“You’re still a National Socialist on paper, aren’t you?”
“What of it?”
“They say you won’t denounce the Party. I don’t understand. Why?”
“What is there for you to understand? As long as I’m considered a National Socialist, I’ll be punished as such. As a nation, we need to be punished; as a people, we need to be made aware. That’s why there’s no forgiving us for what we did. None. The world will never forget what we did here. All of our past glory will be condemned because of what we did. No one will ever listen to our beloved Beethoven without thinking of what we did here. Fifty years from now? A hundred years? They’ll still revile the name National Socialist. The Swastika will be a reminder of how far humanity sank into the mire.”
“But what about your legacy?”
“My legacy?” he laughed. “I’m a German composer—that’s my legacy—or it should be. But I’ve ruined it, haven’t I? I was a student of Liszt once. The greatest gift he passed on to me, was the weihekuss—given to him by Beethoven, no less. How can I claim to have held such a gift now? When people look at me, or hear my name, they won’t think of me as a composer, they’ll see me as a National Socialist. I don’t deserve any of the accolades given to me by anyone — not if I’m to be judged by those standards.”
“Who’s judging you? You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Am I? I wonder if you’d still think that if you knew everything I did?”
“About what?
“How about what happened?” Beck asked.
“To who? Me? You know nothing of that.”
“I know more than you think.”
Martin was silent for a moment, staring at the flames. He leaned down and picked up a piece of wood, tossing it on the fire. The flames choked, the embers disappearing up the chimney with a fury as the flames enveloped the wood. He looked at Beck who was watching him over the top of his whiskey glass.
“Did you force yourself on her?” Martin asked.
“Who?”
“My mother.”
“Why would you think that?”
Martin straightened up and looked at the bleak surroundings of the place. Most of the wall panels had been pulled down, leaving the walls naked and exposed, as well as some of the floorboards. The chandelier in the middle of the ceiling looked as if it had been shot at. There were bullet holes in the ceiling.
He turned and looked at Beck again.
“It strikes me as strange, now that I think about it.”
“Think about what?”
“My father died in the Great War. The pension my mother received was barely enough for us to live on. And yet, she could afford to hire you as my teacher?”
“And what strikes you as strange about that?”
Martin shook his head and turned away, looking back at the fire and embracing its warmth.
“The answer is yes,” Beck said into the silence. “Not that I forced myself on her, God no, but everything else you’re thinking.”
“I didn’t tell you what I was thinking,” Martin replied, turning to look at him.
“You didn’t have to. You wanted to know if your mother was sleeping with me. So I told you.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to know,” Martin said angrily.
“My wife had been dead for some years. Your mother was young, vibrant, attractive, and a widow. It wasn’t some sordid affair where I made her do things against her will. We were two lonely people who needed each other.”
“Did you love her?”
“Love her? What’s love have to do with it?”
“Everything.”
“I was already sixty years old and set in my ways. Your mother? She was only thirty-five—maybe even younger. Who knows? Women sometimes lie about their age. I would never embarrass her by parading her around in public like a common strumpet; she deserved better than that. I would take her out to dinner, or to the theatre, but for the most part, I travelled. I was still conducting. I took you on as my student because you were an amazing talent. A talent like yours comes along once in a person’s life. You were on stage by the time you were ten. That doesn’t happen every day.”
“My life wasn’t mine though, was it?”
“What do you mean?”
“As you say, I was ten. I had no friends who were not adults. Let me put it this way. I was never their friend, was I? The adults, I mean? They…what’s the word I’m looking for? They never really accepted me. They tolerated me, but only because of my talent.”
“The world was a different place then.”
“Everything was different then,” Martin corrected him.
“The world is always changing. Evolving.”
“Which brings us to the elephant in the room, doesn’t it?”
“Which is what?” Beck asked, looking over his tumbler again.
“Me.”
“You?” He looked perplexed.
“I want to perform again.”
“That will never happen,” Beck said, shaking his head.
“Why not?”
“The rest of the world may not know what you are, but yours was a different world. Musicians, are different. And those people will never forget what you are.”
“And what am I?”
“You’ve been branded — tattooed,” he corrected himself. “No one wants to work with — I can’t even bring myself to say it.”
“I think homo is what you’re trying to say,” Martin said. “And by saying that, do you mean yourself? Are you telling me that you won’t help me?”
“You know my stance on this.”
“My mother thinks you reported me to the Staatspolizei,” Martin said, changing the course of the conversation.
“Of course she does. What other option does she have?”
Martin shook his head. “No. She could’ve said anyone else. But she’s convinced.”
“And you? What do you believe? Do you agree with her? Do you blame me as well?”
He shook his head. “No. I know who it was.”
“You do? Who?”
“It’s not hard to see when the woman you promised to marry is upset,” Martin said.
“Annaliese?”
Martin nodded.
“That day she slapped you?” Beck added, nodding thoughtfully.
“Who else?”
“You have to have proof! You can’t just come in here and say you think the woman you loved more than anyone else, betrayed you.”
“Proof? Isn’t it enough that I know?”
“She deserves that much, don’t you think?”
“What makes you think I’d ever confront her for what she did? Don’t you think she’s suffered enough? We both have. What do I gain by reaching out and hurting her, just to spite her? If that’s what you think of me, you don’t really know me, do you?”
THE TRUTH OF WHO WE ARE