Von Braunschweig looked annoyed. “I thought I had covered the subject fully,” he said.
In a low voice, the commissioner said, “There’s the matter of Wagner’s outspoken anti-Semitism, Your Honour. His attacks on Jews and their effects on German culture, to say the least, are vicious.”
Looking even more annoyed, the mayor shot back, “Who the devil cares about the Jews, von Mannstein? They are nothing but pimples on our backsides. If there’s a problem with our Jews it’s purely secondary. In fact, it’s less than secondary.”
“With all due respect, Your Honour,” the commissioner said, “there are Jewish bankers in Frankfurt who are very vital to Germany’s economy. I’m sure you are aware of that. They can scarcely be regarded as ‘pimples.’”
“Then let the citizens of Frankfurt wrestle with that particular problem,” von Braunschweig said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “My concerns are for my own constituents here in Munich.”
And for your own comfort and welfare as the highly paid, handsomely housed, and soon-to-be-generously pensioned mayor here in Munich, I added in my own mind. I had expected that, having raised the issue of Wagner’s anti- Semitism, von Mannstein might pursue the matter further. The mayor’s brusque dismissal, however, was enough to discourage him. Turning his attention to me, the commissioner said, “What His Honour wishes now, Preiss, is that you, being the officer most fitted for the task, should find a way to insert yourself into Wagner’s circle, become somehow as close to him as one can become, keep a keen eye on his activities … not just musical, you understand, but generally. We need to know what he’s up to, who are his allies. In short, Preiss, we need to build a strong enough case against this man Wagner so that once again he can be sent into exile never to be allowed back into Germany … never.”
“And when am I to begin this assignment, Commissioner?”
The commissioner extracted from his vest an exquisite gold pocket watch. “The time is now twelve minutes before noon, Preiss. You have just begun.”
Chapter Four
Foreign visitors to Munich are often amused (and frequently distressed) by the penchant on the part of local restaurateurs to give their establishments exotic French and Italian names — for example Café Paris or Trattoria Venezia — when a quick glance at the menus reveals that the cuisine is strictly German. This happens to be the case with my favourite eating place in Munich, Maison Espãna, whose proprietor makes no apology for fraudulent misrepresentation and brazenly serves the best Wiener schnitzel in Europe in a large room filled with dark woods, plenty of polished brass, and the golden glow of gaslight. The owner, Sigmund (Ziggy) Bolliger, greets me always in French or Spanish whenever I enter his restaurant, both of us knowing full well that beyond his simple greeting he speaks not a word of either language. (What would life be without these charming little illusions?) On this particular evening, however, seeing that I was accompanied by two very attractive young people, Ziggy forgot himself and welcomed me in German, all the while fixing his eyes on the female in our group.
“Herr Bolliger,” I said, “I’ve assured my guests that they haven’t lived until they’ve tasted the Wiener schnitzel at Maison Espãna. Let me introduce you to Fräulein Karla Steilmann and Herr … or should I say Heldentenor? — Henryk Schramm.”
“Did you say heldentenor, Inspector?” Bolliger looked impressed. “Then these must be opera singers!”
“How clever of you, Ziggy,” I said. “In your next life you should consider a career in the police force. Now give us a nice quiet table where we can talk, please, and a bottle of your finest Riesling.”
At a corner table away from the hubbub of other diners, I offered a toast, the three of us raising our wineglasses. “To a successful premiere of — what is the name of the opera again? —”
“Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg,” Schramm said.
“Of course,” I said. “You must forgive me. Opera titles with more than two words give me trouble every time. Here’s to Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg.”
Each of us took a sip of wine.
“And here’s to Richard Wagner!” I added with a little too much enthusiasm.
Schramm and Steilmann looked at me as though I were mad. “Are you serious, Inspector?” Schramm asked.
Steilmann seemed to be struggling to avoid bursting into laughter. I put down my glass. “Have I said something amusing?”
