“I don’t. I hate it,” someone said, and Katherina looked around. “Sorry,” Radu amended. “I didn’t mean to bring down the mood.”
“What could you possibly hate about that?” Chuck thrust his thumb toward the idyllic scene on the pond.
“Not ice skaters, of course.” In the all-white landscape, Radu’s eyes seemed even redder than usual. “Just snow. Put it down to an old man with bad war memories.”
There was an awkward moment. Then von Hausen said, “We all have war memories. You have to let go of them.”
“I agree,” Chuck added. “I don’t have ’em, but my father fought on Omaha Beach. One of the lucky ones that made it back. But that’s old news, from forty years ago.”
“You were on the Eastern Front?” Katherina asked Radu, her curiosity piqued.
He nodded. “In the winter of ’43, I was an eighteen-year-old in the Romanian army—20th Infantry Division—fighting the Russians just west of the Volga. They were the most terrible months of my life. It wasn’t just the fighting. I’m talking about the snow.”
Sitting across from him, Boris nodded faintly but said nothing. Katherina wondered where he had been that winter.
“It was deep and hard to wade through, and when you sweated, the sweat froze inside your uniform. There were nights when it was minus twenty-five degrees. In the forests the bark of trees burst. You could hear it sometimes—a sharp crack. In our engines, the oil became a glue that brought everything to a stop. Wounded soldiers froze to death a few minutes after they fell. Even when we escaped the guns, every day was a fight to survive. We had to hack through our food with saws. And the snow never stopped.”
He stared into the fire, clutching his warm wine cup. “One evening, my rubber boot soles snapped. I knew my feet would freeze that night and if they did, I’d die. So I went back to where I had seen a dead Russian and took his footgear. Valenki, they’re called. Big thick felt things they wore. They saved my life.”
Katherina listened to the old soldier and wondered where her father had been on the day that the young Romanian had pilfered a dead man’s boots. Was he crouched behind a wall in Stalingrad shooting at Germans? Random chance, that Radu Gavril found life-saving footgear while Sergei had snatched up a costume gauntlet from the Stalingrad Opera. What possible reason could he have had for saving it?
“My father also fought at Stalingrad,” Katherina blurted out suddenly, then instantly regretted it. What was she thinking? Now she would have to explain what side he fought on, and why. A question to which she had no answer. She poked the fire, nervously while all eyes turned toward her.
“Oh, Kätchen! Stasya! You’re both here!” Detlev skated to a sudden stop at the edge of the pond next to the campsite and clapped his gloved hands. Hans Stintzing stopped just behind him with slightly less grace.
Katherina was reprieved. “Yes, we got here only a little while ago.”
“Well, you just put on some skates right now and get on out here. I’m not letting you sit this one out, you two!”
“Don’t make us climb up there and drag you out,” Hans threatened in his rich bass voice.
Katherina seized the moment. “All right. I will, but only if Anastasia does too.” She dropped a pair of skates between them and began to buckle one on herself. Anastasia hesitated for a moment, exchanging glances with her husband, then accepted the skates. In a few moments they were on the ice, Detlev and Hans urging them away from the shore.
“There now. Aren’t we having great fun?” Detlev cajoled, obviously pleased with himself.
Hans skated alongside Katherina, stumbling occasionally, humming one of the waltzes from Rosenkavalier. She elbowed him amiably. “I see that you ice-skate pretty much the way you fence.”
“Mamselle,” he said, using one of Baron Ochs’ expressions, “I am not skating, just as I was notfencing. I am acting like I am skating. That is all an opera singer ever needs to do.”
“Hans, honey. I think the ladies would like a little time alone,” Detlev interrupted gently. “Sooo, we’ll skate around the pond with both of you because we all look fabulous, but then we’ll take you back to the far side and leave you on your own, n’est pas?”
“That’s a wonderful idea.” Katherina half glided where the ice was smooth and minced delicately whenever they hit lumpy patches. “Hmm. Not so easy to be an ice ballerina, is it?”
