Saving Mozart

by Raphael Jerusalmy

  She asked me if I’d agree to be the baby’s godfather. Even though I can’t come to the christening. I cried for the first time in ages.

  Friday 5 July 1940

  Visit from Hans. He’s a brave man.

  We had to take refuge on the landing. Because of the old man’s constant muttering. And the filth. We didn’t talk either about my illness or about the war. There’s nothing to be said about either of them.

  The Festspiele begins in a week. Hans brought me two tickets for the second concert, which will be held at the Mozarteum. Stefan will be able to go with me. Or rather to support me. I’m getting weaker by the day. There’s nothing I can do about it. The other performances don’t interest me at all. Not even the gala evening: Beethoven’s Leonore Overture and Bruckner’s Seventh. God, how old hat it all is. How unoriginal.

  I can already hear the Festspielhaus echo to the applause of gloved hands. I see the auditorium, the gilded molding, the crystal chandeliers, and sitting there in rows, the over-starched dress uniforms, the bourgeois in their tails, the young aristocrats in their Gatsby-style clothes with their mistresses, the old countesses snoring, the SS officers strutting on the mezzanine, the bespectacled academicians, and all that Austro-Hungarian rabble still stinking of the Black Forest, however swankily they present themselves. I know them all. I was one of them. How much hair cream, shoe polish, eau de toilette and silk handkerchiefs did I have to use to go and listen to music? War paint.

  The cultural committee has carefully chosen the pieces. Popular operas, easy pieces for flashy virtuosos, regional music, and waltzes, lots of waltzes. Admittedly, the audience will consist mostly of military personnel. Which makes it all the more surprising that my suggestion has been taken seriously. Hans says Schneiderhan is delighted at the idea of performing alone on stage, unaccompanied. The gauleiter has no objection, provided the piece is short. No more than five or ten minutes. And that’s the snag. Schneiderhan can’t decide. He’d like to do something impressive, to stand out. He’s afraid there’s a danger this little interlude will go unnoticed, wedged as it will be between two major works, crushed by their power. I told Hans we needed something lively, something, ideally, that would get the audience to join in and clap their hands in time to the music. I should have kept my mouth shut. Hans immediately asked me to advise him on the question.

  The Mozart concerto comes just after the opening piece, the awful Salzburger Hof- und Barockmusik by Jerger, as Teutonic as anyone could wish—the whole thing cheerfully hammered home by Böhm’s conducting—and just before Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony. They couldn’t have murdered Mozart better if they’d tried. Or the very soul of Salzburg. What a capitulation! I feel ashamed. As an Austrian. It makes the Americans at the Cosmopolitan Opera, or even the French, look good. Not because they play better. But because they have a sense of decency. And the minimum amount of humility needed to perform such great music.

  So I’ll have five minutes to save Mozart. It’s all I need. Not with a cup of coffee. Or with a vial full of poison. But with music, as is only fitting. Using a violin.

  Five minutes is a lot. Killing Hitler would only have taken thirty seconds.

  Sunday 7 July 1940

  I’ve got it! I’ve found the perfect piece. I just have to transcribe it and arrange it for violin. It’s unlikely that Hans would find a score in the library of the Academy. In any case I prefer to adapt it to suit Wolfgang Schneiderhan. He’ll be more inspired if the rhythm matches his style of playing. As the young prodigy he is, he’ll know how to give it the right fire and passion. I trust him. He’ll be eager to shine.

  Stefan is very excited at the thought of going with me. He’s never set foot in a concert hall. Or attended an event at which high society will be present.

  He’s found a suit that fits him in the storeroom next to the morgue. A little threadbare but presentable. Stefan won’t look out of place among the soldiers, with his amputated arm and his scars. I’ll lean on his remaining arm. What a fine pair! A consumptive and a disabled ex-serviceman.

  Tuesday 9 July 1940

  A courier came yesterday to take the score. It’s written on medical prescriptions. I had no spare paper of the right format. Stefan wasn’t able to get me anything better from the management. He also brought me a ruler and some ink. I worked the whole of Sunday night, in the corridor. I hummed the tune a hundred times in a low voice, writing it down note by note. Repeating the melody, and exaggerating the rhythm.

