by Annabel Lyon
What about the blue one? David said.
Are you a Jew?
He decided the woman’s business must be failing, and she was probably deranged.
Why do you keep asking me that? he said, genuinely curious.
I owe the world a moral debt, the woman said. We all do, of course, but mine is bigger than most. It is not a debt I can pay in cash. I cannot write a cheque to this organization and that organization and then I am free. I must live in the right way. You understand the difference between spending and living?
I hope so, David said, genuinely again, though she might well have meant to insult.
I will explain why I keep asking you this question, she said. But it is a long story. If I make some tea, you will have some?
I’d love some tea, David said.
In the back of the store, through an archway, was a sitting room with a couple of velvet chairs, a settee, and tea things on a low table. Here too were a desk, a laptop computer, and the props of a business, ledgers and files and pigeonholes of invoices. One corner was stacked floor to ceiling with boxes of various shapes and sizes.
My business is quite complex, she said, returning – from what he guessed was a bathroom, in a cupboard behind a bead curtain – with an electric kettle. She set it on the table and plugged it into the surge protector that also served the computer. Delicate, she continued, and not always strictly legal. Aha, I have interested you. You think, she speaks so highly and mightily of morals, yet she deals in stolen property?
Goodness, David said agreeably, taking one of the lemon cookies that she, in a nice Bohemian gesture, offered in the paper drawer they had come boxed in rather than on a plate. He wondered if they learned this sort of thing at finishing school, when to stop. He wondered why he suspected her of having attended a finishing school. She poured the tea, Earl Grey, and answered the unspoken question in what she said next.
Her name was Ulrike Weber, and she was born in Tübingen, a famous old university town in southwestern Germany, a couple of years after the end of the war. Her mother was gentle and calm, clean and pious, a thrifty woman who loved Schiller and Christmas and attended free lectures at the Musikverein with her friends. Her father she knew as a formal, distant man who worked long hours at the University (he lectured in medieval history), yet with a streak of indulgent silliness he reserved just for her. She was an only child, and for her first decade or so a good girl, the best – quiet, studious, affectionate, obedient, a little dreamy. (Milk? she offered, proffering a china jug, and when he declined she let three drops fall in her cup, three twirling ribbons in the clear liquid.) The three of them lived in a two-bedroom apartment, a little small, perhaps, but filled with nice things: comfortable chairs and books and a tiny fireplace with a blue-tiled hearth that was her special place to sit. There were a few objets d’art, too – an ancient Greek clay wine-cup, a couple of icons, an empty, iridescent perfume bottle, the blue metronome – pretty things that were put away when guests came to visit because, as her mother explained, it would be sad to see them handled casually, and broken.
One day in her early teens (the century’s early sixties), a truck stopped in the narrow street in front of their apartment, and a piano was winched up on a crane and gently swung through the empty window frame (a glazier had been called the day before), to alight in the middle of their front room. From that day on her relationship with her parents began to deteriorate. Her mother, it turned out, had ambitions. A teacher was found, and Ulrike began the arduous business of mastering an instrument for which she had little natural affection and no aptitude whatsoever. She managed to muscle through her first couple of years on sheer determination; progressed, in fact, at a speed that was not unusual given that most beginners were a half or even a third her age, but that her teacher and mother misinterpreted as talent. But by her third year she had had enough. Mother sat in her chair, daughter sat on her bench, score sat on its ledge, and metronome sat queen of all, reproving an increasingly rebellious Ulrike with her sternly waving finger and strict regulation of every moment’s action and thought.
I won’t! Ulrike said, flinging the score to the floor because she dared not touch the blue metronome itself, once so precious and delightful.
You will, her mother said, picking up the score and replacing it in front of her, while the metronome made dispassionate comment on the seconds and minutes and hours and days and months and years they had spent trapped, together, in these newly hateful little rooms. When her father returned home from the University he, too, offered stern reproof.
Your mother and I have discussed your music studies, and it breaks her heart that you are so opposed, he said. You have become argumentative, unpleasant, and disobedient, even violent, your mother tells me. You need discipline. Music lessons – lucky girl! If all men had the opportunity to learn discipline through music lessons!
Now, Ulrike had never had many friends; had not needed them, as close as she was to her parents. But as the hateful lessons dragged on and the mood in the house turned from grey to black, she began to pay closer attention to the outside world. Her schoolmates, she saw, were all fighting their own wars of attrition with their own implacable, tyrannical elders; but instead of giving in, they had found an unthinkably obvious way of shifting power.
Papa, Ulrike said one suppertime, after a particularly brutal session that afternoon had left both her and her mother tense and pale, where were you during the war?
You know I was in Berlin, her father said.
What did you do?
You know that too, her father said pleasantly. I worked as a translator. I translated the London papers, and other English and American propaganda. Sometimes I transcribed radio broadcasts.
From his war work conversation turned naturally to an upcoming language conference at the University where he would be giving a paper, but Ulrike nevertheless suspected she had touched a tender place. After supper, cleaning dishes in the kitchen, her mother reminded her of her father’s favourite boast: in six years of service he had never carried a gun.
