by Alan Elsner
The downpour had slackened by the time we reached Charlottesville. We raced across the campus, splashing through puddles. The darkened auditorium was about three-quarters full; the master class was already under way. I paid eight dollars for the two of us, took a program, and found two empty seats toward the back, just behind an elderly woman.
The first surprise was Delatrucha's appearance. I expected a larger man to own such a large voice. He wasn't more than five foot six, a barrel chest thrust out in front of a muscular body. His truncated frame made his head, with its shaggy halo of grayish black hair, seem unnaturally large. He was coaching two singers, a tenor and a baritone, through the opening song of Winterreise. Another student was playing the piano.
The baritone sang first. Delatrucha listened in silence, arms crossed on his chest. He didn't move until the last note had died away; then he approached the young man, gesturing as if to embrace the air.
“You need to be more desperate,” he said softly. Together with the rest of the audience, I leaned forward to hear. He still had a noticeable accent—German was his native language.
“You must think about love. But this love is not easy. It is not about pleasure and happiness. On the contrary, love always goes together with pain. Even the words rhyme in German. Mein herz, mein schmerz—my heart, my pain. This is a love that is desperate, never far from grief, from anguish, from heartache. Like this.” He placed his right hand over his heart and sang the first few measures unaccompanied. His face was expressionless, his body motionless, yet full of tension, his chest thrust out, his neck stretched tight. There was a rustle of appreciation around the auditorium. His voice was still rich and true, if a little strained in the higher notes. “You feel it in here,” he said, thumping his chest. “You feel it echo inside your body. The emotion comes through the singing, through the color of the voice, never through the loudness of the voice. The tempo must be steady, as steady as your heartbeat. It must sound… inevitable. Now please, again.”
The audience murmured appreciatively. I was completely entranced. I pushed to the back of my mind the possibility that he might also be a Nazi. The woman in front of us was muttering to herself. She kept folding and unfolding her program, squashing it as hard as she could into smaller and smaller rectangles. The more we sat there, the more absurd it seemed, to think that this brilliant man, so totally absorbed in his art, could have been drawn away from his calling by the evil appeal of Adolf Hitler.
The next two hours passed quickly. Both of us were completely under Delatrucha's spell. Everybody was. He had enmeshed the entire audience in an invisible web. When the students were singing, he was absolutely still. As soon as the music stopped, he was seized with animation. Delatrucha had strong views about how the songs should be sung. He insisted on an absolutely rigid tempo. He also had several suggestions for the pianist. “Make your notes harsher,” he said at one point. “This music is not nice, it is not pretty. It is hard and cruel. It is never cozy.” He imbued the word cozy with such contempt that the whole room flinched.
Occasionally he added little asides about Schubert's life and times. “He lived in a unforgiving world, not soft and sentimental like today. Death was all around him. He knew already in his early twenties that he was dying of syphilis. He knew himself to be unclean, imperfect, a sinner. As we all are. Yet out of this came such beauty.”
Delatrucha turned his attention back to the young pianist. “You must let the singer set the tempo, not force him to a certain pace. That's what my first wife always tried to do with me.” The audience laughed. The woman sitting in front of us shot to her feet, clutching her pocketbook. A man sitting next to us asked her to sit down, but she ignored him and moved unsteadily to the aisle, heading slowly down the steps toward the stage.
“Bastard! Bastard! How dare you make me one of your jokes!” she screamed. Everyone jerked upright; nobody moved. In the dim light, it was like watching a scene from a play.
Delatrucha stood illuminated in a pool of light on the stage, the woman half hidden in the darkness just below him. The student stopped singing; the accompanist played a few more notes and tailed off. Everybody was frozen. Delatrucha took a step forward, squinting down at her from the stage. She pulled something from her pocketbook, and someone screamed. A red stain spread across Delatrucha's white shirt. The audience panicked. People clambered over seats in a rush for the exits; others hit the floor. Lynn was screaming as I shoved her to the ground.
