I personally believe that Hitler is not such a patriot as he makes himself out to be; his taste for vengeance is a personal vendetta that harkens back to some injustice long lost in the vestiges of his youth. Given that propensity it is only a matter of time before those in the upper echelons realise that his goals are personal and not public and the tide turns against him. The problem is time. How long? The longer it takes for that realisation to sink in, the harder and costlier it will be to get rid of him. He is already surrounding himself with a gallant core of fanatics, the SS. Any honourable Wehrmacht officer of the old school will find himself dead if he chooses to oppose the almighty Führer.
I write back to Johann telling him my thoughts and make him promise to stay in touch once his family get to Montreal.
Semester two is more gruelling than the last one. There are rounds at the teaching hospital, on top of the lectures and the heavy study load. Emma and I don’t find time for each other until the weekend. During one visit to her parents’ I doze off after dinner. Emma apologises for my tiredness and explains that doing my rounds, attending lectures and studying is taking its toll. She also explains that I am playing three nights at Django’s now to supplement my income. When I come to, Edgar pours me a brandy snifter and asks whether I would prefer playing at a posh restaurant.
“They don’t have a pianist over at La Scala. I know the owner; if you like I can mention you to him. It is a very elegant establishment, with a wealthy clientele. I am sure that they would be interested, and that they would be willing to pay better.” His eyebrows shoot up enticingly.
I think on it for a moment. I like the proposal, but I am uncertain as to whether I want to be in Edgar’s debt. So I don’t reply immediately. When he steps away to light his cigar I mention my reservation to Emma.
“My father is not like that. He will do you a favour, but he won’t hold it over you; either he likes you and wants to help you, or he just ignores you,” she reassures me.
As we are leaving, I peck Tessa on the cheek and thank her for dinner. I look over at Edgar, who is standing by the door. “If it’s no trouble, I would like to play at La Scala.”
Edgar nods sombrely. “No trouble.”
Partway through the year my parents write to say that they won’t be coming over in the summer; with the Olympics about to take place in August they are keen to stay in Germany. I don’t press the issue. I write back to say that if they don’t come for Christmas, I will be coming to visit with my friend. I don’t reveal too many details in case Emma decides against coming.
Emma is off to work half-days in admissions. I am alone at home. I wait for the post to see if there is a letter from Johann. There is, and the stamp is Canadian and the address on the back flap is in Montreal. I am overjoyed that the Zieglers are safe but sad to lose my contact in Germany. I can’t have this kind of dialogue with my parents or even Brigitte. They would wonder why I am curious about the fate of the Jews.
As I read through Johann’s letter I learn of a new contact in Germany: Johann’s sister, Margret Huber. Her husband is Catholic and they have a son. The Hubers believe they are safe from Hitler’s sword.
I write to both: Johann and Margret. I remember her vaguely from when she came by the house that I shared with her brother, Martin and Franz. She was rather frail-looking, with a roundish face, black wavy hair and a grating, nasal voice. I didn’t take to her on first impression, but I am grateful for the contact. I explain to Margret my predicament and ask whether she thinks it would be safe to travel in Germany post the Olympics.
I despaired of hearing from Margret and feared that my letter had either gone awry or fallen into the wrong hands. But a response arrives almost four months later. The fate of the Jews, as rightly anticipated by the elder Ziegler, has deteriorated after the Olympics. Laws are now being enacted that forbid Jewish doctors to treat non-Jews and Jewish lawyers to appear before the court, unless they are accompanied by Aryan lawyers. Margret, absent the sound of her voice, is quite pleasant in her writing, and warns Emma and me against travelling in Germany as two single people. If we were to marry, then Emma would be classified as a non-Jew in her travel documents. But that too could change. Either way, caution is in order.
Whatever hope I had for Germany evolving into an openly welcoming and friendly nation in the aftermath of the Olympics fades with the letter from Margret. I want to visit my family, it’s coming up on two years since I last saw them, but I want them to meet Emma too, whom I consider, despite my reservations, to be my future wife and hopefully the mother of my children.
Summer comes and goes without a letter from home. They have already written to say that they are staying put over the summer, but I am increasingly concerned about the silence - I know my parents’ predilection for clamming up in times of anger, but I am still hoping that they will make the trip out to Utrecht for Christmas. This longing is despite my lingering misgivings about them meeting the Bergens.
Inwardly I have found a way to straddle my new home and my love for my family, despite disliking where they live. In the first months I struggled to separate the two, but I have since discovered within myself a way to reconcile my Germanic self as distinct from the abhorrent new regime under Hitler’s tutelage by sassily crafting a fusion style of playing, that is at once jazz-like but not grounded in blues, as is the case of the American Negro, whose roots are African, but classical. I see myself in the vein of classicists like Carl Maria von Weber, or Schubert’s lieder, where folk music elements are subtly interwoven into their compositions.
