Butterfly and the Violin (9781401690601)

by Cambron, Kristy

  Chocolate.

  It was the first thing Adele noticed when she was led into the party room—chocolates stacked in elegant mini towers that dotted the length of the grand banquet table.

  There were baskets of crusty breads and honeyed pastries. And fruit! She counted several bowls of fresh blueberries and great stacks of apples and pears. Adele couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen such delicacies, or had tasted anything but tepid soup made from turnips and horribly bitter grass. And the intoxicating scent of oranges—it filled her nostrils as if it were the finest incense, the sweet smell of citrus nectar torturing her aching stomach with each intake of breath.

  What did oranges taste like now?

  Both she and Omara had been ushered by automobile to Solahütte, the SS recreation center mere miles away from Auschwitz. It was nestled in a grove of trees along the river, with air fresh and decidedly unpolluted by the stench of filth and vermin they’d become used to. Adele had asked Omara where they were going. It was less from fear and more from sincere curiosity, as she knew they’d not have taken the time to dress her up for a date with death. Omara had answered that they were being taken to a retreat of sorts, the place SS guards who had exhibited meritorious service were gifted with earned days of rest and relaxation. There the men and women would lounge along the river, as evidenced by the rows of deck chairs she saw overlooking the tranquil scene. And they attended jovial parties apparently, as she saw when they were ushered into a large banquet room with abundant trays of food overflowing on nearly every surface.

  Omara had cautioned her that this excursion was not a privilege. It was an order, another performance and nothing more. She’d been noticed by several of the SS guards, and when one recognized the young musical prize of Austria, he’d told his superiors that their next party should be graced with her presence. All of this Omara had whispered to her on the drive to the resort. She was not to speak to the guests. She was to play, proficiently, of course, and that would be it. They would play and then return to the camp.

  There would be no discussion, no diversion from this. No food or offer of luxuries extended from the SS. And the guards who drove the car made it quite clear that any attempt at escape by either of them would result in both being shot. This Adele didn’t question or take lightly. If they took the time to caution of it, death was not a threat but a certainty.

  Adele sat in the crowded hall, staring at the hordes of food.

  Her hands clutched the violin as they awaited the order to begin playing. Omara had been given the chair beside her and she too appeared to be waiting for the instruction to begin. But while Adele was awed by the opulence of the party scene, Omara’s constitution was quite different. She appeared to be seething. Her usually soft features were pinched into bitter lines that made her look a decade older than she was. Her eyes were squeezed until they were almost closed, the acrimony all too evident as she looked around at the smiling young guards mingling with the female members of the SS.

  She couldn’t believe that the usually controlled Omara could be so obvious with her display of hatred toward them. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  “Yes.” Omara looked away from the partygoers in seeming disgust. She adjusted the cello in her arms.

  “They said we were waiting for two more musicians from the other camp,” Adele said, looking around at the bustling scene. “But should we not begin? And perhaps play a duet until the other members arrive?”

  When the older woman didn’t answer, Adele prompted again. It was strange. Omara was showing some genuine depth of emotion she’d not given a hint of in the months that Adele had known her.

  “Omara?” She leaned in to her friend, urging her to do something other than glare at the scene with abhorrence. “Shall we play? Bach, perhaps? Beethoven’s Fifth?”

  Omara shook her head.

  “Or one of the German marches? They favor them when they are played at the gates each day. A march is fitting for a party,” she whispered.

  It was true. Though Adele couldn’t say she recognized any of the guards at this particular party, she did know that the guards at Birkenau seemed to enjoy the jovial marches.

  “Omara?” She still hadn’t answered. “The Arbeitslager marsch perhaps? It is one of their favorites and seems more upbeat.”

  “No.”

  The word held such ferocity that Adele was taken aback.

  What was wrong with Omara? Could she play? Oh, heaven help them if she couldn’t. Adele’s fear had abated when Omara was so steady, so strong in helping her prepare for the party. But now? The uncharacteristic behavior the woman displayed made her fear return in haste.

  “I think we should play something.” Adele whispered the words through somewhat pursed lips. She looked around, noticing that some of the uniformed partygoers had now turned their attention toward them.

  Some whispered.

  One or two shouted, “Play!” with hands cupped around their mouths. All seemed irritated that their musical talent was pretending to be statues rather than doing what they’d been brought in to do. She pictured guns being drawn from belts and felt goose bumps cover the length of her arms in response.

  “Omara, they are staring at us. Shall we not pick something?”

  “Do you know the Handel-Halvorsen Passacaglia?”

  Adele’s head snapped back to look at her friend. “Yes,” she said, surprise fluttering at her heart. “But it’s an incredibly ambitious piece of music for a duet, especially for a violin and cello.” In truth, she doubted her dulled mind and woefully tired arms could keep pace with such an involved piece.

  What was Omara thinking?

  “Is there nothing else?” she urged. “Something less involved, perhaps? A march or a popular ballad?”

  Omara ignored Adele’s obvious attempt at placation.

  “Do you know your part well enough to play it without sheet music?”