Above the noise, the woman was shouting, “Pig, you pig!” Delatrucha just stood there. I pushed my way forward, thinking I could tackle her from behind if only I could get close enough. Most of the audience was rushing in the opposite direction.
“Ladies and gentlemen, don't be alarmed,” Delatrucha called out. “This woman cannot hurt me.” His face was twisted with pity and contempt. “Mary,” he said,“when will you stop this nonsense?”
“Never, as long as you live!” she yelled, pulling the trigger again. A stream of dark liquid shot out, spattering Delatrucha's shirt. I laughed in relief. She was firing red ink from a water pistol.
A couple of young men rushed forward to restrain her and wrest the toy pistol away. “Ladies and gentlemen, please do not be alarmed,” Delatrucha bellowed. “This woman is known to me. She is my former wife. She has done this kind of thing before.”
A measure of calm returned to the auditorium. The young men still held the woman, who was writhing with fury, struggling to get free. Delatrucha addressed what was left of his audience again. “Please forgive me. Unfortunately, we must end our studies now. If you will allow me, I will return on another occasion.” You had to admire his dignity and poise. There was a scattering of applause. Campus security arrived, weapons drawn, and grabbed the woman from the students. Delatrucha leaned down toward them. “Please let her go. She is quite harmless.”
“We need to take her in and file a report,” one said.
“You will do no such thing. She has committed no crime, and I will not press any charges. She is no threat to anyone except herself. I insist you release her.”
They let her go.
He turned to her. “Mary, I pray you find peace. Don't do this again, or I will have to take steps.” He gave a sketchy bow in the direction of the audience and strode offstage. She slumped down into a front-row seat and began to sob quietly. I approached her and took the next seat.
“Mary, do you need any help?” I asked softly. She glanced at me through red-rimmed eyes.
“Who are you?”
“I'm a friend. I'm from Washington, like you. Can I help you?”
“I want to get out of here. Please take me out of here,” she said. Lynn had recovered enough to join me. Mary stood up, and we ushered her out of the hall. Her thin body trembled through her winter coat as I steered her around puddles. We walked slowly, without speaking. She was oblivious to her surroundings and to us. As we reached the edge of the campus, I noticed a café across the street. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee,” I said.
I brought us each a cappuccino.
“You're very kind,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes with a tissue. “I must look a sight.”
She did. She looked nothing like the photos I had seen of her when she was still married to Delatrucha. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot, her wrinkled face pitted with smudges of mascara, her hair gray and unkempt. She looked at least ten years older than her ex-husband.
“Mrs. Scott, my name is Mark Cain. This is my friend Lynn Daniels. We admire your work.”
“Thank you for saying so.”
“It must be hard to be an accompanist, always in the background while the singer gets the limelight,” I continued, hoping to draw her out.
“Anybody who knows anything about music knows she's not even half the pianist I was. Not even half.” She spat out the word she.
“I own several of the recordings you made with Delatrucha. Your contribution shines through,” I said. “And critics agree that those performances have never been equaled.�
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“How dare he make fun of me like that. Don't even mention his name to me. To be dumped like that, cast out like trash after thirty years.”
“It must have been so hard,” Lynn murmured sympathetically.
“It was the end of my life.”
“But you still have your music. That must be a great comfort.”
Mary stared at us for a moment, her eyes filling with tears. She thrust her gnarled hands in front of Lynn's face.
“Look at these, look at them,” she groaned.
“Arthritis,” Lynn whispered.
“Yes, arthritis. What could be worse for a pianist?”
Lynn took one of her hands and gently stroked it. Tears were welling up in her eyes. “Mrs. Scott, I'm so sorry. It must be awful for you,” she said.
“You are a nice young lady,” she said, as Lynn continued to caress her hand. “Thank you.”
“There's no need to thank me. I wish I could do something to help.”
“You are helping. Just by being here, by being so kind.”
“Why did you come here, Mary?” I asked, bringing the conversation back to business.