  Now, it’s only a matter of waiting.

  Wednesday 10 July 1940

  The doctor doesn’t know I’m going to the concert. I told him I’d been invited to dinner by an old acquaintance who lives not far from here. He didn’t believe me. The patients always make lame excuses in order to go out. The doctor isn’t taken in. He knows perfectly well that most go to find food on the black market or to visit a brothel in the lower town. He understands, he’s a soldier.

  France has a new government. Led by Pétain. I remember that name. “The victor of Verdun!” To each his own betrayal. We betray Mozart. He betrays Ravel and Debussy. Does the Marshal have a baton, like Böhm?

  Friday 12 July 1940

  Revolting food. I’d never have imagined I’d one day have a craving for cod. Even boiled. Sapperstein wouldn’t touch meat. Out of respect for tradition. Should I envy him for staying true to himself right to the end? For holding out in spite of everything?

  My father couldn’t see any good reason to remain a Jew. And plenty of bad ones. Of course, he was quite right. If he hadn’t been, those who came looking for Sapperstein would have taken me away too.

  Sapperstein didn’t put up any resistance to the Gestapo men. He didn’t even try to lie, to argue, to offer a bribe. The only thing he insisted on was not eating meat. Not swallowing impure food. And yet he wasn’t religious. I think he was actually a Trotskyite.

  My father loved Schweinfilet and diced bacon. Not my mother, because it’s fattening. Nor my sister, because of her husband. Or just to annoy father. It was her way of being revolutionary. Or reactionary? In any case, father forgave her everything.

  Where is she now? Where are the children?

  What about Dieter? Is he still in Palestine? I very much doubt it. Zionism, agriculture, draining marshes. It’s not for him. He isn’t a Jew, after all. He always wanted to be a citizen of the world. Stateless. Rootless. That was his idea of freedom.

  I remember the family arguments before Dieter went off to join the anti-Fascists in Spain. My brother-in-law was outraged. He called my son a Bolshevik, the black sheep of the family. Dieter loved that. And to think we’d dreamed of his becoming a teacher. Even a university professor. He would have stayed here in Salzburg. He would have come to see me, his briefcase under his arm, stuffed with books.

  Basically, I’m the only member of the family who doesn’t belong to anything. Who hasn’t made a choice. What group do consumptives subscribe to? What ideology? The seriously ill are also a caste. A very egalitarian one. But on what side are they? Do they have a program?

  My nationality is Austrian, my denomination consumptive. And I’m proud of it . . .

  Saturday 13 July 1940

  Opening of the Festspiele!

  Sunday 14 July 1940

  Very tired. No news from Hans. He must be snowed under with work. Did he even glance at the score? The second concert is in three days.

  Stefan brought me some hot tea. I told him not to worry. We’ll go to the Mozarteum. On a stretcher if need be! I wouldn’t miss it for the world. My last Festspiele. Before I become like the old man in the next bed.

  He’s stopped singing his little song. But I can’t get it out of my head. It’s always there, like a virus. One that he’s passed to me.

  It’s incredibly quiet. I like it. The days here are all the same. Coughing, filth, depression. But Sunday is a magical day. Even for us. Just because it’s Sunday.

  For the Arabs, it’s Friday, and the Jews, Saturday. The three together ma
ke what the Americans call a long weekend.

  Monday 15 July 1940

  More than two days. Still no news from Hans.

  The Mozart violin concerto is already stroking my eardrums. I quiver with pleasure. I imagine the rehearsals, the conductor’s admonitions, the stage hands disturbing everything. I hear every stroke of the bows, every breath of the brass, even the rustling of paper when the musicians turn their pages. It does me enormous good.

  Gradually, the old man’s tune has withdrawn into the wings. I’ve stopped hearing it. Even in my head. And the old man hasn’t started singing it again. He sleeps all the time, with his fists clenched, like a little boy. Curled up.

  Stefan continues to bring me tea to buck me up. But it’s Mozart who keeps me warm. The violin concerto.

  Tuesday 16 July 1940

  The old man died during the night. Without a word. Without waking us. He should never have stopped singing. Falling silent clogged his bronchial tubes.

