she didn’t leave for America. The doctor told me that, when it came to Sapperstein, he had no choice. He informed on him to be straight with the authorities. So that the sanitarium would be left in peace. It was the price he had to pay. But it’s still necessary to exercise caution.

  I don’t know if I should be grateful to him.

  This diary has definitely brought me an unwanted fame. Because of it, I’ve stupidly drawn attention to myself. They know. And now they’re waiting.

  Saturday 20 January 1940

  The newcomer’s niece has donated her late uncle’s phonograph and records to the sanitarium. The doctor has put them in the canteen so that we can eat to music. To cover the noise of coughing, the scraping of knives and forks on the plates.

  I find it grim. Beethoven in the canteen of a sanitarium, with all these invalids in their dressing gowns. Not to mention the fact that the acoustics are terrible, because of the cement walls and the tiles. I told the manager. He replied that it was the dead man’s wish. But what about the living?

  I never thought I would ever come to loathe Beethoven.

  But why was the newcomer so eager for us to listen to his old records? By forcing everyone to remember him, he’s made himself completely detestable. Many others have gone before him, without saying anything, without leaving any trace. Without boasting!

  Was it to remind us that it’s also possible to die on the second floor?

  I should have asked him his name. The better to forget it.

  Sunday 21 January 1940

  I’ve packed my bags. It’s my last day in a private room. I take advantage of every remaining moment. The silence, the solitude, alone in my shell. Who would ever have thought it’s possible to miss solitude? Some soldiers are passing outside. In rhythm. Beating the sidewalk.

  Monday 22 January 1940

  Moved to Ward 5. Hard to take.

  I’ve had to wait for the others to get to sleep before I could write. They were polite enough, though. They didn’t bombard me with questions. One of them simply asked me if I played chess. He looks quite distinguished, in spite of his rumpled pajamas. On his bedside table, I noticed a family photograph taken in the doorway of a large building.

  I made a big effort not to seem too grumpy. I don’t know what to do to get rid of the bad smells. I have no more cologne.

  Let’s hope Hans doesn’t pay me any more visits. Not here.

  Tuesday 23 January 1940

  This diary irritates me. It throws me back a distorted image of myself, like the cracked mirror in the corridor. An image that’s increasingly similar to everyone else, the patients in Ward 5, or in the canteen, with their empty eyes and fixed grins like characters from a cheap horror film. As if they had all come to an agreement to pull the same faces. No! It’s not me I see in their vampire eyes, in the cracked mirror, in this dog-eared exercise book. I truly don’t recognize myself in these clipped, staccato sentences, even though I wrote them with my own hand. I reread them sometimes as if they were the memoirs of a stranger. Or of a ghost.

  I’m going to have to fight all these lies.

  Thursday 25 January 1940

  A patient from our ward has been transferred to the third floor. His bed sits there empty, like a threat, a verdict.

  My neighbor in the ward had visitors. He received them downstairs in the entrance hall. An elegant woman and two adolescents dressed in their Sunday best. They wept a lot. In chorus. And then he came back up. I told him I could play chess. We had a game. Without saying anything. His mind was elsewhere. I won. He shook my hand. He has a firm grip. Firmer than mine. His name is Günter. Günter Ratenau.

  Went down to listen to the wireless. Our submarines have sunk several cargo ships, French, Norwegian, British. The Jews are no longer allowed to travel by train. The Russians are still fighting the Finns. Tomorrow, there will be snow in Salzburg and over most of the country.

  Monday 29 January 1940

  Confined to bed since yesterday. The night watchman found me in the courtyard. Frozen stiff.

  Saturday was very hard. As soon as I woke, I could feel that things weren’t good. Dry throat, shivering, chest pains, back pains, cramps, nausea. I didn’t want to say anything. From beneath the sheets, I saw the others as if in a fog. Like puppets in a shadow play. I couldn’t breathe, as if I was drowning. Günter brought me some water. Water for a drowning man?

  At night, it was even worse. High temperature, diarrhea. Shame. Anger. When the others at last fell asleep, I dragged myself to the courtyard and lay down in the snow. I looked at the branches of the trees, the sky, a beam of moonlight.

  That suicide did me good.

  Friday 2 February 1940

  The cod is back. The potatoes, boiled with them, smell of fish. And of hospital stench. Impossible to cut. Just watching the others swallow makes me want to throw up. Which is what I did. In front of everybody.

  When Dieter was little . . . Five or six . . . In the park. The balloons. The band. Maria.

  All this is because of Hitler.

  Saturday 3 February 1940

  Saturday, the Sabbath. What made me think of that?

  My chest hurts. As if it were shrinking. Tuberculosis can take on different forms, diffuse, meningeal, pulmonary, depending on where the seat of infection is located. It can spread throughout the body if it isn’t treated in time. It has to be neutralized from the start, before it’s too late.