Anastasia also seemed to be concentrating on her feet. “It didn’t look this difficult in all those Breughel paintings,” she muttered. “Do you think they had better ice in the sixteenth century?”
“Painters are liars too,” Detlev said. “Do what Hans and I are doing. Pretend to ice-skate.”
“What if I pretend to fall down? Will you pretend to pick me up?” Katherina laughed again. She was giddy and happy again after weeks of brooding. Though they seemed to be casual friends skating, a subtle feeling of conspiracy existed among the four of them. Something almost familial tied them together and separated them from the others on the shore. She ached for it to last, then glanced toward the distant campsite where she could see Boris watching.
Detlev skated adroitly in a small arabesque, which brought him alongside of Anastasia. “What were you talking about so seriously back at the fire? You all looked so solemn, like you were discussing death.”
“We were, sort of. War stories,” Anastasia answered, keeping her eyes on her feet.
“Oh, that. What a waste of time. Everyone over fifty fought in the war and everyone under fifty has a father who did. Time to get over it.”
They had reached the far side of the pond. “All right, my pretties. We’ve rescued you from the nosy neighbors and now you’re on your own.” Detlev made a graceful curve around them and the two men skated off.
Katherina guided Anastasia so that they skated back and forth at the far edge of the pond, rather than follow the periphery, which would take them back too soon to the campsite. It was awkward to talk because the strain of skating kept them both slightly breathless, and the cold kept their faces buried in layers of scarf. Shoulder to shoulder, they began to breathe in rhythm, and each of their moist exhalations joined in a single sphere of steam before evaporating in the frigid air.
“What were you going to say about your father?” Anastasia resumed the campsite conversation.
“I didn’t mean to mention him at all. It just slipped out. I have no idea what he was doing at Stalingrad since I can’t read his Russian notes. As for the rest of his confessions, I can’t really discuss them with anyone, except maybe Detlev.”
“Detlev? Why him?”
They skated slowly, meandering now in curves, their gloved hands brushing past each other, touching lightly.
“Because, from what I’ve been reading in his journal, he was mixed up with some gangster lowlife named Schalk. Plus, he was homosexual,” she added suddenly. “He had a whole other life even after I was born. A secret life within a secret life, like Russian nesting dolls.”
“How awful for him. But homosexuality used to be a serious crime, didn’t it? After the war, too. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to talk about my father. I want to talk about us.”
“Us?” Anastasia shook her head. “There can’t be an ‘us.’ Not just now.”
Katherina skated around in front of Anastasia, stopping her.
“There was an us, that night on the balcony and onstage in the last performance. It was not my imagination. Please don’t try to wish that out of existence.”
Anastasia pulled her scarf away from her mouth, revealing lovely full lips. “I admit, something happened. Something exciting and precious. Completely new to me. But there is so much that I can’t do, that we can’t even talk about yet.”
“‘Yet?’ What are waiting for?”
“Please. This is the wrong time in my life. I’m caught and can’t do anything now.” She glanced to the side. “Besides, Boris is watching us and wondering what’s keeping us out here so long. You have to let me
go.” Anastasia covered her face again and began skating back across the pond.
“Wait!” Katherina held her by the arm and pulled a wad of paper from inside her cape, four sheets of handwritten paper folded into a small package. “It’s the Cyrillic pages of my father’s journal. I made a copy of them. Remember? You offered to read them. It doesn’t have to be right away. I just want you to have them. Whatever’s in them, I want to share it with you.”
Anastasia looked down at the wad, then slid it into the pocket of her anorak. “Yes, I remember, and I meant it, too. But I don’t know when I can do it. So much is happening now, so much up in the air. I’ll have to mail it to you.”
“It doesn’t have to be word for word. I just want to know the subject. It can’t take more than ten minutes for you to read them. Whether it’s something dangerous, or intimate, I don’t care. Maybe we could just sit down over a cup of coffee tomorrow morning. Ten minutes alone, the two of us, that’s all I’m asking.”