The next night she tried again.
Are we rich? she asked.
Her parents exchanged a glance she could not read.
We are comfortable, I think, her father said.
But are we rich?
Enough, her mother said. Eat your supper.
But her father saw what was in her face.
Where are you going, Ulrike? he said.
We have so many nice things, she said. The icons and the – the metronome. I wondered where they came from.
Nonsense, her mother said.
I bought them, her father said.
Where?
In Berlin.
Her mother set down her cutlery, though her plate was still half full.
During the war?
During the war.
Who did you buy them from?
A collector, her father said.
A Jew?
Not in my house, her mother said, rapping her knuckles on the table. I will not have this in my house.
Her father shook his head. His smile was cold and thin.
In every house, my dear, he corrected her. It was inevitable. Why not in ours too?
And was the collector a Jew? David asked the woman in the shop in Greenwich Village, for she had stopped speaking and was staring at the air in front of her.
Oh, yes, she said, rousing herself. Yes, of course. How could my father have afforded such expensive things otherwise? He was a Corporal during the war, never more than that.
They sat for a while in silence, then, as darkness fell, outside and inside the shop too. The tea was long cold. After a while David got up to turn the sign on the door from Open to Closed. Then he sat down again, and waited for the woman to continue.
I thought that was all I would get from him, she said. Her face was lost in shadow, but her voice, in the crowded backroom, seemed especially intimate and near. My parents’ faces were so terrible that night, I could n
ot bring myself to take the next step, the step I had planned, which was to blackmail them into letting me quit piano. Can you imagine? That was all that had been filling my head. But when I saw their faces I could not bring myself to do such a trivial thing. I felt guilt, the famous German guilt, and I said nothing more. I even practised harder than ever, though my mother no longer supervised me. When I came home from school she would disappear into the kitchen, to avoid me.
The next weekend my father asked me to accompany him on one of his country walks. I had taken great pleasure in those Sunday hikes when I was younger, long hours of my father’s undivided attention, but in the last couple of years I had avoided them to punish him for my musical studies, and he had long since stopped inviting me. This time, however, he asked me quite formally, out of my mother’s hearing, and something told me not to decline.
David waited again through a long silence. In the darkness he could smell that she had lit a cigarette.
There was more to it, of course, she said. He thought I would forgive him once I had the full picture. I will tell you the story as he told it to me, and when I am done you will tell me if I was not justified in doing what I did next.
In the year 1932, in the city of Berlin, Hannah Goldberg fell into love and riches, goods that forced her out of herself like an orange hull thumbed concave, forcing out the fruit. She was seventeen, serious, not shy but cautious, a listener rather than a talker. She had been playing the cello since she was seven – a scaled-down child’s model first, later the sumptuous old Italian instrument her father bought her when it became clear she had both the passion and the gift for a career. A series of competition wins yielded the riches: a promised concerto performance with an orchestra (which fell through for mysterious reasons but did not disappoint her terribly, as she intended to debut memorably and knew she was not quite ready) and, more importantly, a scholarship to the Conservatory for the following fall, when she would turn eighteen. It was winter now, not quite Christmas. The scholarship was not strictly necessary – her father would willingly have paid her way to the Conservatory and anywhere else she might have wanted to go – but she was pleased to be able to contribute, finally, to what she knew had been a very expensive education.
A change of teacher yielded love.
But why? she asked Herr Jacoby, who had taught her since she was a child. He was by now more than a teacher, more like a beloved uncle, who ate with the family on her lesson days (two or three times a week) and stayed in one of the guest rooms if the night was particularly cold or wet, or if there was any rowdiness in the streets. There he would be at the breakfast table the next morning, in one of her father’s silk robes, lifting his coffee with a shaky hand and beaming at Hannah with rheumy eyes.
This particular afternoon found them, as usual, in the music salon, a long, carpeted room with a concert Steinway and tall windows overlooking the garden, sitting opposite each other with their instruments.
I should have insisted before now, Herr Jacoby said. I’ve been selfish, Liebling, keeping you to myself for so long. From every teacher you learn something new, something valuable. You mustn’t allow your teachers’ limitations to become your own. At the Conservatory you’ll be exposed to many new influences, and you’ll face so many – challenges. I thought, a little bridge from here to there, a little preparation, so you’ll be ready to adapt when the time comes. I’m explaining badly, he added, seeing her face.
Hannah understands, her mother said. (It was her practice to sit in on the lessons, silent and invisible in one of the big stuffed chairs at the far end of the room. She said the music soothed her headaches, which were increasingly frequent and debilitating.)
There’s a young man I know, Herr Jacoby said. From the symphony. His name is Herr Bernhardt, and he’s agreed to take you on.
Did he study at the Conservatory? Hannah asked.
In Vienna, Herr Jacoby said, looking at her mother.
Vienna! her mother said. See, Hannah.
Is he strict?
