Voice of Destiny

by JH Fletcher

  In the morning she woke, head spinning but more determined than ever. She would not be terrorised, even by her dreams. She went to Marta Bianci and told her what she’d decided.

  8

  Colonel Strasser saw Lucia at the opera house. He said: ‘I’m glad you accepted. This performance will be very important, not only artistically but to boost morale. Some people seem to think Germany’s going to lose the war. There’s no chance of that, of course, but we need to make a statement to underline the truth of it. This opera — a German opera — will do that very well. It will reassure our friends and act as a gesture of defiance to our enemies. They think they’ve got the Reich on the run? This will make them think again.’

  9

  The prison forms a tower of darkness against the sky: dark stone walls, the darkness of despair. There is nothing dramatic here, no excitement or frenzied activity; true evil is monotonous, oppressive, even boring, and the prison and the blank faces of the guards reflect this. Yet, for some, familiarity has bred blindness. Marzelline, the jailor’s daughter, has fallen in love with Fidelio, her father’s assistant, and is oblivious to the prison and the suffering of the inmates. Oblivious in more ways than one, because Fidelio is in fact Leonora, wife of Florestan, the prison’s most important prisoner. Pizzaro, the prison’s governor, resolves to murder Florestan. When he attempts to do so, Leonora reveals her true identity and holds off Pizzaro with a pistol until help arrives. Florestan is freed and reunited with his heroic wife.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  1

  Fidelio breaks into a furious denunciation of the evil governor. Abscheulicher! Accursed monster!

  The orchestra’s opening bass chords, etched by the mounting staccato of the strings that reflect Fidelio’s rage, are followed by the returning serenity of the woodwinds, signalling her unflinching resolve to free her husband and overcome evil …

  Lucia broke off in mid-chord.

  ‘It’s not right! The contrast is still missing!’

  They had been rehearsing all day and everyone was tired. The conductor, in particular, was sick of the endless search for perfection by this unknown singer.

  ‘I know I’m not Furtwängler but it sounds fine to me!’

  She would not agree but in the end the conductor overruled her.

  After the rehearsal Marta Bianci consoled her.

  ‘You’ll get it right in the morning.’

  ‘We’re not performing it the way it was written! We’re interpreters of the music, not composers. We have a responsibility!’

  ‘The conductor has the ultimate authority.’

  ‘How does that help if the dolt can’t read music? Or won’t?’

  ‘Not everyone’s the perfectionist you are.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be ashamed of that?’

  ‘Of course not. But we all must learn to be flexible with each other. With conductors, most of all!’

  But Marta knew that flexibility was one skill her protégé would never possess.

  Now Lucia appealed to her. ‘Won’t you go through it again with me?’

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘I shan’t sleep if I don’t get it right.’

  But the desired contrast between anger and serenity continued to elude her and eventually even Lucia was too tired to go on.

  ‘You’re right. We’ll have to sort it out in the morning.’

  Despite her frustration, Lucia was cheerful as she walked home through streets already emptying ahead of the curfew. To be singing the lead in such a work … She laughed aloud and danced a few steps along the pavement, a golden leaf spun by the wind in the city’s winter streets.

  Her mood evaporated as she turned into the street where she was staying. She had found the room when she’d been given the part; the intensity of the rehearsals made it impossible for her to get back to Montegallo in the evenings. She had hoped that Marta Bianci would offer to put her up as she had in the past but this time the tutor had had other ideas. ‘I’ve told you already. I’m not your mother! We must have a break from each other or we’ll go mad,’ she had said.

  The room was in a rundown apartment block. It was close to the opera house and it was cheap; they were its only advantages. With the door locked behind her and the curfew siren echoing in the city’s stone canyons beyond the window, she looked with distaste at the meanly furnished room where she couldn’t even draw back the curtains because of the blackout. The only furniture was a bed, a chair whose springs threatened to impale her whenever she sat in it, a cupboard containing a solitary cup and plate, some cutlery and the remnants of a meat pie that was all she’d be having for supper. There was a lavatory down the corridor, a bathroom of sorts next to it. That was all.