“I don’t know. I can’t promise anything. We may not have time.”
They were near the campsite again and Boris was on his feet, obviously waiting for them. In a moment he would be within earshot.
Katherina felt happiness slipping away. “Please tell me what’s going on, why you’re avoiding me.”
Anastasia took a breath. Though she dropped her voice almost to a murmur, her answer struck with violent clarity. “I’m pregnant.”
XXIII
“Sola, Perduta, Abandonata”
With her baggage packed, Katherina went early to the common breakfast room and waited. She felt small, foolish, waiting in a public place like a lovesick fan. She sipped at her third glass of orange juice, pretending to study her music, but thoughts of everything but music swam in her mind.
Pregnant. That pulled the ground from beneath any plans, or hints of plans, even the flimsiest of hopes of plans. Katherina felt cheated, then angry at her selfishness. After all, it was Anastasia who had the crisis. Would Boris curb his philandering to be a father? He had, after all, stayed two more weeks in Salzburg. Surely that was a sign that the marriage was working again.
Katherina brooded. What was she doing anyhow, waiting like an infatuated schoolgirl for her favorite teacher to pass in the hallway? Could the whole situation be any more humiliating and absurd? She had to have a final talk with Anastasia, if for no reason other than to put it all away and regain her senses. She hated losing Anastasia to some banal family life in a Munich suburb, but she needed to get Anastasia to talk about it, to wring from her an admission of love, however unconsummated. Katherina hungered to hear the word as much as she hungered for touch.
“May I join you?” Gregory Raspin was suddenly beside her table, immaculately dressed. He indicated the chair across from her.
He was the last person she wanted to see. “Yes. Of course,” she said, forcing a smile.
A waiter set down a cup and saucer and poured steaming coffee from a silver pot.
Raspin stirred in sugar. “The reviews are splendid,” he said, sliding two Austrian newspapers across the table toward her. “You’ll see. Salzburg has been a major success for you.”
“Major success? You really think so?” She turned her juice glass in her fingers.
“I do indeed, and since you will soon be inundated with offers, I would like to settle our unfinished business. I mean, of course, the Walpurgisnacht. This is the moment when you must make up your mind. I happen to have the contract right here.”
He drew a long envelope from his inside jacket pocket. “I presume you’ve read it,” he said, unfolding two copies onto the table and brushing them flat. “It is very straightforward. I have spoken at length with your agent, and she finds no fault with the terms.” He held out a ballpoint pen.
“I’m sure she doesn’t.” Katherina did not take the pen from his hand.
“You might be interested to know that Radu Gavril will be acting as stage manager. I know you trust him. I trust him too. I’m certain that he’ll once again reveal his genius in the staging on the Brocken Peak. Incidentally, the DDR has agreed to film it for a broadcast on the real Walpurgisnacht on April 30. I had hoped for a live performance, but a filming of a live performance is nearly as good. Film royalties are discussed in the contract and are generous.”
At that moment, Frau Semmel passed by them with a handful of cut flowers for the tables. “Excuse me.” Katherina touched her on the arm. “Has Anastasia Ivanova come downstairs yet?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. She checked out last night. It was very late, but she said she had to catch a flight before dawn. She didn’t tell you?” The plump matron stood holding her bouquet in front of her.
Katherina felt sudden nausea. “I see. Thank you.” She stared into the empty air for a moment, as if reading something only she could see. Then, almost angrily, she took up the pen that lay on the table and signed both copies of the contract.
Raspin beamed. “I know you’ll be pleased. It will be a new experience for you, for all of us.” He held up his coffee cup. “Let’s toast our exciting new venture.” She lifted her empty juice glass and brought it toward him as he swung his cup forward. At the tap of heavy porcelain against crystal, the glass broke. Tiny shards fell onto the contract.
