The panzer regiments massed in Belgium have crossed the Meuse and are now making for France. The Luftwaffe is bombing Rotterdam. The Queen of Holland has escaped. The Polish Jews have been rehoused in ghettos. Still no announcement about the Festspiele. I have a horrible feeling it may be cancelled at the last minute. Like the Olympic Games. I never imagined the war would be on such a scale.
I keep writing in spite of everything. Hans has promised that I’ll be remunerated.
Thursday 16 May 1940
My father was right, at the end of the day, to want to convert.
Friday 17 May 1940
Workers have come and left ladders, buckets and bags of cement. They’re starting work on Monday.
Saturday 18 May 1940
Again thought about my father. And mother. It’s from them that I get my love of music. My sister always preferred painting. The Impressionists. Especially the women, Berthe Morisot, Mary Cassatt, Suzanne Valadon. She used to visit Viennese galleries, auction rooms, art bookshops. She’d drag her husband along. Even the children sometimes. But you, my son, haven’t an esthetic bone in your body. Politics, on the other hand, is in your blood. Marx, Engels, Kropotkin. You chose your side, the way an artist chooses his school.
I’ve never followed any movement. That’s what my father bequeathed to me, however reluctantly: non-belonging. I’m neither a Jew nor a non-Jew. And that’s partly his fault.
This evening, I continued with my reminiscences. I remembered your childhood, and mine. Before all these choices. The ones you made. The ones I could have made.
Monday 20 May 1940
The work has started. The workers sing to themselves amid the din of hammers and saws and drills. An operetta for voices and tools, with the foreman, a noisy, efficient Tyrolean, as solo tenor. The corridors already smell new. Stefan runs all over the place. He’s very busy. He jokes with everyone. He gets along well with these fellows who come from the outskirts of town or, like him, from the country.
The noise helps me work. I imagine I’m hearing the stage hands and prop men at the opera, putting up a set.
I’ve reworked the press release for the opening of the festival, putting in the necessary flourishes. High-flown expressions, exclamation marks, emphatic adverbs. Not difficult. A bit like the effects in the Führer’s speeches. To show off, to impress the masses. I found it quite amusing to plagiarize Nazi bombast.
This evening, I reread what I’d written. It’s pure nonsense.
Wednesday 22 May 1940
Bronchial tubes congested for the past two days. All that plaster dust.
I considered going out, sitting on a bench, getting some fresh air. Too weak. My disease is trying to regain the upper hand. How to stop it? Even Mozart couldn’t manage that, despite the fact that music still needed him.
I know I’m not going to save the Festspiele with my articles. Everything is checked and censored anyway. The finest works will be slaughtered. Even Mozart. I can already see Böhm and Lehár wielding their batons like clubs. So what can I do?
Salzburg won’t be Bayreuth. Anything but that!
Thursday 23 May 1940
Not good.
Friday 24 May 1940
Stefan worried. He brought me some soup which he got from one of the workers. With pieces of bacon in it. I remembered the taboo against eating the meat of the pig. Why pigs and not cows?
I thought about God. But that’s because I’m sick. I’ve never felt as helpless as I do now. It’s as if the disease had me in a judo hold and was keeping me down on the carpet, my shoulders on the ground.
I fight against sleep. For fear that I won’t wake up again. I write and write. So as not to fall asleep. This year’s Festspiele will go down in history. It is the first great artistic event of a new civilization on the rise, in Salzburg, in Berlin, in Munich and throughout the Reich. A civilization that unites us all! Thanks to the miracle of radio broadcast, the music of Mozart will be heard in millions of homes and will echo throughout the world. Henceforth, our lives will be lived to his rhythms. The same music for everybody!
This year’s Festspiele will go down in history. The organizers have done everything possible to . . .