Mary began sobbing quietly again. “He didn't have to throw me aside the way he did. A real man would have stood by me. He has no shame, cavorting with a woman younger than his own daughter.”
“But why…”
“I didn't mean to,” she said, reclaiming her hand from Lynn. “I just wanted to hear his voice again. It's still the most beautiful voice I ever heard. It's so unfair. My hands are ruined, but he still has his voice.”
“You brought a water pistol filled with red ink,” I noted.
“I hadn't decided whether to use it. If he hadn't mocked me, I probably wouldn't have. This wasn't the first time he's told that joke against me, by the way. It's part of his routine. He had no right to ridicule me in front of all those people. I just wanted to scare him a little. I didn't mean any harm, Mr…. What did you say your name was?” She looked at my kippah, her face suddenly full of suspicion.
“Cain. Mark Cain.”
“Are you a reporter?”
“Hardly,” I laughed. “We're doing some research into your exhusband's life.”
“Ah, the authorized biography, to polish up his image.”
“Something like that.” I was lying, but I wanted to keep her talking. “I'm particularly interested in his early years,” I said.
“You mean, when we first met? Those were wonderful times. I could tell you a lot about that.”
“And even earlier than that, before you met?”
“Before we met, he was in Argentina. I don't know that I can help you much with that. We never spoke of it. We were in Buenos Aires together a couple of times on tour, and I asked if he had any family there, but he said they were all dead. Why don't you ask the almighty maestro himself?”
“I'm interested in your perspective. Perhaps we could meet for lunch back in Washington? I really do need your help with this.”
Mary wavered. Part of her wanted to relive those days. Another part was resisting. I could see her mind working, wondering what I was really after. “That part of my life is dead. Why bring it up again?” she said.
“Any account of Roberto Delatrucha's life would be incomplete without your side of the story. It would be like writing about Sullivan without Gilbert, Rodgers without Hammerstein.”
“Lennon without McCartney, Simon without Garfunkel,” Lynn added, piling it on.
Mary hesitated, but the temptation was too great. It must have been years since anyone paid any attention to her, and attention, after all, is what all performers crave. “Lunch. Chez Louis, next Tuesday, twelve thirty. You pay,” she said.
“Wonderful.”
She stood to go.
“Are you sure you're up to driving, Mrs. Scott? We could give you a lift home, and one of us could drive your car,” Lynn said.
“Thank you, my dear, but I'm perfectly capable,” she said, tottering toward the door. “I may be an old woman, but I'm not dead yet.”
Lynn said she was hungry and knew a cute little inn we could stop at for a meal. “I'm sure they have something vegetarian,” she pleaded.
It couldn't have been more romantic, with Victorian chintz all over the place and an open fire crackling in the hearth. I ended up ordering bread and a large salad.
Still, I could drink the wine. Even before the first sip, I was intoxicated with anticipation and yearning, mixed with a liberal dose of guilt and fear. Why had she brought me here? There could only be one reason. This is wrong, my brain was screaming, but my body sent a different message—that nothing, nothing could have been more right. I couldn't stop staring at her in the candlelight, drowning in her lovely eyes. The tension built between us, stoking my desires until I was close to bursting. I had spent my entire life following rules, commandments, admonishments, all those “Thou shalt nots,” analyzing everything from every conceivable angle, distrusting my feelings. Now, I abandoned myself to feelings.
We finished a bottle of wine, and I waved to the waiter for a second.
Lynn said, “Haven't we had enough? Perhaps we should switch to coffee. We still have to drive back to Washington tonight.” Her words were a bucket of cold water over my head. I was sure we'd be getting a room upstairs.
Mortified, I closed my eyes, both ashamed and relieved. Trying to recover my poise, I said,“You're right. I got carried away.”
“No problem. Everything's cool.”
“Lynn, this isn't how I usually behave. I don't know what got into me.”
She smiled again and kissed me softly on the cheek. “Stop worrying so much. Just go with the flow. You enjoy spending time with me, don't you? You want us to keep on seeing each other?”