Sadly for Germans like me, Hitler has come to symbolise the resurgent Germany, more so for appending the ‘National’ to his party nomenclature. But I don’t see it that way - certainly from the safety of Utrecht I can make that statement boldly. Does it make me a coward? No. It simply makes Hitler a bully and a villain. I am certain that within the Germany that I knew pre Hitler, there are many like me who find his rule of tyranny abhorrent and untenable and not fitting within the identity that we have come to represent: a nation of culture, philosophy, science and music. These attributes are in total conflict and contrast with the alienation and persecution of those differing from the mainstream, the elevation of Aryan to a national status to the exclusion of all others, and the nascent hostility and aggression towards our neighbours.
To my way of thinking, Hitler is not the face of the new Germany. His is a face of rage and hatred that is festering on our misfortune post World War I, not unlike an opportunistic disease. Preying on those that are manifestly vulnerable: the impoverished, the unemployed and those who have lost hope. He has exploited those vulnerabilities to his own end by appealing to the basest element that is within all of us: self-preservation. And fear. And greed. Not just Germans, but humans in general.
So I am exiled. Despite that state I have found a way to retain my love of home and country and exclude the darkness that is engulfing it, treating it as a pestilence that one day will be eradicated. But how many will die before that happens, I don’t know.
My reason for disquietude despite my reconciling my own dilemma is the question of whether the Hitler epidemic has infected my parents and Brigitte. They are uncritical and law-abiding to a fault, and can be easily manipulated despite their inherent decency.
But them not visiting me for two years, despite their initial excitement at the prospect of coming to Utrecht, and the fact that they have not written in a while, has me worried. Do they believe now that by choosing to study and live in Utrecht I have become unpatriotic? I would be loath to think so. But Hitler is charismatic and mesmerising, and if he has managed to save Germany from the abyss, some, if not most, will see him as a saviour, not as a virus.
I decide to sit down and write a short but candid letter to my sister.
Dear Brigitte,
How are you, my dear sister? I have not set eyes on you since I left Bremen in 1934, so it is now almost two years since we have had a chance to talk and laugh like we used to.
> My studies are going well, and next year, I will be two years away from becoming a doctor - Father’s wish at last!
But I am not sure that I will be coming home to Bremen and opening a medical practice, or working at Benz as the plant medic.
I am now living with a wonderful and beautiful Dutchwoman, whose mother is German, from Leipzig. Her name is Emma.
I wanted you all to meet her and become friendly as I am certain that once I graduate and start to practise, we will get married - so she will become family too.
Emma is half Jewish, and I am concerned about coming to Bremen. What is the situation in Germany now that the ‘friendliness’ of the Olympics is over?
I understand from Father’s last letters that he is working good hours and that his pay is up. Also, the mark has stabilised and their retirement account should be looking healthier.
Write to me as soon as you can. I would like to visit before I start my final year in 1938.
Your loving brother,
Friedrich
Brigitte’s reply is swift to arrive. Emma brings it in and wants me to read it out loud to her. I have no choice. I slit open the flap and read the letter with increasing consternation.
Dear Friedrich,
So wonderful to hear from you - Mother and Father never tell me anything, other than “Find a boyfriend and get married or you will end up old and lonely!”
If they are annoyed with me, they are very angry and disappointed with you. Mother has been stirring the pot by telling Father that you deliberately misled them about your specialisation in Holland. They made some enquiries and found out about the extra four years that you have to take in order to become a doctor.
You never know with them - tight-lipped and grumpy, as you know - but I am fairly certain that they feel betrayed, and that you relied on their financial and moral support and then decided to study and live overseas.
The situation in Germany is much better now: people are hopeful, there are many more jobs, and pride in Germany as a nation is back. Other than the fanatical Nazis nobody pays much attention to Hitler’s bombastic speeches. They are long, repetitive and boring. But they put up with him because nobody wants to be hungry and homeless again. And if it means that the Jews take the blame, so be it.
I wouldn’t dream of coming home with a Jew; Mother used to work for one and she and Father both blame his meanness for her arthritis. He was one of those bearded Jews with a black hat who run sweatshops.
It is best if you stay in Utrecht with your friend and only come home by yourself. If you stay for a few years Mother and Father will forgive you for your lies and the money you owe them; you are still their son and they love you, they are just upset and hurt. I am sure that you understand.
Bringing a Jewess home would not be welcome.
With love,
Brigitte
I sit, stunned and numb. I daren’t raise my eyes to Emma, who has been sitting next to me on the couch, lovingly stroking my hair, longing to hear warm and inviting words from home. Instead an icy cold descends on us. I feel her hand gradually withdraw, in tune with the letter, until she is seated as far back from me as the couch will allow. I steal a sideways glance at her: her expression is the same as mine, shocked and numb, but also deeply hurt. She is on the verge of crying.
I place the letter on the table, holding it by a corner as though it’s tainted, and wordlessly lean back on the couch. After a minute or so, Emma gets up and slips on her warm coat by the door and leaves the house. Not a word or a look has been exchanged between us.