  Game of chess with Günter. He won. But with no style. He grouped all his pawns on the right-hand side of the board, forcing me to play defensively in order to block him. I should have sent my bishop off to the left and created a diversion. His king wasn’t well protected. I should have looked for his weak spot.

  Sunday 4 February 1940

  Too tired to play.

  Wednesday 7 February 1940

  Health inspection. They spent ages on the third floor. Dr. Müller was uneasy. The rest of the staff too. From my bed, I glimpsed two men passing in the corridor, looking pressed for time, their noses in lists. They weren’t wearing white coats. One of them had a limp. His wooden leg knocked on the tiled f
loor. Luckily they didn’t come into Ward 5. Nobody’s even cleaned the ward for three days.

  I’m finding it hard to get as far as the wash basin. I thought about the drugs locked in the medicine cabinet. Morphine? Curare? In the absence of a good cognac.

  Thursday 8 February 1940

  My tenant came! She brought me a steaming bacon hotpot in lieu of rent. She apologized for her delay in paying, but promises to let me have a little something next month. Her husband will be getting a bonus. Austrian Railways has reached an agreement whereby it will be remunerated at the official rate for trains commissioned by the army. Particularly the special eastbound trains. A separate fund has been allocated for the production of new engines that will increase efficiency and allow the workers and their machines to rest a little between journeys. Her husband is exhausted. When he comes home for a day or two, he collapses on the bed and falls fast asleep. He doesn’t talk to her. Either about the war or about the weather. Or even about his work.

  She’s young and fresh-looking, with her blonde braids and pink cheeks. Like a little girl. The others were jealous.

  Günter told me I was lucky to have such honest tenants. There’s no lack of empty apartments that used to belong to Jews. Or communists. They’re often the same, he said with a laugh. I thought about my brother-in-law. A bourgeois and a snob. And my father who so wanted to be a Christian.

  I dreamed about those train journeys, like a little boy. The cars gliding over the rails, cutting through the misty countryside, whistling in the darkness, taking you to the ends of the earth.

  Friday 9 February 1940

  Boiled potatoes? Forget it! I gave my Werther to the custodian’s son. With the money he got for it he bought me a piece of saveloy on the black market. Delicious!

  Saturday 10 and Sunday 11 February 1940

  Praying is out of the question. Absolutely! Why did I think about God? It’s against my principles. There’s a little chapel at the far end of the covered yard. Pews, unlit candles, a painted wooden crucifix. I only went to have a look.

  I refused to play chess with Günter. He gets on my nerves with his comments on current events, the latest from the front, the Führer’s speeches. Nothing to make a fuss about. History’s taking its course, that’s all.

  They run tests on me every week. What’s happening to me is staring me in the face. The infection is spreading. No need to be a doctor to know that! Just sick.

  Tuesday 13 February 1940

  Checkmate in sixteen moves! I sacrificed all my soldiers and then charged in, heading straight for the king. Günter was taken by surprise. He collapsed on his bed, exhausted.

  I went out into the courtyard, in spite of the cold. A nurse told me off. I sent her packing. I even swore at her. She ran away.

  When Dr. Müller examined me he told me I was looking well. I found myself staring at the medicine cabinet, just behind him. He smiled. Don’t even think about it, my dear fellow. But yes, I am thinking about it.

  Thursday 15 February 1940

  A strange visit from Hans, who sprained his ankle skiing. He was depressed, having his leg in plaster just when he has to get down to the preparations for the summer festival. I was the one who had to cheer him up.

  He showed me a score by a young composer. I liked it a lot. Lively and optimistic. Hans doesn’t share my opinion, but the cultural committee is forcing him to include it in the program for the next Festspiele. As with the whole program, in fact. Most of the audience will be military: officers, war heroes, the seriously wounded. Just one orchestra, the Vienna Philharmonic. Böhm, Furtwängler and Lehár will conduct. Not Karajan. Decisions taken at a high level. Not very encouraging, to be honest. All the concerts will be broadcast on the wireless. For a few evenings Salzburg will be the capital of the Reich, and of music.

  Very flattered that Hans asked me to help him by writing the program notes. And even the introduction to the official brochure. And then I realized. Hans is scared. Every sentence will be gone over by the Party’s cultural committee. The smallest slip could get him into trouble. But I have nothing to lose.

  I promised to help him. I owe him that at least. After all, he’s the only one who still comes to see me. Apart from my tenant. The others have severed relations with me rather too quickly for my taste. In their place, I would probably have done the same.

  By the time Hans left, limping on his crutches, I seemed to have set his mind at rest. He left me a box of macaroons. I thought I might give it to my tenant, if she comes back.