The SS love music the Führer loves music the Teutons the Italians the Blacks plants and babies love music the radio loves music loves
Tuesday 28 May 1940
Slightly better. First visit from the new doctor. Young. In an impeccable uniform. No white coat. He looked through my file, examined me without a word, made a few notes and left to continue his rounds. A very medical visit. Müller may have been a crook and a hypocrite, but he was always friendly with the patients. Straight too. He came right out with his diagnosis, without kid gloves. He at least pretended to be treating us. And he wore a white coat.
Thursday 30 May 1940
The army convalescents will be here in two weeks. I’ll have to vacate my room. As I still have no idea where I’ll be moved to, I simply threw the bare essentials in a traveling bag. Whatever I can’t keep with me Stefan will store in the cellar. There’s a feeling of departure, like in a station. Everyone is a bit disorientated. We patients are not accustomed to moving fast like soldiers. And without arguing. Some tug at the lieutenant’s sleeve and bombard him with stupid questions. Which annoys him. I can understand that. This lack of discipline doesn’t do us credit. It infuriates me.
Friday 31 May 1940
I listened to the arias from Così fan tutte, conducted by Fritz Busch, three times in succession, then wrapped my records and my phonograph in newspaper.
Impossible to get a wink of sleep. A lot of hustle and bustle. Furniture being shifted, doors slamming, hurried footsteps on the stairs and, outside, truck engines running. I don’t dare go see.
Saturday 1 June 1940
The third floor was evacuated last night. In one fell swoop. Nobody knows where the patients have been taken. Not even Stefan. It transpires that we’re all going to be rehoused up there. The first and second floors will be for the soldiers. We’ll have our meals in our rooms. The orderlies are spraying the wards with antiseptic. But what about the mattresses?
Sunday 2 June 1940
Tired out by all this upheaval. Not strong enough to go for a walk in town. I went down to the courtyard. I listened to the birds chirping in the trees. Sitting on a bench, in the sun. There were two other patients, their backs against the wall, talking excitedly about the move. Thanks to them, I couldn’t hear the sparrows.
Inside, the place is a hive of activity. It’s a bit grotesque, all this commotion. A storm in a teacup, as the English say.
Tuesday 4 June 1940
I’m in Ward 9A, next to the stairs. Twelve beds, with hardly any space between them. The man in the bed on my right is about fifty, tidy, quite friendly, and has clearly decided to make the best of a bad job. The one on my left is much older, and seems slightly senile. He doesn’t talk much, spends most of his time lost in thought. Both have one unpleasant characteristic in common. They snore.
A single wash basin. Shower and toilets on the landing. Rusty bars on the windows. But some attempts at decoration all the same. A crucifix above the door. A few photographs on the wall. Riverside views, vineyards, mountain peaks.
Like the others, I’ve arranged my family photographs on the shelf we have instead of a night table. I’ve put everything else under my bed. My diary is now among my socks. But I’ve been given permission to place my phonograph on a linen shelf in the corridor, which has become our drawing room, our boulevard, our café terrace.
People are organizing themselves as best they can. There’s even a corner of the landing reserved for those who want a bit of privacy. That was decided spontaneously and by tacit agreement.
No more radio. The wireless has stayed downstairs in the canteen. Thank goodness for that.
Thursday 6 June 1940
No news from Hans. A pity, because I’ve finished my work. I’m waiting for him. This month’s rent is still unpaid, according t
o the manager. Revolting food. Dust everywhere. Stefan says everything will be better when the soldiers arrive.
I feel a kind of depression.
Friday 14 June 1940
Arrival of the war wounded at the sanitarium. Great upheaval. Stefan is very excited. We’re confined to our floor until further orders.
I had expected shouting and laughter, the clumping of boots. I stood at the top of the stairs, listening hard, but everything happened in silence. I find it hard to believe they’re there, just downstairs.
Saturday 15 June 1940
Hans was finally able to come! I received him in our drawing room. He brought me some cookies in a bag. And a few food coupons. My wages as a music critic.