I feel that I need to get up and stop her; say something. But I don’t know how to respond to these injurious and hurtful statements. I know that Brigitte is not malicious, which makes it all the more difficult for me to comprehend the insensitivity that is apparent in her letter. Is it impulsivity? Plain churlishness? Or just stupidity?
Even if she believes in what she is writing, it is not like Brigitte to be mean to anyone. She must see her comments as no more than offhanded and flippant. Like the one about the caretaker at school - “We couldn’t fit on the same bed together” - an oblique way to refer to his obesity. Brigitte is honest and direct. I can’t believe that she has fallen under Hitler’s spell; she is not that gullible. I instantly take heart from that realisation, reinforced by her reference to Hitler’s speeches: long, repetitive and boring. Similarly, she is merely being forthright about the status of the Jews in Germany.
I try to view this damaging episode in a different light: it is far better that it came in a letter and can be assimilated as such, than for Emma and me to be in Bremen and be assaulted verbally or physically, or even worse; sticks and stones and all that nonsense.
Of course, I am glossing over the lie that I told over two years ago: that I am half Jewish. Brigitte’s letter makes it abundantly clear that the only Jewish person my family know is the owner of the sweatshop where our mother worked. So that is something I must answer for - if I ever get the chance.
I look over anxiously at the dining table stacked with books: I need to review a medical text and take notes on cardiopulmonary disease, but in my current state of mind I can’t even focus on ingrowing toenails. So I get up and sit at the piano. I need a reflective and healing piece, and I dredge my mind for a composition. I come up with Monk’s ’Round Midnight.
I extend the piece by improvising for around thirty minutes, not realising that Emma has returned in the interim and sat down on the couch behind me. I am about to launch into another Monk composition when I hear her fidget.
I turn around slowly, not daring to face her: I am too ashamed and embarrassed. But I feel that I have to take the cue.
“Look, Emma, Brigitte makes flippant comments about everyone; there is nothing malicious in what she says.”
When I dare to look up, Emma is red in the face and her eyes are puffed. She has been crying.
“It is just her way of expression. We are very different in that way. What she says is true, about the situation in Germany; she is certainly not responsible for that.”
Silence.
“I will give you an example: at home, when I started to play jazz instead of classical music, I found a monkey mask on my pillow.”
I finally break the ice. Emma giggles at that.
“I mean, how childish and silly is that?”
The mood has altered, but Emma turns serious again. “Tell me about the obvious fabrication: you being half Jewish.”
I shake my head. I can’t explain such an unnecessary lie. All I can think to say is, “I wanted a simple and straightforward answer for being here. That came to mind as an obvious one.”
“Really? What, you thought you would be rejected by the university if you just said that you were a conscientious objector to Nazism? On the contrary, you would have been welcomed with open arms. We have many Germans, Jews and non, who are teaching and studying here because of the politics in Germany. You are not unique in that.”
“You are right. It was stupid.”
“Stupid is right. Good thing I never pushed it with my parents.”
I merely nod my head.
“I hope you didn’t think that telling me you were half Jewish would have made a difference with me. I liked you the instant I saw you lost by the signpost. And my family couldn’t care less: my father is not Jewish. We don’t care about those things.”
I remain silent for a moment, absorbing the obvious truth in what she is saying. “I can’t think of what to say, other than that I felt insecure.”
“Felt insecure?” Emma sits up, looking bewildered.
“I had never been out of Germany, other than for a short holiday to Austria. I wanted to fit in. I wanted you to like me.”
“So you lied to me?”
“Emma. This may come as a surprise to you, but I before you I had never even had a steady girlfriend. I left home at nineteen to study. Now I am going on twenty-six. That sums up my life, pretty much. I was trying to impress, I guess.”
I turn to look at the piano as though the answer is there. “’Round Midnight.”
She nods her head in appreciation. After a minute of silence, she says, “Friedrich, I am going to have to think about all this. We are a couple, yet your family can’t be part of our lives. It is something that I never considered.”
“I understand. But I also believe that Germany will change. My parents are not bad people. I have never heard them say anything malicious about anybody, let alone Jews, other than the snide remark about my mother’s boss. But I also heard my father call his factory manager a penny-pinching Bavarian slave driver, when they increased his hours and halved his pay. So I believe that the comment about Jews was made in the same vein.”
“Not the same.”
“Well, that’s because of the political backdrop. But if you ignore that, it’s just a comment that they—”
“But Friedrich, Liebchen, we can’t ignore the politics. It’s clear from your sister’s letter.”
“For now.”
“For now. That’s something that I have to come to grips with.”
I am back to being called Liebchen again. I take a deep breath and move from the piano to the dining room and delve into the textbooks.
“You are not just going to sweep all this under the carpet and get on with your studies, are you?”
I turn around apprehensively. “What more is there for me to say?
“Well, I would like you to take a stand. Write your sister and family a letter. Tell them about us: our life together, our reactions to your sister’s insensitive and hurtful comments. How we are planning to have a future together. And I want to see the reply, when it comes.”
THE MADNESS LOCKER Page 9
