A Peaceful Summer

‘Helmut, please,’ Frank mumbled, already out of breath. ‘If we don’t play something here and now, I’ll drop dead.’

‘Something? I’ve been making a list of the things we must play,’ Helmut waved a piece of paper like a signal flag and crushed it in his fist. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Because we must play everything.’

He still didn’t see – or didn’t want to see – Frank’s bruised hands with broken nails, his haggard face, and unhealthy thinness. He appeared to remain endlessly unaware of his shuffling step and ill-fitting clothes; his perfect ear was deaf to an occasional tremor in Frank’s voice or hoarseness in his breathing. As it was usual with Helmut, it was hard to tell whether he was demonstrating concern or its complete absence, but Frank was infinitely grateful for whatever it was. The last thing he wanted was to talk about his ordeals and wallow in his sorrows.

When they entered the library, Helmut quickly closed the doubled doors behind them and slid an old telephone receiver through the handles – a habitual precaution by the look of it. ‘To ensure privacy,’ he explained. ‘My family tends to think this is some kind of concert hall and they can come here at will…’

Frank stared at the gleaming shape of the violin lying in its open case.

‘No, not right now,’ he said, starting to feel panicky. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to hear me play. Not today. Perhaps we could…’

Helmut cut short his stammering excuses:

‘Just go ahead, Frank. You never know with my mother. She might send you back to the camp first thing tomorrow morning.’

That was convincing enough. Frank picked up the light body of the instrument and passed the bow across the strings. The sound, to his tearful relief, came out clean and forgiving. ‘The violin… It’s perfect…’ he said. ‘Helmut, thank you… Thank you…’ The words quivered as they came from his constricted throat; he blushed and smiled, clearly embarrassed at how overwhelmed he felt. Helmut went on with his forthright, no-nonsense strategy: he nodded, barely acknowledging Frank’s expressions of gratitude and attacked his own warm-up routine with iron-hard confidence.

Frank hesitated another moment and tucked the violin under his chin again. The plain sound of exercising quickly did its work and brought order into the world. It felt like waking up on rocks after surviving a shipwreck: his body was bruised, his soul was shattered, but there was life to be lived and work to be done…

He quickly sorted through the sheet music that Helmut had prepared and picked Mozart’s Violin Sonata in F Major, K 547, the most obvious and merciful choice. The decorous, mellow discourse between the piano and the violin developed smoothly, like breathing, and the notes glittered like tiny gems, lining the path to the most refined ends of expression that no words could ever reach. What a wonderfully aching feeling it was, what a delightful walk home through the enchanted forest of Mozart’s music. It was an absolute, primal peace that had never known turmoil, or suffering. Liszt’s language, on the other hand, was the language of revelation: it voiced human emotions and disturbed Frank’s memories, inviting him to release his painful experiences musically.

Together they chose Liszt’s Consolation No. 3, arranged for piano and violin. First Helmut played the original version for piano solo, and he played it exactly the way Frank liked it played. The piano sang, pleaded, whispered – the lyrical nuances and confessional intonations were breathtaking. Their first attempt at playing the duet was also decidedly successful. Frank didn’t have much time to dwell on what was happening. Perhaps the very fact that he had been out of practice for a long time was deeply meaningful in the context of that piece: the piano, in every sense of the word, accompanied the diffident voice of the violin, wrapped the sorrows with its soothing flow, and carried them to the moonlit bay of peace and tranquillity.

The telephone receiver rattled in the restraints of the door handles: ‘Helmut, darling, dinner’s ready.’

Frank came back to reality with a shudder. It was already evening.

‘We’re busy,’ Helmut snapped.

‘Darling, you haven’t eaten today yet… And your father wants to see you.’

‘Tell him I’m busy,’ Helmut shouted again and then rose impatiently. ‘What the hell, I’ll go and talk to him.’

‘I… I’d like to thank your father in person… For the violin… For everything…’

‘Don’t bother. You don’t owe him anything. I just wonder what he has to say… We need a break anyway. You must be starving.’

They didn’t play after dinner. The magic simply wasn’t there anymore. After talking to his father Helmut was in the right mood for committing a murder.

‘Is it because of me?’ Frank asked.

‘Oh, no, never mind. It’s the same farce every day.’

He threw himself on the sofa and covered his face with a cushion.