  If she’d gone to Colonel Strasser he would no doubt have arranged something better, yet from the first she had wanted no favours from a man who made her feel so uncomfortable. He’d attended one or two rehearsals, had never shown her anything but courtesy, yet there was an aura about him that would have frightened her, had she permitted it. She thought he was a man who would embrace both pain and punishment with an almost sexual fervour, closing his eyes to redemption, forgiveness or hope. She suspected it was how a good many of his colleagues thought. To them there was only sin, retribution and the holiness of an implacable justice.

  Colonel Strasser was like Don Pizzaro, she thought. He wouldn’t think twice about killing a prisoner, if it suited him. And herself? she wondered. Was she Fidelio, bringing back justice to the earth? No, she was a singer, an artist. It was a fine destiny but hard enough to achieve without laying any more burdens on herself. She would leave freedom and righteousness to others.

  The less she saw of Colonel Strasser, the better.

  2

  The next day was bright and sunny and from the first things went well. The dew-damp cobbles sparkled in the sun as Lucia walked to the opera house. She was always early, could not bear to stay away from it for a minute longer than she must. The streets were almost empty of traffic as she crossed the road to the stage door. Even the tank that she had once found so alarming had been withdrawn; no longer did she have to endure the mixed lechery and menace of the tank crew’s stares as she walked past them. In their absence there was an innocence in the light, the freshness of the morning, that she took with her into the rehearsal room, where she found Bruno Crespi, the conductor, poring over a copy of the score.

  He looked up as Lucia came in.

  ‘That problem we had last night … I think I know the answer.’

  They went to the piano together. He sat down and played a succession of chords.

  ‘Then we have the woodwinds and the colour of the phrasing changes. There. And there.’

  He demonstrated what he meant, the right hand wringing an ethereal purity from the keys. He pushed back his stool, beaming up at her. ‘You see?’

  Lucia was delighted. ‘Let me sing it to your accompaniment.’

  She sang the notes one by one, sotto voce, while the piano led the way, both singer and conductor becoming more flexible as they grew confident that, yes, this was the fulfilment they had been seeking. They finished. Lucia threw her arms about him.

  ‘Maestro!’

  She was humbled. She had called this man a dolt, incapable of reading the score, never mind interpreting it with the fidelity owing to its creator. Now this.

  Crespi stood, pushed back the stool and took hold of Lucia’s hands. ‘It will be a great performance. I can feel it.’

  After yesterday’s tantrums, now was the time to show a becoming humility.

  ‘Thanks to you, Maestro.’

  Crespi, too, was capable of gallantry, when he was in the mood. ‘Thanks to both of us. Of course, it may sound different with the full orchestra.’

  It did not. It sounded wonderful. It was a wonderful day, altogether. It continued until lunchtime.

  Lucia took a sandwich out into the unseasonable sunshine. She sat on the steps outside the opera house, chewing away on brea
d more chaff than flour, while the notes of the music created a sublime pressure in her head. Not only the music; the character, too, was building as she sat there. She felt Leonora’s fear, her mounting rage and defiance, the willpower that drove her to accept the disguise, to overcome all obstacles and free the man she loved. It was melodrama, like so much of opera, but not only melodrama. Everything depended on how the character was presented.

  There was one problem. At the end of the opera the libretto had Fernando, the Minister, praising her for her devotion as Florestan’s loyal wife and supporter.

  Euch, edle Frau, allein, euch ziemt es, ganz ihn zu befrein.

  Again and again she went over the words. They were not Leonora’s words yet seemed to her to contain an important clue to Leonora’s true character.

  Only you, noble wife, should be permitted to remove his fetters.

  Was that all she was? A noble wife? Was she to be defined only by reference to the man whose incarceration had caused her such grief? The man whose helplessness and impotence she had overcome unaided?