The Festspiele will take place as planned. For two whole weeks! From 13 to 29 July. That’s in less than a month! Hans has promised to get me tickets. He glanced at my corrections and patted me on the back, smugly. Seeing me looking so pale, he probably doesn’t think I’ll last until the festival. I can’t stop coughing, I can hardly breathe, but I’ll be there. Just whispering the dates, 13 to 29 July, gives me strength. The dates reverberate in my head like pealing bells. No more depression. Enough of this moaning. Otto, my dear fellow, the Festspiele awaits you! You have an appointment with Mozart!
I told Hans about the arrival of the soldiers yesterday, to explain my sudden transfer to the third floor. As if to apologize. His only reply was to tell me that the troops of the Reich had entered Paris. Also yesterday.
I feel much better this evening. A beautiful, glowing sunset through the windows. Spring at last.
Sunday 16 June 1940
Paris has fallen. I can’t believe it.
Monday 17 June 1940
New menu. Army rations. But they’re only scraps left over from the meals downstairs, just a bit reheated and served to us from a big cauldron.
We’re still not allowed to go downstairs. In order not to contaminate the wounded. The filth doesn’t help. Litter is piling up. The staff can’t cope. No time to devote to us civilians. We smell bad.
Stefan is quite disappointed. The newcomers are either horribly crippled or in a state of shock. In a really bad way, he told me. In other words, not very good company.
I surprised Stefan by telling him that I might have Festspiele tickets for him. The fact is, I want him to go with me. To support me in case my strength fails. I have no desire to collapse in front of everyone in the middle of a concert hall.
And I’ll need an accomplice.
Wednesday 19 June 1940
The man on my left is fading fast. He keeps muttering incomprehensibly. Or rather, not so much muttering as singing, in a kind of Germanic dialect but with a slightly softer, more Slavonic intonation. The tune is always the same, quite a lively one. Probably a folk dance. I could write an article about it, an essay. Music and memory. Or even a short piece of music. Wind sonata for consumptive lungs.
Friday 21 June 1940
Stefan came up to see me. We chatted about this and that. The weather, the war, his work. And then, fleeing the noisy corridor, we played a game of chess on my bed. The old man was snoring softly. After a moment, he took a deep breath, as if suffocating. We thought he was giving up the ghost, but he suddenly started singing to himself. Stefan listened, a slight smile at the corners of his mouth. He looked at me hesitantly. I realized that he’d recognized the song the old man was muttering. At last he made up his mind. It’s Jewish, he said, proud to display his expertise. I found it hard to conceal my surprise. There were some Jews in his village. Six families. One of them was the blacksmith. They sang like that, in bad German, whenever they got together for a feast day or a wedding. One of them would accompany the others on the violin and tap his feet. When the weather was nice, you’d see them dancing together in the blacksmith’s yard.
A Jew, here? So close to me?
Saturday 22 June 1940
We’ve been punished, like little boys. Deprived of meals. And visits. The lieutenant is very angry. Someone from our floor went down to the second floor to look for soap, apparently. The lieutenant gave him a thrashing and threw him out of the sanitarium.
Monday 24 June 1940
Punishment over. Those who can are even allowed to go out, but not by the stairs. A ladder has been placed at the back of the building. We just have to ask Stefan. He raises it and places it up against the façade, so that it reaches the window in the corridor. The man on my right was the first to go out for a walk, today. I gave him a note to deliver to Hans. He brought back a handful of acid drops. He gave me a lemon-flavored one.
My note to Hans was a comment on the second concert of the Festspiele. It’s a heavy program. To start the Tchaikovsky symphony immediately after the concerto, without transition, strikes me as too abrupt. The effect will be to crush Mozart and turn his concerto into a mere interlude. Right there in the Mozarteum! Wolfgang Schneiderhan will be the violinist. Why not take advantage of his virtuosity and let him play a short solo between these two long and contrasting works? It’ll make for a more flexible whole, and add a touch of refinement.
The lieutenant came to do his tour of inspection. He reminded us of the rules, the importance of hygiene. No contact with the men on the second floor. I had the impression he was embarrassed, even ashamed. In my opinion, he doesn’t want us—or anyone else—to see these war wounded.