She said, gently chiding, “Surely you’re being disingenuous, Inspector Preiss. You did see him in action the other night, did you not? And you expect us to toast this … this terrorist? When I was a young girl I witnessed my mother giving birth to my baby sister. Believe me, Inspector, her agony was nothing compared to what it is like preparing an operatic role under Maestro Wagner’s tutelage.”
Schramm nodded vigorously in agreement.
“Then tell me this,” I said, “if he is, as you put it, a terrorist, why are you subjecting yourselves to such torture? After all, Wagner is certainly not the only composer of operas in Europe. There’s no shortage, thanks to Mozart and Beethoven, though both are long gone now. And then we have Verdi and Berlioz and Rossini and —”
“Yes yes, of course, Inspector,” said Schramm. “But the answer to your question can only be answered with another question. Why does the moth seek the flame and why do sheep follow their leaders fatally over steep cliffs?”
“Oh come now, Schramm, do you want me to believe that opera singers have something in common with moths and sheep … that all of you share some inexplicable death wish?”
Schramm laughed. “All right, Inspector, I admit I’ve exaggerated somewhat. I do have a habit of answering a question with a question. I suppose it’s part and parcel of my upbringing.”
“And where might that have taken place … your upbringing, I mean?”
Schramm looked down at the glass of wine in his hand. “Oh, my family lived in a number of towns. It’s really not very interesting, Inspector, I assure you. Let’s just say the Schramms lived a very itinerant life.”
I said, trying not to belabour the matter, “It sounds to me as though your father was a man of religion, Schramm. Perhaps a minister of the church or some such occupation. They do tend to travel about.”
Schramm looked up at me. “Yes,” he said, “something like that … you know, travelling about.”
I thought I detected a faraway look in Schramm’s eyes, a hint of distance to his voice, that suggested this was a topic he preferred not to pursue. I turned my attention quickly to Karla Steilmann. “And you, Fräulein Steilmann, you are from?”
“I am a dyed-in-the-wool Viennese, I’m afraid,” she said, smiling apologetically. “You see, Inspector Preiss, I know immediately what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that, unlike you Germans, we Austrians are a frivolous lot. Too much whipped cream, too many cherries, too much music in three-quarter time. Yes?”
I feigned disappointment. “I could have sworn that you were pure German. Perhaps we should order dinner before sorrow overwhelms me.” To make sure she didn’t take me seriously, I took her hand in mine, but as enchanted as I was at that moment I did not fail to catch a flicker of jealousy in Schramm’s eyes.
To me he said, “Did I hear correctly something about ordering dinner? Please don’t think me rude, Inspector Preiss, but I am famished. We’ve been rehearsing most of the day with only a short break for lunch and another for coffee mid-afternoon.”
Just then Ziggy Bolliger passed near our table. “I say, Innkeeper —” I called out.
Bolliger drew close. Addressing my guests he said, “This is the only man in Munich I permit to call me Innkeeper. But then, what choice does a humble citizen like me have, eh? When the Chief Inspector calls, we come running.”
“Bolliger, stop complaining and let us have three Weiner schnitzels with plenty of red cabbage on the side, also enough potato salad for three hungry people. Oh yes, and another bottle of Riesling, Ziggy. By the way, why is this Riesling so much better than wh
at you usually serve?”
In a half whisper Bolliger replied, “Because it was stolen from somebody’s private collection.” Without waiting for my reaction Bolliger spun round and disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later he was back at our table, his expression remorseful. “I cannot apologize enough,” he said. “Chef tells me because we were so busy earlier this evening we are totally out of veal. We can, however, offer you a pork schnitzel which, I promise, will be equally delicious.”
I turned to Schramm and Steilmann. “Take my word for it, even if Ziggy’s chef were to use cardboard the result would be marvelous. Shall it be three with pork instead of veal, then?”
Karla Steilmann had no problem with the proposed change. “And you, Schramm,” I asked, “the same?”
“I’m sorry,” Schramm replied, “but I have an allergy to certain foods and pork happens to be one of them.”
Bolliger brightly came to the rescue. “Chicken then! Chef does a roast chicken basted in a wine sauce fit for a king, with spätzli and some country-fresh greens.”