  Stefan and one of the patients rolled him in his dirty sheet and took him down to the morgue. He didn’t weigh much. His bed is empty for the moment. Curiously, the tune has come back. It stops me from hearing the concerto. A bit like interference on the wireless. It’s obvious the old man won’t leave me in peace, even now that he’s dead.

  Stefan came back this evening to see how I was. He told me a distant cousin of the dead man came to take the body. He’s going to see to the funeral arrangements. And the old man wasn’t a Jew, Stefan laughed. His cousin is a country priest. He placed a rosary in the old man’s hands just before the undertakers took him away on a cart covered with a black cloth. But then why was he always singing a Jewish song? There was no lack of songs in our villages. Or Jews, said Stefan. That’s why we made them clear out. We were tired of listening to them. And he burst out laughing.

  A Christian is a Jew who’s out of his mind.

  I’ll die singing Mozart to myself. Artur Rubinstein will die singing Chopin. What will Karajan be singing? Strauss and Beethoven. What about Goebbels? Or Hitler? But they aren’t musicians.

  Wednesday 17 July 1940

  The great day! I have a shave, then get all dressed up and strut in front of the mirror in the corridor. My suit is much too big on me. I look like an adolescent who’s stolen his old uncle’s jacket. Being thin makes me look younger. If only I weren’t so pale. My skin is all creased. I hope I don’t meet anyone I know.

  Could anyone really recognize me? I used to be a bit on the large side, with pink cheeks. I held myself erect, with my head up. In the old days.

  Stefan doesn’t want to get dressed before going out. He’s waiting until the last minute for fear of ruining his clothes. He spent the night brushing them and slept on his pants so that the mattress would give them a perfect crease. He sewed the sleeve on the side of his missing arm to the pocket of the jacket. How does he do all that with just one hand?

  It’s almost time. I’m afraid I won’t make it, that I’ll collapse on the way. Or have to leave the hall before the end of the concert. I ought to have tonic pills, brandy, hot tea. I haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday. I have a lump in my throat.

  I think . . . The stairs. I can hear Stefan . . .

  Salzburg, 18 July 1940

  My beloved son,

  I really hope this letter reaches you one day.

  Wherever you are.

  Stefan is angry with me. We’ve fallen out. He came to fetch me yesterday, late in the afternoon. It was hard for me to walk. The air outside made me dizzy. After an hour, he hailed a taxi. Which he had to pay for out of his own pocket. I’d forgotten my wallet. In my excitement. We arrived earlier than we’d anticipated. Well before the start of the concert. Security was very tight. I said that Stefan was my personal nurse, to impress the policemen. Then I said I was a guest of Hans. They didn’t react. So I told them the gauleiter was waiting to thank me for my help in organizing the Festspiele. As evidence, I quoted by heart the introduction I wrote for the evening’s program. A detective checked in the brochure that’s distributed on the way in. He briefly saluted me and finally let us pass. I was shaking. Not with fear or with cold. Just from having been standing for so long.

  Stefan was struck dumb. The gold leaf on the ceiling, the red carpet, the polished brass handrails. We sat down on the mezzanine landing. The guests started to fill the lobby. Officers in gray, in black, in the royal blue of the air force and a few white navy uniforms. The peaks of their caps shone in the light of the chandeliers. The SS carried ceremonial knives at their sides. Everyone was talking loudly, tapping each other on the shoulder, chain smoking. I thought I was going to choke.

  A few rank and file soldiers stood in a corner. Intimidated. Some had bandaged heads, others crutches. Heroes. And then the dignitaries from the various government departments made their entrance. The gauleiter rapidly shook a few hands, gave a few generalized salutes and Heil Hitlers and went straight up to the royal box. No big shots from Berlin or Munich. Lots of Viennese, on the other hand. Looking both elegant and ill at ease. Lost in a sea of uniforms.

  Stefan and I quickly went to our seats to avoid the rush that always ensues when the bell rings to announce the beginning of a concert. Fifteenth row, on the left. I hate being in the middle. It makes me feel too conspicuous. I prefer the seats right at the end of the row, near the aisles, which make me feel as though I have a view of backstage. And it means having just one neighbor instead of being stuck between two.