Tuesday 25 June 1940
I asked Stefan to tell me about the Jews in his village. My father never told us anything about his family, or about his life in Silesia. He had a strong foreign accent that amused us greatly, especially when he tried to adopt a more distinguished tone, Viennese style. We all knew he could speak perfect Yiddish. But he never uttered a single word, not even in his sleep.
Stefan didn’t have much to tell. When he was little, he played with them, in the fields. He even learned some bad language. Eïn groïss dreck. And then, as he grew, he kept only professional relations with them. Especially with the blacksmith. At least until he left for Palestine. Das helige Land, as Stefan calls it. He even has his address, somewhere in Galilee. The Jew entrusted him with his equipment and his tools, saying he would find a way to have them sent to him by boat. But he still hasn’t been in touch even though it’s been more than three years since he left. The others also left, but later. Just a few months ago. From one day to the next, they were gone.
I find it absurd that a peasant from the mountains should know so many Jews, whereas, apart from my brother-in-law and my nephews, I myself have never rubbed shoulders with any. Just a few musicians, one or two composers, at festivals. Professional relations, as Stefan says.
Drew a little calendar, with boxes and borders, to mark the days still remaining until the Festspiele.
I hope Hans will take my suggestion seriously. I’d so much like to be there that evening. It will probably be my last lap. After that . . .
What else do I have to hold on to?
Friday 28 June 1940
Hitler is visiting Paris. He was very impressed by the Opéra. So am I. I went to a wonderful performance of Carmen there. With my wife. Afterwards, we went for a meal at the Petit Riche. Very expensive and very good. And then made love for a long time in our hotel room at the foot of the Butte Montmartre.
Saturday 29 June 1940
The old man in the bed to my left is going completely off the rails. He again did his business in the sheets. I whispered in his ear: Calm down, today’s your Sabbath. Shabbes, shabbes. He didn’t react.
We had to wash him ourselves, and his sheets, because of the smell. Should I inform on him just to get him out of here? I’m not even sure he is a Jew. I saw him naked as we were washing him. He isn’t circumcised.
But then neither am I.
This overcrowding is becoming frankly intolerable. There’s no demarcation, as there was before, between the dying and the others, the old and the young, the incurables and the convalescents. To tell the truth, I don’t belong to any of these categories. I’m neither young
nor old and not completely moribund. I live in troubled waters. Like a pebble in a stream. A pebble that’s still rolling.
Tuesday 2 July 1940
Impossible to sleep. The old man in the next bed is delirious. Between the spluttering and the wheezing, he endlessly sings the same tune. Hour after hour. It’s unbearable.
Wednesday 3 July 1940
Exhausted. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. The old man didn’t stop singing his song for a single minute. The same tune, again and again. I nudged him with my elbow, tapped him on the cheek. I even considered smothering him with a pillow. And then I collapsed with exhaustion on my bed. Doomed to listen to his groaning.
After a while, I noticed that the song was helping him to breathe. It was getting the air to circulate in his mouth. If he’d fallen silent, his lips would have closed and his throat would have been paralyzed. It struck me as a good technique, a breathing exercise. So I took up the tune, in canon, then the guttural noises, in my father’s accent. Very low. Gradually, it cleared my lungs too. And calmed me a little.
Now I can’t get it out of my head!
Thursday 4 July 1940
Received a kind note from my tenant. She’s entering the sixth month of her pregnancy, and is sorry she can’t come to see me. Because of the germs. She apologizes for the delay in settling the rent. She hasn’t seen her husband in several weeks. The railway company is only paying a meager wage by transfer. The rest consists of small bonuses, paid directly in cash to each train crew. All she knows is that he was hospitalized for a few days in Poland. The doctors were afraid he might have caught typhus or something like that. Luckily, that turned out not to be the case. Just a bad bout of flu.
Saving Mozart Page 7