Schramm nodded agreeably. “And please, the skin? I like it left on and very crisp.”
Bolliger beamed. “Ah, a true connoisseur! I wish more Germans had your understanding of poultry, sir. You must be from the east where people know the proper way to cook and eat a chicken. Prussia, perhaps?”
This brought a wry smile to Schramm’s face. “The Inspector is right, Herr Bolliger. You have a natural talent for police work. Yes, I’m from the east, you might say.”
After Bolliger, looking happy, left us to return to the kitchen, I replenished our glasses, then said, attempting to maintain a casual air, “So tell me, you two, how long have you been involved in the world of opera and how did you come especially to be involved with this fiend Wagner?”
Karla Steilmann spoke up first. “I began singing when I was about nine or ten years of age. I sang in a children’s chorus at school, but once I reached my early teen years it became apparent that I had the makings of a soprano, and one of my music teachers took me under his wing until I reached sixteen, at which point I was ready for more serious training. For the next three years I lived the life of a nun at the Music Academy in Vienna. At twenty I was offered the role of Pamina in The Magic Flute. That ended any possibility that I would spend the rest of my life as a hausfrau. My parents — my father was a customs officer, my mother a part-time seamstress — were distraught, of course. In their minds a life on the stage represented everything that was wicked. I swear, to this very day, Inspector, they regard what I do as the work of the devil.” Suddenly she threw her head back, laughing. “It has just occurred to me: they are absolutely right! I am working with the devil himself, Richard Wagner!”
“And you, Schramm,” I said, “you feel the same way, I suppose.”
“You’ve now had some exposure to the Maestro, Inspector, albeit brief. How would you feel?” Schramm said.
“Ah, Schramm, there you go again, answering a question with a question.” I wagged a finger at him. “When a policeman asks a question, you must give an answer. That’s the law, you know.” I said this with an amiable smile which was met with an equally amiable smile from Schramm, but silence. I decided not to press him further on the point. “And were your parents similarly unenthusiastic about a musical career for their son?” I asked.
“Do you have children, Inspector?” Schramm replied. Breaking into a laugh he added, “I know, I know, another question followed by a question. I apologize, I really do.”
“I have never been married,” I said, “and have no children. At least none that I’m aware of. Why do you ask?”
“Because Karla’s experience with her parents is all too typical. I, on the other hand, was lucky. As a boy I demonstrated a good voice and a good ear. Fortunately I lost none of my potential when I went through a voice change. Like Karla, I underwent rigorous training, and was ready at twenty for my first major role. But I was encouraged throughout by my parents, both of whom were musical. Father played the violin and Mother loved to sing. It’s a pity that you’ve never had children, Inspector. I think you would have made a very good father, one who would not have been horrified to discover a singer among your brood.”
“I’m afraid you’re quite wrong, Schramm,” I said, topping up his wine glass again. “Truth is, I would have made a terrible parent. You see, Schramm, I’ve got where I am because my most basic instinct is suspicion. I am suspicious of everything and everyone. Even a newborn babe is an object of suspicion as far as I’m concerned.”
Karla Steilmann patted my arm. “Now now, Inspector, you must not put yourself down so. I’m sure you’re joking.”
“On the contrary,” I said, affecting a severe look, “I’m perfectly serious.”
Schramm turned to his companion. “In that case, Karla, say no more. Obviously our host is not the genial fellow he appears to be. We mustn’t even hint about our criminal pasts or we’re liable to find ourselves being led out of here in irons. And worse still, without having eaten a morsel of food!”
“I’m not quite so heartless,” I said. “I’d let the Fräulein have her schnitzel and let you finish off your roasted chicken, skin and all. Speaking of which, I see we are about to be served by the innkeeper himself.”
Ziggy Bolliger, accompanied by a waiter bearing an enormous tray of food, carried a second bottle of wine which he deposited on our table with the kind of flourish one would expect from a prophet presenting the Holy Grail. “This is stolen from my private collection,” he declared as he uncorked a fresh Riesling whose label was unfamiliar to me. “King Ludwig himself does not have access to this particular vineyard,” Bolliger boasted, splashing a bit of the pale gold liquid into a fresh crystal goblet and offering it to me. The expression on my face, after I had taken a sip, told him it was superb. “You see,” he said, addressing Schramm and Steilmann, “nothing is too good for Chief Inspector Hermann Preiss … or for his guests!”