  I can understand how helpless Hans must feel. The Nazis’ meddling in the program for the Festspiele is intolerable. Revolting. Turning the Festival into a mere propaganda tool, an entertainment for the troops, is the last straw. Taking Mozart hostage. Demeaning him in that way. Isn’t there anyone who can prevent such an outrage?

  This time they’ve gone too far! They can’t be allowed to do such a thing. There has to be some way to react. This farce must be stopped. At all costs. Mozart must be saved!

  Saturday 17 February 1940

  Saint Günter. He won my box of macaroons at chess and then went and shared them among the patients on the third floor. That’s how I learned that he takes care of them. Whenever he disappears, it’s to go upstairs. I hadn’t even noticed. He spends hours there. What does he do with them in all that time? Is he their nurse, their confessor?

  He told me about an old man, who’s in a very bad way, can’t remember anything and raves most of the time, but is unbeatable at chess. He doesn’t even recognize Günter although he comes to see him every day. He never gets out of his bed. During the game, he hardly looks at the board, just stares up at the ceiling with his glassy eyes. Only from time to time, when Günter shakes him, he’ll give a brief glance at the board and then dictate his move: rook to G5. He can no longer move the pieces. He gets checkmate in twelve moves, not one more, not one less, whatever happens.

  I’m surprised Dr. Müller lets Günter move about like that on the third floor. It’s against the rules. Fortunately, the patients upstairs are not allowed to come down, as a hygienic measure. Nothing’s very logical in this hospital. Why put the dying all the way upstairs, as far as possible from the exit?

  Tuesday 20 February 1940

  Two visitors!

  The first was Hans. He suddenly showed up in the ward just before the time for washing. I was in my pajamas, and unshaven. He brought me the literature I need to start work. He advised me to follow the news on the wireless, especially the official speeches. To get the tone right. He seemed worried. The gauleiter has asked him to personally choose two or three pieces for the district brass band, in preparation for an event of the greatest importance. That’s all he knows. I suggested a few works in which the percussion stand out and the rest of the band doesn’t need to be particularly virtuosic, just keep to the beat. He didn’t find them solemn enough. Too facile. To be honest, he has no idea what kind of ceremony it’ll be. It’s a secret. The gauleiter simply gave him to understand that some very important people will be present. Perhaps even the Führer. A simple regimental march won’t suffice. Some Wagner, then?

  The second visitor was my tenant, who came at lunch time with another bacon hotpot. She paid me half of January’s rent. Or was it December’s? Her husband will be back soon. He’s been recalled to drive a train on the line that goes up to the passes. A new engine is being put to the test. It’s a great honor. A mission of trust, was how she put it. His colleagues have congratulated him. He deserves it, after all these months in Poland. She’s very proud of him. Her husband isn’t a simple railroad man. He drives special trains.

  These visits tired me. I couldn’t even swallow a spoonful of hotpot. Too heavy. Saint Günter took the saucepan up to the third floor.

  What I really want is a cigar.

  Thursday 22 February 1940

  Very sick since yesterday. Chest X-ray. I wish I could just raid the medicine cabinet.

  Sunday 25 February 1940

  Not good.
Günter waiting on me hand and foot. No strength even to write.

  Thursday 29 February 1940

  Leap year.

  Feeling a little better. I absolutely must start writing for the Festspiele. Hans is snowed under with work, not to mention that business of the brass band. And he’s scared to death of the SS. So I have to weigh my words, take care not to overdo it, not to insult the works that are going to be played. Mozart still has to be protected from these idiots.

  Friday 1 March 1940

  My least favorite day of the week. I’m in a bad mood. Well, at least it sharpens my mind. I may be all skin and bone. But I still have my nerves. And I still have music.

  I’ve never understood music so well as I have since I stopped listening to it. Since I’ve been forced to do without it. But it has other ways of making itself heard. There’s no need for a phonograph. Or a score. The genius of music is the breath that goes through The Magic Flute before it emits a single sound. It’s the waiting that precedes the hearing. It’s the gesture, the attitude, the emotion. Nothing to do with the notes.

  I can remember hundreds of melodies, the words of all the great operas, in Italian, German and French, the names of conductors and singers, the applause. It all echoes in my head, throbs in my eardrums. If they take music from me . . .

  No, not that! I won’t let them.

  Saturday 2 March 1940

  I’m in the chapel. I can write in peace here.

  The figure of Christ sends shivers down my spine. A trickle of blood, too dark in color, runs down his forehead. His crown of thorns is made out of a segment of barbed wire. I avoid looking at him. There’s something embarrassing in another person’s suffering. Like a reproach. And yet I see suffering people every day. Real people, not wooden figurines. I don’t understand.