  She could have lied and said she didn’t know it. It was a challenging piece, to be sure. But something told her to take direction and go along with it.

  Nodding, she said, “Yes. I do.”

  “Good,” Omara said, and raised her bow. “On the four count.”

  With both of them at attention, Omara counted them off.

  On her cue, their instruments cried out the first notes in unison. The music began with a rush of energy, with their bows soaring over the strings as if they’d light the roof on fire. And soon, heads began to turn. Adele could gather that much. Though she focused on the music and only had a sense that eyes were perhaps turning in their direction, the bustle of the room had died down considerably and all that she heard was the sweet sound of resin and string dancing out on the air.

  They played the entire piece of music, alive and triumphant as it was, until nearly every guest was sneering at the unbelievable sight of two worthless prisoners playing such angelic music.

  Adele saw them out of the corner of her eye, for she didn’t play as she usually would. She wasn’t lost in the magic of the moment, refused to allow the music to carry her away. No, this was playing of a much emptier, more formulaic kind. She played only at the bare minimum of her abilities, with eyes open, sure that God would curse the use of her gift for such an audience. What’s more, Omara’s strange behavior had caused her to take much more of the stand-up role in their present circumstances. She felt that under some sort of weight, Omara’s usually solid resolve to survive was cracking.

  Perhaps being forced to play for such a group had been the last straw.

  The last note carried off the end of her bow and she stopped, almost breathless, and looked around at the scores of eyes staring solidly at her. What was surprising was the look on each face. None carried the slightest hint of derision. Instead, the faces of the uniformed men and women around her seemed . . . impressed?

  The silence broke into riotous cheering then, with shouts of exclamation coming from their audience. Adele refused to be caught up in the moment. She didn’t
care what any of these people thought of her playing. She was almost void of any emotion. But Omara? Adele looked at her friend to find that she still seethed. She seemed sickened by the show of approval from the Germans, repulsed that they could find anything of beauty in the same people who had been treated like dogs during the camp’s daytime hours.

  “Shall we play another?” Adele whispered, now looking around for the two other members of the Auschwitz orchestra who were supposed to join and make them a quartet.

  They never arrived.

  Adele and Omara played several more selections, all upbeat, patriotic tunes for the half-drunk revelers. It was deep into the night, and the first light of a new day would soon be upon them. As the party was thinning out, they were given the orders to pack their instruments and leave.

  Omara went to talk to their accompanying guards and driver, to arrange for the ride back to the camp, leaving her quite alone in the banquet room. She felt relieved that there were few partygoers left. But the fact that she was the only prisoner there, one who had been plucked and primped to look like a normal musician, made her feel exposed.

  She turned her back to the rest of the room and began a methodical gathering up of their instruments so that she could appear occupied and they could depart the instant Omara returned. She moved with great care, hoping it would take every second until her friend was back at her side.

  “I remember you.” She heard a young man’s voice from behind.

  Adele turned, heart thumping. She kept her eyes down, as was expected, but she had no wish to speak to him. She inclined her head, hoping that would placate him.

  It did not.

  “You are Adele Von Bron, are you not? The famous violinist from Vienna?”

  It had been ages since she’d heard her entire name, since she’d been more than a number on a page . . . How would she answer? Again, she nodded, not wishing to carry on a conversation with anyone.

  Omara had warned her long ago, “Become invisible if you wish to survive. Make them forget that you’ve ever existed.”

  That advice was a far cry from a young German SS officer saying her name aloud.

  “Is that your name?”

  She gave an automatic nod and out of fear mumbled, “Yes.”

  “I knew it. I heard you play in Berlin more than two years ago. You were with a traveling troupe, were you not? You were fantastic! I still remember how the crowd called you back for an encore.”

  Adele thought back to the memory of two years ago.

  She’d traveled through Germany on a goodwill tour, some months after the war had begun. It seemed like forever ago now, and that young girl traveling with her mother was someone else entirely.

  “Yes. I played in Berlin.”

  He shook his head, his eyes perhaps clouded with drink, and gave her a dopey smile. “I knew they’d call you here. When I said that the famous Viennese violinist was here at Auschwitz, they fairly lost their lunch. And I knew you’d turn up at one of the parties.” He laughed. Actually laughed as he was talking to her!

  Something about his manner of speaking seemed light, as if they were both guests at a party and he was planning his best pickup line. Was it even possible? She had a hard time not allowing the disgust to show on her face, like Omara had for the majority of the evening.

  Thinking to get as far away from any familiarity as possible, she tried to turn around. He caught her at the elbow and on instinct she jerked back, almost like a fawn being chased by a hunter. She’d pulled her violin case up between them as a sort of sad leather shield.

  “I’m not . . . ,” he said, seeming taken aback by the swiftness of her reaction. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Had she just apologized to a Nazi?

  Adele’s tongue felt like it was swelling in her mouth. God help her, she hated that the manners of her mother had been so ingrained on her sense of propriety that she’d actually apologize to the next person who might end her life. Or Omara’s. Or any of the girls in the orchestra.