The entrées, which were also superb, were followed by slices of warm apple strudel whose wrapping was as delicate as butterfly wings, coffee strong enough to fortify a regiment of infantry, and tiny glasses of Armagnac.
Schramm leaned back in his chair and let out a prolonged sigh. “I haven’t felt so relaxed in ages. Everything inside me seems suddenly to have unwound. Maestro Wagner has a way of tightening the screws that hold a person together until you think you’re going to split apart like a piece of dry wood.”
Karla Steilmann nodded in agreement. Touching my hand, she said, “Thank you, Inspector. Dinner has been like a tonic for us.”
“And for me as well,” I said, making certain not to disturb her hand, enjoying its soft touch on mine. “You must understand, both of you, that an occasion like this is a very special pleasure for me. It is blessedly far removed from the grimy habitats of crime I’m forced to visit day and night in my work. My colleagues, of course, are convinced that my interest in the arts, especially in music, is pure snobbery. Between you and me, they’re right. I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to hobnob with two attractive and talented young people like you for all the sauerkraut in Germany!”
Steilmann cast a sly glance at Schramm. “Ahah! So that explains it, Henryk. That’s why we are being wined and dined so generously tonight.” She turned to me, her hand still resting atop mine. “You’re not the only person who possesses a suspicious nature, Inspector Preiss. Henryk and I had this strange feeling that there was some ulterior motive behind your invitation. I mean, you show up at Wagner’s house at a strange hour of the night; the Maestro is obviously very uncomfortable about your arrival while Henryk and I are still present; you meet us fleetingly; and the next thing we know, Henryk and I are drinking wine that’s too good for the king as your guests. Be honest, Inspector; wouldn’t a string of circumstances of this sort arouse your suspicions?”
“Well, you may put aside your suspicions. This little dinner tonight is merely one more step in the rise of Hermann Preiss from peasant to poe
t, and nothing more. So let us have another round of Armagnac and drink to innocent pleasure.” Bolliger had left the bottle of Armagnac at our table, a gesture not customarily extended to other patrons of Maison Espãna and not lost on my appreciative guests.
Schramm raised his glass. “To Ziggy Bolliger!”
Steilmann and I joined him. “To Ziggy Bolliger!”
We sat for a moment or two in contented silence. Then, in an offhand manner, I said to Schramm, “By the way, Schramm, you didn’t mention what you performed in when you made your first major appearance. Was it in an opera?”
“Yes, Nabucco. Are you familiar with it?”
“Giuseppe Verdi, right? I’ve never heard the entire opera, but the chorus ‘Va pensiero’ I’ve heard several times. Very stirring, I must say. Has to do with freeing Hebrew slaves during some invasion or other of Judea in biblical times.”
“Very good, Inspector! Needless to say, Wagner despises it. Says it’s the kind of tune gondoliers sing in Venice. Besides, anything that has to do with freeing Hebrew slaves would never strike a favourable chord with the likes of Richard Wagner, as you’re no doubt aware.”
“It doesn’t bother you?” I asked, directing my question at Schramm.
“You mean his views about race?” Schramm was looking me straight in the eye. “Not in the least. Singing is my life, Inspector. I live to sing. The only thing that bothers me is an off-key note.”
“And you, Fräulein Steilmann … I suppose your outlook is the same?”
“One does not lightly turn down an opportunity to work with a genius like Maestro Wagner,” she replied. “What you heard the other night was only a small sample of the music he’s composed for Die Meistersinger. Only an idealistic fool would refuse a part in this opera.”
I reached for the bottle of Armagnac. “Then let’s have a final toast,” I said, filling our glasses again. “To the future of opera, and may all your dreams come true and your plans succeed!”
The Mastersinger from Minsk Page 4