  The Brotherhood of Man? Or the Unity of all Beings?

  Leonora, surely, was a heroine in her own right, the representative of that freedom towards which all her strivings had been directed?

  Yes, she thought. She would play her like that, demonstrate the militancy as well as the serenity of the warrior who, surely, Leonora was. In the portrayal of this woman, she, too, would be fulfilled.

  There was a boy looking at her from the bottom of the steps.

  ‘Signora Visconti?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I got a note for you.’

  He came up the steps and showed it to her. She went to take it from him but he evaded her. ‘The man said you gotta give me five lire.’

  ‘Five lire? That’s too much!’

  But he refused to hand over the note until she’d paid him. Reluctantly she took the money from her purse. He snatched it from her, threw the note at her feet and took off across the street. Even before she’d opened it she knew who had sent it to her.

  Tomorrow afternoon, after rehearsal. Same place.

  There was no need for a signature. He had even taken the trouble to find out what time the rehearsal ended.

  3

  The fine weather held and the sun’s rays were setting fire to the east window of the cathedral as Lucia walked past it on her way to the cafe.

  Reinhardt was waiting for her. Once again he had his knowing look, as though he’d never doubted she would obey his summons. The cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth made him look like a gangster. She was angry with herself for coming here so meekly; it made her short with him.

  ‘I have to get back. What do you want?’

  ‘You don’t have to go anywhere. The rehearsal finished at four; I checked.’

  ‘We’re not factory workers! Some of us stay afterwards to go over one or two sections.’

  ‘Today’s one of the days you can’t make it, then. You’ve got something else on.’

  ‘I have nothing on.’ She spoke coldly and clearly, not caring who heard her.

  He grinned, untroubled by her indignation. ‘That I’d like to see. You with nothing on.’

  She began to turn away, impatiently, but he put up his hand. ‘Don’t go. I’ve something to tell you. Something important. But sit down, for heaven’s sake. You make me nervous, standing there.’ Cocky bastard. She was so close to walking out. He said: ‘Like I told you, it’s important. I remembered to bring your coffee, too.’

  Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to hear him out. She sat down. ‘First things first.’

  He beckoned to the woman behind the counter. As before, she knew without being told what he wanted. Once again she brought two cups of coffee and placed them on the table. Reinhardt waited until she’d gone, then took a small packet from his pocket and pushed it across the table towards her. ‘Put it somewhere safe.’

  He had to want something from her; commonsense said he wouldn’t be doing this otherwise. Now was the moment to tell him that he’d got it wrong, that she didn’t need either him or his bribes. She looked uncertainly at the packet lying on the table between them.

  He smiled encouragingly. ‘Go on. Take it.’

  ‘Why are you giving me this?’

  ‘Because I fancy you. You know that, don’t you?’

  Lucia was pleased but took care to hide it. ‘Words are easy.’

  ‘Not only words. I covered for you, didn’t I? But, like I said, you don’t mess about with the SS. You need protection.’

  She gave a sardonic smile. ‘And you’re the one to give it to me?’

  ‘Why not? We’re friends, aren’t we?’

  Of course they weren’t friends; they hardly knew each other. ‘Why should I need protection?’

  He leaned forward with his elbows on the table. He looked seriously at her. ‘Let’s not play games with each other. That time I stopped you … We both know you had something in your pannier.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that.’

  ‘It wouldn’t matter that much, but there are other people involved, too. The people you bought it from … What happens if the SS take them in for questioning?’

  ‘Country people don’t talk.’

  He laughed: a sour note. ‘They’d talk, all right. Nothing’s more certain than that. What happens to you then?’

  ‘If some farmers have been selling food — and I’m not saying that, mind you — I can’t do anything about it. No-one can.’

  ‘I think you’d be foolish to assume that.’ For a while he said no more, smoking and drinking his coffee, his grey eyes watching her thoughtfully. He’d had another haircut; areas of pale scalp showed through the close-cropped hair. Eventually he said: ‘I want you to do me a favour.’

