STORIES, AFTER EIGHT

THE TRUTH OF WHO WE ARE

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out a shaky hand and taking a cigarette from the packet.

“Do you think saying you’re sorry is going to make it any better for me?”

She takes her coat off again and puts her purse back on the table; she lights her cigarette and looks at him. Her gaze is intense, and he can see tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. There’s not much she can say to change my mind.

“I had a brother. You knew that, didn’t you? I told you about him. He was in Munich with my mother? He was younger than me, but he was at the University. I know I told you about him. He was in the Hitler Youth—we were all in the Hitler Youth back then—except you, the wunderkind. He was a good German, though. He believed in the National Socialists…until he didn’t.”

“What do you mean, until he didn’t?”

“I seem to recall there was a time when you didn’t. Anyway, he wanted to be a doctor. A children’s doctor—he loved children—and he read for it at the University, in Munich. They sent him to the Front for further studies. To the Front? I mean, how convenient? He was assigned to a student’s company where they had periods of intense study behind the lines, and long periods of serving in military hospitals, at the Front. He never fought in any battles, he was just helping treat the wounded after they were brought in to the hospitals. He served in Serbia, Poland, and on the Russian Front, at Stalingrad.

“He used to write to me, and I could see he was changing. The War changed him as much as it changed all of us. But he was a likeable boy. He even made an effort to befriend Russian children; he said he wanted to help them. That went against all National Socialist doctrines—a breach of military rules, he was told. All the same, he said, he wanted to be a doctor. But Hitler demanded unconditional obedience from everyone — you remember how it was. The National Socialist system was never about the free growth of its people, it was more about the peoples’ submission to their political agenda. But that’s the true definition of a dictatorship, isn’t it?

“So he joined a Resistance group at the university.”

The waiter came out with two more espressos, smiling. He put them down on the table and while he did Annaliese sat silent, smoking her cigarette and blowing the smoke away. She looked at Martin as she stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray.

“When he was arrested, the Gestapo came to my door and I was taken in for questioning.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“Tell you what? That I was picked up because my brother was arrested? That I was questioned? Threatened?”

“Threatened? Why?”

“Because of you,” she said softly, and he watched a tear spill down her cheek.

“Me?” He was confused.

“You refused to join the Party. They were always suspicious of you for that. How can he be a good German, they said, if he doesn’t believe in the Party?”

“Why would the Staatspolizei be interested in me?”

“Did you ever know a man named Hermant Von Kornitz?”

Martin nodded. Of course he did. Von Kornitz had been his one-time rival for the piano tour with Richard Strauss before the War. Martin had beaten him out of the coveted spot, and Von Kornitz had never forgiven him. He’d forgotten about the man because his one memory of the trip was entering Frankfurt two days after Kristallnacht—two days after he and Dieter had indulged in each other for the first time—and they told him he was expected to play the piano at the rail yard, accompanying Hans Erl, the operatic Basso.

They’d asked Strauss, but he flat out refused.

“It’s a great honour,” he remembered telling the guard.

“There’s no honour in playing for a Jew,” the guard replied.

He remembered watching Jews being pushed into railcars; dogs were barking and snapping at them; children were crying; grown men weeping; the guards began beating the stragglers. There was a woman dragged out of the line and taken to a small hut where she was raped. He still remembered her screams. He looked at Erl. The man had tears streaming down his cheeks as he sang Mozart’s In Dessen Heilgen Hallen.

“Let me take you back to the hotel,” Martin said slowly, picking his hat up and placing it on his head at a rakish angle.

    *

Martin stood at the bar waiting for La Niña to finish pouring his beer. He was staring at Bijou who was dressed in his red velour suit again, his long blonde hair tied into a ponytail. He was sitting on a chair in the middle of the dance floor. There were chairs for La Niña, and two guests he invited. Bijou was playing with his walking stick though, rolling it in his hands and watching the light refract in the crystal knob, spreading a palette of colours across the floor in front of him. He watched Rudi reading the sheet music and then looked at Martin, and smiled. Martin nodded, waiting for La Niña to finish pouring a glass of white wine for Annaliese, who was sitting at a small table off to the side.

Martin picked the white wine up off the bar and placed it in front of Annaliese, putting his beer glass on the table at the same time. He turned and smiled at her, trying to encourage her as he approached the stage. He could feel Bijou looking at him—he could sense the man watching him as he approached the boy. He looked at his watch. Rudi was reading the sheet music one last time, trying to re-fold it at the same time.

“Are you almost ready?” Martin asked, kneeling beside the bench. The boy looked at him, startled. Martin smiled. He could see the boy was nervous, and he told himself he understood—he should be, he thought—but he reached out and took the score from him, folding the pages together properly and placing them on the music rack.

The boy nodded.

“Don’t be nervous. There’s no one here that’s going to judge you,” Martin said, trying to put the boy at ease.

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” Rudi asked.

“I’m here to assess you. There’s a difference,” Martin said, looking at the boy. “I’m here to determine how talented you are. By that, I mean, do you deserve a chance for further study?”

Martin saw Annaliese turn her head and look at him in shocked disbelief. Or was that what he was feeling?

“Is there a scholarship?” Bijou asked.

“It’s in Germany.”

“Isn’t it convenient that he lives there?”

“Isn’t it, though?” Martin replied. “Are you ready?” he asked Rudi.

The boy nodded again, and Martin pulled his watch out. He smiled.

“Begin.”

  *

There was a crowd of people gathered outside, near the window, their faces pressed up against the glass, trying to look inside. Martin looked at the crowd and slowly stood up, crossing the dance floor and walking to the front entrance. He knew he wouldn’t let them come in and watch, but he’d let them listen, he told himself. It was the best he could offer them under the circumstances.

He opened the door and stepped outside, looking at the small gathering of people standing in an awkward knot. They looked at him—some looking as if they’d been caught trespassing—and while one man walked toward him, the others walked away.

“I can’t let you in,” Martin said, standing in front of the door. “I’m willing to leave the door open a bit, and you can listen if you want. But that’s it. That’s the best I can do,” he said with a shrug.

“That’s not good enough. Tell me why can’t I come in?” the man in front of him said. “I won’t make any noise. I promise. Besides, I thought maybe I could take a picture of the kid?”

“Why do you want a picture of him?”

“I’m a Journalist. I work for Le Monde,” he said, as if the magazine’s name should be enough.
“How do you know it’s a kid?

“I looked through the god-damned window, is how I know he’s a kid. I mean look at him,” he added, looking at Rudi’s reflection in the oversized mirror. “He’s a kid—a child. The world loves reading about child prodigies. What’s he supposed to be, the new Mozart?”

“Why? Do you want to write a story about him?”

“Why not? It’s not everyday you get to see a kid playing something like this. How old is he?”

“Nine,” Martin said after a moment.

“Nine? And you don’t think there’s a story here?”

“He’s not French.”

“Do you think that matters when it comes to shit like this? Come on, I just need to take one or two pictures.”

Martin looked at the man, and nodded slowly.

“But I get final approval of what you write about him.”

“No way. I should be able to have complete freedom with what I want to write,” the man protested.

“Why? I told you, he’s nine. Do you think I want you writing something hurtful about him? Wait until you know his story. I either approve of it, or there’s no deal.”

“That seems fair enough. But still, if you don’t like what I write, that doesn’t give you the right to stop me from submitting it.”

“I don’t think you understood what I said—not exactly,” Martin smiled, turning around and walking back through the door.

“Wait!” the man called out. “Okay. All right. You get the final approval of whatever I write. If you don’t like it, I won’t submit it. You have my word.”

Photo by Tadas Mikuckis on Unsplash