Katherina brushed them away with the side of her hand. One shard, nearly invisible, pierced the skin at the base of her palm, bringing forth a tiny drop of blood. A second sweep of her hand smeared the droplet diagonally across the page, through her signature.
She looked down, horrified, at the bloodstained contract. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Waiter!” Raspin called. “We have some broken glass here.” He touched his linen napkin to Katherina’s palm. “I hope that’s not serious.”
“No, it’s fine,” she said, embarrassed, as the waiter swept together the fragments with a hand brush and removed them from sight.
“Well, then, that’s it, I guess. I’ll see you in on the Brocken.” He stood up with the blood-marked contract and offered his hand. It was as cold as ever.
XXIV
Da Capo
It was dawning as Katherina waited on the platform at the tiny train station at Drei Annen. She peered down the track, searching for the steam locomotive that would take her up to the Brocken Peak, but still saw no sign of it. Idly, she watched the stationmaster sweeping snow off the platform onto the tracks. He pushed his broom lightly, mechanically, as if accepting the futility of his work, and, in fact, the light snowy mist that still drifted down soon recovered the portions of the platform he had just swept.
The voice rehearsals that had taken place the previous week in rooms all over Drei Annen had gone well. Practicing in school classrooms and private houses was a bit primitive, but that was often the case with festival operas staged outside of a permanent theater or large city. You went wherever you could find a piano and a room large enough. The singing cast of nine included one voice for each of the seven sins and one for Mephisto. She herself, in the role of Woman, made up the ninth. They were mostly “young” singers, starting their careers, hungry for work and willing to take risks. Now the new mountaintop theater was finished and everyone was ready for stage rehearsals.
Katherina was glad to be moving on to the more active phase of the performance, though the intense week of voice rehearsals had begun to relieve both the mourning for her father and the longing for Anastasia. Still, both losses were unhealed wounds, and when she tried to rest, a soft ache settled over her like a pall. She needed to work, to be outdoors, so it felt good to focus attention on the snow-laden fir trees and the cold air in her nostrils carrying the fragrance of pine.
A bird chirped somewhere behind her, signaling daybreak, and Katherina caught sight of it fluttering from under the station roof into nearby trees.
“Snow finch.” The stationmaster stopped sweeping and leaned on his broom. “Been here as long as I have—since ’59. Even blizzards don’t faze ’em. Pretty little things, too.” He nodded toward a s
econd bird that swooped past them, its open wings revealing a striking black-and-white pattern.
“You one of those show people got permission to go up on the Brocken, Miss?” He started sweeping again, desultorily.
She lifted the collar of her coat and blew into her gloved hands. “Show people? Yes, I suppose I am. They’ve just built a performance space for us, I hear.”
“Uh-hunh, over the Brocken Stones. That’s got to be bad luck, seem to me.”
“Bad luck? Why’s that? It’s just a pile of boulders.”
“Two piles. Devil’s Pulpit and the Witches’ Altar, Miss. I’m not saying that there were real witches up there, carrying off souls. But there’s such a thing as an evil place, you know, haunted like, where things happen. So just be careful’s all I’m saying.” He started sweeping again, Sisyphus-like against the forces of winter.
Katherina stared at his back for a moment, bemused by the warning. The opera they were about to present was all about evil. The seven deadly sins, in fact. She considered Magda’s mock declaration that evil was sex and smiled. She rather doubted she’d encounter any of that on the weather-beaten rocks of the Brocken.
“Good morning, Madame Marow.” A short bulky man with an enormous mustache appeared at her side. He looked familiar, at least the mustache did, though she could not recall where she had seen it before.
Her expression must have revealed her puzzlement, because the stranger added, “Friedrich Diener at your service.” He executed a slight military bow.
“Ah, the composer.” Katherina offered her gloved hand. A pudgy hand emerged from the sleeve of his enormous winter coat and touched lightly against her palm.
“So happy you are joining us,” Diener said, and slipped his hand back into his pocket.
Mephisto Aria Page 14