  She’d been right; he did want something. She’d never doubted it, yet was disappointed.

  ‘I don’t get the chance to see much of the country. And when I’m in uniform, you know, it’s never the same. I was wondering, if I can get hold of a couple of bicycles, whether you’d care to go for a ride with me? Show me around, like?’

  She could never have imagined such an idea. The resistance fighters known as partisans weren’t active in the area so there should be no physical danger, but still she hesitated. She and her mother had enough problems already; the last thing she needed was for people to see her riding around the countryside with a German soldier.

  She dredged up an excuse. ‘We’ve got rehearsals, most of the time.’

  ‘You must get some time off. I thought we might go and see those farmers of yours. What they’ve been up to in the past doesn’t bother me; I don’t see anyone asking questions about that. But if they’re still doing it now the SS is here, it could mean problems for them and the people they’re selling to.’

  It was a lunatic idea. He was a German, an enemy soldier. There would be no end of trouble if they were seen together. ‘I can warn them myself. There’s no need for you to get involved.’

  Reinhardt shook his head. ‘I know what farmers are like. I’m one myself. You tell them, they’ll quite possibly take no notice. But if I do they’re likely to take it more seriously.’

  He was probably right. Yet still she hesitated.

  ‘Unless you don’t trust me, of course,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not that.’

  Sensing his advantage, Reinhardt said: ‘So, shall we go riding together, then?’

  Put like that, it was hard to refuse. It was still madness but perhaps that was what made up her mind for her; she’d never liked other people telling her what she should think or do. ‘When I’ve got some time off we can go for a ride, if that’s what you’d like.’

  4

  Three days later, on a misty afternoon, with the wreckage of fallen leaves silting the sides of the lanes, she met Reinhardt on the outskirts of the city and set off down the backroads with him into the country.

  Crows hectored each other in the bare branches of elms; Lucia s
aw what might have been a fox slipping through the undergrowth on the far side of a stream that ran burbling and splashing beside the road, but of humans they saw no-one. The tyres hissed through a ford.

  ‘Let’s take a stroll,’ he said.

  ‘I thought we were going to see the farmers.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that.’

  They left their bicycles beside the road and struck into the woods.

  Lucia asked Reinhardt about his background. ‘You said you’re a farmer, too. Where from?’

  ‘The Black Forest. It’s my parents’ farm, really. It’s not much; a few fields and some cows.’

  ‘Will you go back there when the war’s over?’

  He laughed. ‘No way. There’s no money in farming. I want to get rich.’

  They climbed between the leafless chestnut-coloured trees, and came out on a patch of open turf.

  ‘Mushrooms!’

  They gathered all they could carry and made their way back down the hill to their bicycles.

  Lucia’s machine, like the one she had at home, had a basket on the back; they put the mushrooms into it and rode on down the road.

  ‘Now let’s go and see these farmers,’ Reinhardt said.

  The air was cool and moist beneath the trees. Eventually they came to the farm where Lucia had bought the food all those weeks ago. The woman remembered her, greeting her and smiling happily. She didn’t smile for long as Reinhardt, speaking earnestly, told her how important it was that she let no-one know about the food she’d been selling.

  Nostrils flared, the woman looked them up and down. Guiltily, Lucia remembered promising she would tell no-one about it; now here she was, with a German soldier, and she read contempt in the woman’s face. She said: ‘We’ve come to warn you, that’s all. I thought it was important.’

  So she tried to justify herself, while the woman’s black eyes scalded her. Sunlight slanted through the branches of the trees but away to the north rain was falling across the valley. The rain looked like pillars of grey smoke rising from the ground. Lucia watched it, wishing she was anywhere but where she was, while Reinhardt said: ‘More important still, be sure you don’t sell any more, not for the time being. If the SS find out, they’ll shoot you.’