3 Berlin 1938
Martin was making his way through the crowded salon, accepting ardent congratulations from admirers and fans alike—smiling, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and laughing—all the while thinking he needed to step outside and get a breath of fresh air. The air inside the salon was stale with cigarette smoke and perfume that had long since lost its allure; it was the smell of sweaty bodies pressed too close together, for far too long, he thought as he crossed the floor.
It had nothing to do with being ungrateful—he was more than grateful for everything he had—but sitting in front of the piano and pounding out Beethoven was exhausting. He’d be the first to tell you how much he enjoyed playing Beethoven, and Piano Concerto #5—The Emperor—more than any of the master’s other works. But even with that, it was exhausting, both mentally and physically, and it was always a challenge when there was an orchestra involved. He’d been playing for almost an hour—in fact, it was more than an hour because of the three Liszt rhapsodies he’d played by way of introduction—and his back was hurting, along with a hundred other muscles he didn’t know he had.
He’d been distracted tonight, and he knew it; he was almost certain it came through in his playing. Though he’d never admit it, he told himself it was the waiter he’d noticed watching him. The man had been leaning against the wall in the back of the salon, his ease and comfort out of sorts with everything around him. Martin could see how thin the man was; he found it a wonder the man could carry the tray of hors d’oeuvres he saw him hoisting above the crowd all night. He knew he should’ve been watching the maestro, and he did for the most part, but the waiter was positioned over the maestro’s left shoulder, and there was something about him that proved distracting.
He saw the waiter in the crowd ahead of him, and caught the man looking at him again, with that strange, somehow too-familiar smile, and he felt himself redden. The man laughed gently, turned away and disappeared into the mix of people. Martin looked for him, but the man was lost in a sea of black uniforms and silk dresses. For some unknown reason the man stood out from everyone else in the room. Maybe it was the mismatched colour of his eyes, or the slicked-back hair and pencil-thin moustache—or was it the movie star quality and handsome features, with his high cheekbones, chiselled jaw, and dimpled chin? He had to ask himself what it was about the man that had drawn his attention to him?
“Well, my boy!” Herr Beck exclaimed with a jovial laugh, the cigar he was smoking looking fat in his thin fingers. Beck was one of Germany’s most renowned conductors, as well as a composer of note. He’d been Martin’s teacher since Martin was a child; he was the man responsible for putting Martin on stage when he was only ten.
“Well done, as opposed to done well,” Beck added with another laugh.
Martin smiled as they embraced.
“It was too slow,” Martin said, accepting Beck’s criticism with a nod.
“Slower than we’d rehearsed, but I believe, were Louie Van here himself, he’d praise you for a masterful rendition, in spite of yourself—and you were masterful in spite of yourself.”
Beck had made a name for himself playing Mozart, Wagner, and Beethoven, as well as Liszt and Chopin, fifty years ago. He’d been—once upon a time—a favourite student of Liszt and a child prodigy himself. He’d been approached by Martin’s mother when the boy was only six years old, resulting in Martin becoming one of his favourite pupils.
Beck was also a noted companion of several high positioned politicos within the Party. Martin had little time for politics, or National Socialists, but had leapt at the chance to play under his former teacher’s gifted baton when asked. Beck’s interpretations of Beethoven and Schubert were ground-breaking; his gift for Wagner beyond compare. There were some among the Party who hoped Beck would one day replace Strauss as the greatest living German composer, although Martin thought it unlikely to happen.
“I told you, Beck, he has a touch for Beethoven,” a man said, coming in from behind Martin. Beck bowed his head slightly at the man’s approach, as Martin turned to face him.
“Herr Goering,” Beck beamed, “May I have the honour of introducing Martin Jakob?”
Martin held his hand out, well aware of the position Goering held in the newly established Reich. Goering shook his hand, beaming.
“Jakob? What kind of name is that? Is that German?”
“I was born in Bavaria.
“Masterful playing, wasn’t it?” Beck said. “A brilliant rendition. A touch slow, perhaps?”
“Nonsense!” Goering laughed, turning to look at Beck.
“Thank you, Herr Goering,” Martin replied, bowing his head slightly. Goering smiled, then looked about and turned away, greeting several of the officers standing about with their wives. He was soon joined by his own wife and the couple slowly disappeared into the crowd.
“That was a lot easier than I thought it would be,” Martin said, watching the man as he crossed the room.
“You really should consider joining the Party,” Beck said.
“You know I’m not political.”
“Being a party member has nothing to do with politics,” Beck laughed.
“It has everything to do with politics, and you know it.”
“There are sanctions that can be avoided.”
“And if I don’t agree with them?”
“How can you not?” Beck scoffed.
“How many Jews in your orchestra?”
“None,” he said, a note of pride in his voice.
“None?” Martin asked, shocked to hear it. “How’s that even possible? What about Schneidle?”
“What about him?”
“I know for a fact that he’s a Jew.”
“Which is why he’s no longer part of the band.”
“He was your Konzertmeister,” Martin was quick to point out.
“And now he’s not. He left and went to America.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“No?” Beck asked, looking about the salon, distracted. “I didn’t know you were so concerned about the inner workings of the band.”
“They told you to let him go, didn’t they?”
“Nobody tells me how I run the band. Furtwängler refused to join the Party, and they threatened to replace him—but that was an empty threat, wasn’t it? Schneidle left on his own.”
“You mean he was forced out?”
“No. I mean he left. His wife insisted they leave, actually. She has a sister in America. He’s now Konzertmeister in Philadelphia. I believe they call it First Chair in America?”
“And you agreed to it?”
“He was a Jew,” Beck said, turning briefly to look at him. “I need another drink,” he said.
“Another? You don’t even have one.”
“Well, I’d better get one then, hadn’t I?” he said, and walked away.
The city had changed over the years with Hitler’s sudden rise to power, and Martin wasn’t liking the changes he saw. It was something that was noticeable, palpable even, and as much as he loved the city and its people, this latest iteration of life in Berlin frightened him. He looked up at the red banners with their black, ugly swastikas on their white backgrounds, and they reminded him of Rome and the new Fascist state there. The flags and banners were everywhere. It was the same in Madrid. Even Vienna supported the National Socialists.
Martin liked to think he was as patriotic as the next man, and there was a sense of pride in how Germany had changed from a beaten country to one that now demanded respect on the world stage. There were a great many people who said it was a direct result of Hitler’s determination, and Martin could see that. A great part of the world was preaching National Socialism and praising Hitler for his harsh Draconian measures—Britain, France, Austria, even in America—but not as zealously as they were in Germany, and that was the part that frightened him. It seemed that Hitler was always reaching out and taking more—demanding more. He restricted urban life for the Jews; confiscated property, seized bank accounts, and blamed the Jews for all the troubles in the world. The world had fallen into economic chaos and needed a scape-goat. Who better than the Jews? They’d been vilified and persecuted for almost two thousand years.
A large part of the nation’s intelligentsia were saying the country was heading into another war; they were blaming Hitler’s need for expansion—now he was looking at Poland—and Martin knew that any war would draw him in, just as the Great War had taken his father away from him. Hitler was adamant though, determined to share with the people his idea of a one thousand year Reich. He’d promised to take back all the land that was lost after The Great War. His policy was simple: he refused to do what the League of Nations demanded, and watched as the world backed down. The country was re-arming. Martin was convinced that either France or Britain would be forced to call the Little Tramp’s bluff, but so far, no one country would stand up to him.
THE TRUTH OF WHO WE ARE