“Of course.”
“Then let's just do that and see where it leads. Things have a way of working out if the karma is right.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling like she was the grown-up and I was the kid.
“And for now, Mr. Nazi Hunter, I think you should get back to hunting Nazis.”
“Give me coffee, and I'm up for anything.”
10
The diesel started…. After 28 minutes, only a few were still alive.
Finally, after 32 minutes, all were dead.
—TESTIMONY OF KURT GERSTEIN
THE WIND HAD STRENGTHENED while we were eating and was whipping sheets of rain against the windshield as we set out on the journey back. For a while, we sat in silence, with only the swoosh of the wipers and the drum of the rain for company. I was concentrating on the road ahead. I assumed Lynn had gone to sleep when she suddenly spoke my name.
“Yes?”
“There's something else I have to tell you.”
“Yes.”
“I love working for you, but you were right about what you said. We so can't be doing this if you're my boss.”
My heart sank.
“On the other hand, I'm totally into the Delatrucha case. I told them there's no way I could leave while it was still ongoing.”
“Them who?”
“I interviewed with a human rights organization to be their legal counsel, and it looks like they want me.”
“You're leaving?”
“I think so.”
“We can get you reassigned, promoted even.”
“No, I was thinking of leaving anyway. I don't want to spend my whole life chasing after gross, nasty old men. And this is a step up. Actually, I ought to thank you. What's happening with the two of us pushed me into going for this job.”
I exhaled. “That's wonderful, Lynn. Congratulations.”
“So it's okay? I can stay until Delatrucha is settled?”
“You know we have a February 20 deadline. If it's okay with your human rights people, you could start with them after that.”
“That's what I already told them. They're cool with it.”
It was after two in the morning by the time I had dropped off Lynn at her apartment and reach
ed my own. I emptied my mailbox on the way upstairs. More letters than usual. There was also a small package, which gave me pause but turned out to contain the pepper spray I had ordered.
I headed straight for bed, but the message machine was blinking furiously, demanding to be heard. Perhaps George had called from Germany. I hit play.
“This is a message for Marek Cain,” said a soft male voice with a slight southern accent. “Mr. Cain, listen real carefully because I'm only going to say this once.” He paused. “It's time for you to back off. I'm telling you this for your own good, Mr. Cain. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you. Stop what you're doing, and everything will be just fine.” He spoke so calmly that it took a second to process what he was saying. A wave of bile coursed up my throat, and I stumbled into the bathroom, coughing and retching. He sounded like the Elf King. The evil was creeping closer. It had slunk under my door into my bedroom. I ran the cold water and took a large gulp, then splashed my face, reminding myself that I was not that boy in the song. I could fight back. But how and against whom?
I unplugged the phone from the wall, threw my jacket and pants on the floor, lay down, and closed my eyes.
The alarm rang at six as usual. I thought about calling the police. A couple of hours wouldn't make much difference. I got up, stretched, said Modeh Ani, went downstairs, looked around in all directions, and set off for a quick run in the park, clutching the pepper spray. The streets were almost completely deserted, still wet from the previous day's downpour, and the air was saturated with moisture. For the first couple of miles, I moved sluggishly. But my energy returned by the time I was done.
I showered and started the coffee going before tackling the previous day's mail. After the message on the phone machine, I had a good idea what awaited me. Setting aside routine bills and flyers, there were nine letters. I slit open the first envelope and unfolded a single sheet of paper with a crudely drawn swastika and the word DIE emblazoned in large black letters. None of the other eight was quite as succinct. A couple were actually rather eloquent in a repulsive way. Together, they informed me that I was a rat, a germ, a traitor, a whore, a bastard, a degenerate, and—most of all—a Jew. The postmarks had come from all over the country: Idaho, Nebraska, Kansas,Texas,West Virginia. Obviously the result of the article in the neo-Nazi newsletter. I washed my hands, as if soap and water could erase the slime. With little appetite for breakfast, I gathered up the letters and headed for the office.