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re in this mess,” he said, looking around. “You’re a Christian, aren’t you? It’s obvious you’re not one of them. You don’t deserve this. Don’t belong here with the rest of them.”

  The words cut through her ears like a hot knife through butter.

  Because she was Austrian, and a Christian, she had some value in their eyes. Little, perhaps, because she was a prisoner. But there was no doubt that he thought the Jews far beneath everyone else.

  He turned and glanced at the picked-over buffet. “I was going to offer you something to eat.”

  The chocolate towers had been toppled, the fruit scattered, and the pastries consumed, but nevertheless, it was a feast of kings that lay spread before her eyes. He took a porcelain plate from the stack by the buffet and held it out to her.

  “Please. Take some. It’ll just get tossed in the waste bin if you don’t.”

  Adele had no idea what to do. Her hand would not move. She stood, still as a statue, staring at the plate in his hands.

  “We must go now.” Omara sailed in and took her by the hand, tugging her along.

  Adele tucked the violin case under her arm, and with Omara taking the lead, they were quickly ushered toward the door. She hadn’t a moment to attempt to say good-bye to the officer, much to her relief. The last thing she wanted was familiarity with any of them, especially if they were guards she’d have to see issue a beating to a prisoner the very next day.

  Omara was practically dragging her along. Adele followed, half frightened but half relieved to be going back to the music block. She’d not have any sleep before work commenced the next day, but no matter. It was better than being forced to hobnob with the SS. To smell their oranges and be forced to look at their towering stacks of chocolate . . .

  “Wait!”

  Adele heard the young man’s voice behind them and all at once felt terrified again. Would he force her to come back and play for them again? Would he see that she thought him a monster? Was the revulsion showing all over her face? All of these things sailed through her mind before she realized that he’d not said another word. Instead, something was slipped in her hand. She turned and saw that his face held a look of interest.

  Adele peeled back the napkin in her hand to reveal a generous handful of blueberries he’d gathered up.

  “For you. To say thank you for playing for us,” he said, and stood in the doorway, watching as Omara tugged her toward the waiting car.

  She was shoved in the backseat alongside Omara and their instruments were loaded in with them, tossed in on top of them without care.

  “What was that?” Omara asked, eyeing the young SS officer still lingering in the glow of light from the retreat center doorway.

  “Nothing,” she said, hiding the napkin full of blueberries down at her side. “He was just telling me where I belonged.”

  “Which was?”

  Adele looked her friend straight in the eyes. “Not here, that’s for sure.”

  The duet she and Omara played had felt like an anthem for life. They hadn’t perished. The music had sustained the gift of breath in their lungs for another day. And whether Jew or Christian, Adele was one of them, the prisoners, a part of the orchestra that had become her family. That was something the young SS officer could never understand.

  “They’ll try to make you their pet, now that they know the famous violinist is here.”

  “I don’t want any part of it,” Adele whispered, feeling weighed down by the burden of the barbed wire fences they’d soon enter again. She hated the glimpse of freedom they’d had at the party and now, with the world falling down around them, they were forced back into captivity.

  As for the other gift she held in her hand, Adele felt it was an anthem for life in another form. Before the guards joined them in the car, she cracked the window and tossed the napkin out into the darkness.

  Whether the blueberries landed
in the ditch or not, she didn’t care. She didn’t think of the fruit again once the car was speeding down the road to deliver them back to their barbed wire cage.

  “Where have you been?” Marta’s voice was shaky and she nearly tackled them when they returned to the block with the dawn spilling over the horizon. “We thought . . . when we didn’t know where you were . . .”

  She hugged Omara round the neck. Fränze trailed behind Marta and hugged Adele.

  “Girls. We are well.”

  Adele heard Omara’s words, but her behavior didn’t speak of anything close to being well. She doubted the woman who stood before them, though she was once again composed.

  “Go now. Hurry to play,” Omara said, releasing Marta with a soft pat to the cheek. “Adele and I will join you shortly. We must change.”

  The girls had noticed the wispy chiffon dress she wore, and now Fränze, the youngest and sweetest of the group, looked puzzled. Marta too seemed confused, but her means of coping was always to bristle first, apologize later.

  “Did you have a date with the Führer, Adele?”

  Before she could respond, Omara stepped in between Adele and the other girls. She eyed them with a stern glare, the intensity ushering them outside without the necessity of words. When they were alone, Adele finally exhaled. The words had been cutting, especially after the night she’d been through. But to lash out at Marta in return—what good would it do?

  She turned from the door and began focusing on the task at hand—once again, to play.

  Though she’d had no sleep, was aching in her limbs and exhausted in spirit, she had to mentally prepare herself to be strong through another day of playing. She said a quick prayer as she began stripping out of the party dress.

  “What happened back there?” Adele persisted, though Omara did not appear the least bit inclined to explain her odd behavior at the party. She pulled the chiffon dress over her head and, still whispering, carefully laid it on the side of the plank bed. “You seemed so much more than angry.”