Martin had first arrived in Paris in the spring of 1952; his dreams of reviving the career he’d once had before the War, failing to amount to anything. He found himself working in Berlin as a translator after the War, for the ICD—the Information Control Division of the OMGUS, which was the Office of Military Government, United States. The Americans were fond of their acronyms, he’d been quick to discover. The ICD was focused primarily on controlling and altering all German media in an effort to promote democratic values and move Germany away from National Socialism. It was a pipe dream as far as Martin was concerned, but it was a job.
The overall problem was that almost ten percent of the population had once been card-carrying members of the National Socialist Party. The other problem was that the tenets of National Socialism had worked its way into the nation’s Industries over the last fifteen years. But those industries that once produced weapons of destruction, had relied almost substantially on slave labour. Now, they had to rely on a predominantly defeated population to serve as their labour force.
The work of translating had proven itself to be a gruelling task. There were not enough translators for one thing, and not enough hours in the day even if there had been. The American hopes of weeding out National Socialists who had somehow slipped through the network had proven itself impractical. Maybe if the Russians hadn’t insisted the Germans living in their sector become indoctrinated under the Soviet regime, things would’ve been different? He doubted it. Martin could see there was a growing distrust between the two governments, and their policies would soon be a problem that prevented both countries from moving forward.
He was dismissed from his translating job in 1951, a short time after several laws had been passed ending the so-called ‘denazification’ program the Allies were convinced was the way to go five years ago. The laws were passed because the Americans were more concerned with weeding out possible Communist sympathizers than they were with finding National Socialists. Martin was forced to move back home to help his mother care for Annaliese and Rudi, the baby. He was able to buy food because of the money the Americans paid him, as well as finding help for Annaliese, who slowly climbed her way out of the pit of despair she’d been cast into. He was even able to find a piano he had refurbished and was soon playing.
There was no work for him in Berlin as a pianist. The few radio stations that chose to play a Classical repertoire wanted him to introduce gramophone selections, not play them. Because of his time working for the Americans, he was able to find work with a media company, but the pay was less than poor.
When he was at home, Martin often found himself in Rudi’s company. At five years old, the boy was well spoken, well-mannered, and eager to please Oma, which is what he called Martin’s mother. He often climbed up onto the bench while Martin played though, anxious to reach out and touch the keys.
“Will you teach me to play, Uncle?” the boy asked one day.
“Do you want to learn?”
“Oh, very much, Uncle,” the boy said with a pleasing smile, making it impossible for Martin to say no.
“Alright then, I’ll teach you,” he said. “Put your hands here, like this. Spread your fingers out as far as you can. Wide…wider!”
“Like this,” the boy said with a confident nod.
“Yes,” Martin smiled, then standing up, he found a pillow for the boy to sit on; he pushed the piano bench closer. “I want to see how far your fingers can reach. It may take a few years before you reach the pedals—”
“Can you teach me this?” he asked, and a moment later played the opening bars of Fur Elise.
“Where did you learn that?” Martin asked, standing behind him with his hands still on the boy’s shoulders, thinking this was how his mother must have felt the first time she’d heard him play the piano.
“I’ve been watching you,” Rudi smiled.
“What are you doing?” Annaliese asked, coming into the old dining room. She pushed Martin aside and picked Rudi up off the bench, setting him down in front of her.
“Go.”
“But I want to play the piano,” the boy cried.
“I said go! Oma’s in the garden and she needs your help.”
Martin waited until Rudi was outside before he sat down on the bench and turned his attention to Annaliese. She was looking at him with an uncomprimising stare that defied understanding. Martin picked at a four key sequence, C, D, E, F, slowly, with two fingers. He stopped tickling the notes when he noticed her shadow still standing in front of him. He looked up at her. She was as beautiful as he remembered her from all those years ago, and about as spiteful.
She’d found a position in a publishing house near the Russian sector where she worked five days a week for little pay. Her long blonde hair had been cut short—as short as that British actress he’d seen in some American film with Gregory Peck, taking place in Rome. The curls that once flounced over her shoulders, were gone. She wore thick, dark-framed glasses that highlighted the blue of her eyes. She wore a touch of rouge, and a light application of mascara, while her lips were a dark ruby red.
“What’s wrong, Anna?” he said at last.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice as taut as her body. “You were practically breathing down his neck. I don’t want you near him when I’m not here.”
“I’m sorry. What was that?” he asked.
“I want you to stay away from Rudi, when I’m not here, ”
“What? Why? First of all, why would you even say something like that?” He stopped playing with the two keys, placing his hands in his lap and waiting for her to speak.
“What if he gets the same sickness you have?” she said at last.
“The same sickness?”
“Yes! Sickness! That’s what it is,” she hissed. “It isn’t natural.”
“Who says it isn’t?”
“Martin, please. Whatever it is you think made you this way, I don’t want Rudi getting it.”
“I don’t think it’s something you get—it’s not like a cold, or the flu,” Martin said.
“I don’t care what it is! I’m his mother, and that’s what I want.”
“He wants to learn how to play the piano,” Martin said. “You heard him playing. I didn’t show him that. He said he learned it by watching me. He’s a natural, Annaliese. It’s the perfect time for him to learn. Are you going to tell him he can’t play because you’re afraid he might—what? Get sick? How do you plan to tell him that? He’s only five.”
“You can teach him to play if that’s what he wants. But only when I’m here. Otherwise, I want you to stay away from him.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“Unreasonable? Tell me how I’m I being unreasonable? He’s my son!”
“Yes, he is,” Martin said, turning his attention back to the piano and playing the same four note combination again.
Three months later, Martin was on a train, headed for Paris.
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