  Stefan sat down to my right. I could sense how nervous he was. He kept crossing and uncrossing his legs as if he didn’t know what to do with them. I think he would have liked to be able to fold them and put them in his pocket. To calm him down, I explained the program, pointed out what to listen for, and above all advised him not to applaud at the ends of movements. Only when the piece is over and the conductor turns to receive his ovation. I stupidly forgot that he had only one arm. He didn’t point out my blunder.

  After the ritual of tuning up, the scores being steadied on the music stands, and the last coughs, Böhm made his entrance. Stefan was on the verge of getting to his feet and standing to attention. I had to tug at his sleeve to hold him back. The poor fellow was too tense to take advantage of that magical atmosphere one always finds in a concert hall just before a performance. But as soon as the music started, he was spellbound, hypnotized even. Not me. I can’t stand Jerger. So heavy-handed! Such kitsch! Superficial lyricism without any passion, baroque effects laid on thick like whipped cream on a Viennese pastry.

  And then it was Mozart’s turn. I wept. With joy. And with anger. Our Mozart! Not theirs. Böhm gave a good account of himself and Schneiderhan was in fine form. Inspired. His violin led the orchestra with confidence. Böhm had the good grace to move aside and let the young virtuoso give free rein to his enthusiasm. It wasn’t outstanding, no, but it was convincing. A fine display of skill. Take it or leave it. I was happy to take it. I clapped as hard as everyone else. And Stefan cheered as only a boy from the mountains can do. Loudly enough to bring the chandeliers down. Imagine my surprise when Schneiderhan came back on stage, without Böhm, and, having called for silence, announced that he was going to play a short solo. So Hans had read the score and the committee had agreed to its being performed, just as I had suggested. To mark the end of the concerto less abruptly, to keep the atmosphere going a little longer before the intermission, before Tchaikovsky. To save Mozart!

  Without further ado, the first lively chords sounded, and the audience seemed delighted. Except for Stefan who craned his neck as if he was having difficulty hearing. Schneiderhan was winning his wager. The audience may have been a little surprised and disorientated at first by this unknown piece, and looked for some point of reference. Was it an arrangement, an improvisation, a new work? And then all at once, with a big smile on his face, Schneiderhan carried the whole of the hall with him. He gave a charming wink to the audience and began tapping his feet. As if they had been given permission to let their hair down, the offi
cers immediately joined in, beating the ground with their boots. The others clapped their hands in rhythm. The Mozarteum echoed with joy, with the pure love of music. A tribute! And not only to Mozart.

  Stefan’s whole body went stiff. He turned to me, shocked, incredulous. He had recognized the tune as soon as the first notes rang out, the old man’s song, the Jewish melody. There were no Jews about anymore, not in Salzburg, and not in the countryside where he lived. They had been made to clear out, as he had said. But their music was ringing out now, right there in the Festspiele, in the Mozarteum, driving the Nazis to distraction. Carried away, I stood up to demonstrate my excitement at Schneiderhan’s talent. Then, little by little, row by row, they all stood up, applauding, taking up the tune. In all that din, I murmured the words, as best I could, in Yiddish. Like a prayer. To ask forgiveness of those who had once sung it, at weddings and barmitzvahs. To ask forgiveness for this fraud.

  Am I not myself like that song? A forgery? A pot-pourri? Not completely Jewish, not really an atheist, half-Austrian, half-Silesian, not yet dead and yet still banished from the world of the living?

  They didn’t notice a thing. Even Hans, whom I had convinced that the tune was an old melody from the Tyrol. A gem of Teutonic folklore. Mozart would have taken it and made it his own, turned it into a sonata. It kept the old man in the sanitarium alive for a while. Now, it’s given me a reprieve, a kind of remission. And now, it’s also going to be running through the heads of a few German soldiers, a few SS officers, like a distant echo. A ghost.

  Stefan wasn’t amused. He didn’t laugh, even when the audience joined in with Schneiderhan. He brought me back to the sanitarium without saying a word. All sulky. I’m afraid he’ll inform on me. But isn’t he an accomplice? He supplied the ink and the paper, and took me to the concert. And what about Hans? Or Schneiderhan? The Festspiele committee will never admit to such a blunder.