Strictness, of course, did not bother Hannah at all – she worked hard and well and had nothing to fear from other people’s standards, which were never higher than her own. But she feared for Herr Jacoby and what would become of him when he no longer had an excuse to come to their house, no longer had a favourite student to look forward to. Hannah wondered, indeed, if she was not his only student, for whenever her mother sent him a note he would come right away, and always on foot, never in a taxi. She wondered if none of this had occurred to her parents, or if perhaps they had made other arrangements. Her father was always making arrangements for people, the servants, employees at the store, even vagrants on the street.
Yes, I believe he is quite strict, Herr Jacoby said. If Monday afternoon suits you, Frau Goldberg?
Hannah will be at home on Monday, her mother said.
After tea she and her mother and younger brother (Paul, fifteen) sat by the fire playing desultory hands of cards, while outside it turned cold and luminous, an odd light, threatening snow.
How’s that moustache coming? she asked her brother.
Paul ignored her. He had decided, these past few months, he was a man of the world in a family of dreamers, and had taken to reading the papers in the morning and economic philosophy at night, and cultivating a heavy down on his upper lip. Now he was angry about Herr Jacoby, and had said at least three times in the last hour that they were “throwing him to the dogs.”
Maybe we could persuade him to start your lessons again, Hannah said gravely. One month when you were twelve was not much of a try. I think you have matured a lot since then, anyway.
She heard her mother sniff delicately, trying not to smile.
Music is for women, Paul said, making them both laugh out loud. He frowned ferociously.
Schätzlein, Hannah said, leaning over to kiss him, but he squirmed away, upsetting the cards. The maid came in.
Please, she said. The tree is here.
The Goldbergs went to the entrance hall, where three delivery men were erecting an immense fir tree by the staircase.
Two hours late, her mother murmured. And it’s dry. Look, you can see the needles falling already.
It’s fine, Hannah said.
Getting ready for Christmas, are we? one of the delivery men called, glancing at them over his shoulder.
Her brother disappeared back into the depths of the house.
Her mother pressed some money into her hand and followed him, massaging her temples and calling for the maid to bring some vinegar.
When they presented her with the bill it was half as much again as what her mother had arranged on the phone, but Hannah merely smiled and paid and watched them go. It was how her parents had taught her to deal with problems, always to smile, never to argue or insist or show any discomposure.
The maid returned and asked if she should bring up the decorations.
It’s nice, isn’t it? Hannah said. Maybe we can get it done before my father gets home.
It’s dry, the maid said. Look at the needles all over the floor. I’m afraid they’ve cheated you.
No, no. It doesn’t matter, Hannah said. We’ll make it nice.
By the time her father’s car pulled up, at six-thirty, they had hung the tree with glass balls and wooden deer and stars, and soldiers in red felt uniforms with shiny black boots and gold sequins for buttons.
Isn’t that pretty, he said, taking her hand, and together they turned their backs to it and walked into the house, while the maid collected the last of the empty ornament boxes and swept a few stray sprays of tinsel from the floor.
By Monday afternoon the house had also acquired a wreath on the front door, paper snowflakes on the windows, and numerous candles set in nests of holly cut from the garden on mantles and in front of mirrors. Hannah sat in the music room, playing a few velvety scales on her cello, waiting for her new teacher. Her mother sat in her accustomed chair with sheaves of white paper, a pair of sharp scissors, and a few more fini
shed snowflakes in a basket at her feet. Distantly they heard the doorbell and the approaching commotion of footsteps.
He’s late, Hannah said, setting down her bow.
Hush, her mother said. He probably just had trouble finding the house.
Herr Bernhardt, the maid announced.
A tall young man with a shockingly battered cello case stood in the doorway, surveying the room thoroughly before turning his gaze to the women. He wore a tweed jacket and grey flannel trousers, baggy at the knees. His blond hair showed the plough-marks of a fine-tooth comb.
Herr Bernhardt, we are honoured, Hannah’s mother said. Herr Jacoby spoke so highly of you. I’m afraid perhaps you had some trouble finding the house?
None at all, the man said.
Hannah stood to introduce herself. He advanced into the room to shake her hand. His grip was dry and gentle, even soft. Close up, she saw his eyes were grey.
Is that yours? he asked, meaning her instrument.
Next he shook hands with her mother, and then he asked her to leave the room.
My mother generally stays, Hannah said.
The new teacher said nothing, only smiled and remained motionless until her mother slowly rose, gathering the basket and bits and pieces from her feet, and excused herself with a tremulous, formal bow.
You will stay to tea, afterwards, I hope, Herr Bernhardt? she asked from the doorway.
Perhaps.
For the first half hour the lesson progressed almost wordlessly, as Herr Bernhardt put Hannah through her paces, asking for exercises and slowly circling her while she played. He did not remove his own instrument from its case, though he would occasionally play a brief figure on the piano to show her what he wanted. Once or twice she felt the circumference of his circle round her widen as he examined the room itself, bookshelves of scores, her childhood cello, Paul’s violin (of the single month’s acquaintance), the metronomes (she had three), and all the accoutrements of her art: rosin, cloths, music stands, a spare bow, and so on.