‘Shall I close the curtains?’

‘No… But I wouldn’t mind some jazz.’

Frank sat down at the piano and after some thinking played a jazz improvisation of Consolation.

The evening light gilded the furniture, the piano, the carpet, accentuated the shadows, and gave the place the mysterious air of tastefully arranged theatrical scenery. Frank realized with a jolt of surprise that even though he had spent most of the day in the room, he hadn’t really seen it yet. He looked around curiously. Taking advantage of the asymmetry of the house, the library was a brighter, happier, and more spacious sister of the dining room. He liked the old-fashioned bookcases soaring to the ceiling, the semicircle of large French windows that let in plenty of light… Helmut explained that the books had been left by the previous owner, nobody in the family read them: Doctor Krauss had his own book collection, Helmut still felt more comfortable reading in English, Frau Krauss preferred magazines… She had even been planning to refurbish the library and convert it into an art studio. As soon as Helmut heard about it, he installed his piano there and claimed the territory for himself.

‘It’s a nice room,’ Frank said quietly.

Helmut’s voice droned through the cushion:

‘You should have seen the music room in Lady Agatha’s house.’

‘Do you miss your life in England?’

‘Missing is a useless feeling.’

‘Why did you come back to Germany?’

‘And why do you think?’ Helmut sat up. ‘I only have my mother to thank for everything… A friend of hers, a journalist, was involved in some sort of campaign aimed at luring German expatriates back to Germany. She somehow talked him into writing about me. Together they made up a story about how unfairly I was treated by the British public. The article made it sound like was being ‘pushed aside, overlooked, and underrated’ because of my German origin…’

‘Did your mother really do that?’

‘It’s a war, Frank. A never-ending war between me and my mother. She doesn’t even care about music, the man who wrote about me had never heard me play… Apparently he just read a few critical articles my mother had cut out of English newspapers.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘I’d only just started and the reviews were generally positive. But I also had a rival – who doesn’t? Howard was older, bolder, and the critics enjoyed arguing about him… My mother’s friend bathed him in so much dirt that the stench immediately reached London.’

‘It wasn’t your fault. You had nothing to do with that publication.’

‘Nobody said I did. But Howard died of tuberculosis shortly afterwards. And things started to look and feel different.’

‘It was a coincidence.’

‘It certainly didn’t feel like one. As if I were partly to blame… People just wouldn’t forget that stupid article.’

Politically, things were developing faster than he could follow. One day he simply realized that he had grown and so had the relative weight of the fact that he was German.

‘The Auldridges supported me of course, every step of the way. My uncle kept telling me not to worry… I thought it was time to move on, that’s all. And it was an easy decision to make because I had no intention of staying in Germany anyway.’

‘You don’t have to. You should go to America as soon as you get your visa. I’ll be all right.’

‘Of course you will. I’ll find a lawyer to look into your case. Surely something can be done. It’s going to take time and effort.’

‘You have no idea, child,’ Frank said warily.

He was longing for Consolation with all his being, he wanted to play. Instead he had to listen to Helmut’s daring plans verging on fantasy. ‘It’s important not to rush things… We’ll have to seek legal help first… And then you’ll need to get a visa. Difficult but not impossible… We’ll contact your friends living in America…’ He talked and talked – well into the late evening. There was one thing Frau Krauss was right about: Helmut was a stranger in his own country. Too young to see things as they really were, too impatient to listen. ‘He doesn’t understand that our paths have crossed only to separate again, perhaps forever. We have no time to waste. How am I supposed to explain that to him? We must play every day, every minute, play everything we haven’t played over the past seven years, everything we’ll never have another chance to play.’

Frank’s eyes roamed around the room and kept returning to the piano; the remnants of liquid of gold poured by the setting sun were quickly melting on its black surface. He listened for the sounds coming from outside the library. The house hadn’t gone to sleep yet, it wasn’t too late to play.

‘Frank! Are you even paying attention to me?’

‘Of course,’ Frank nodded. ‘Of course. I’m listening…’

It wasn’t just the futility of Helmut’s plans. Frank gradually gave in to the feeling he had had the previous day: grown Helmut was the final proof of the irreversibility of time. Nothing could bring together the pieces of the life Frank used to have – his childhood and adolescent years spent in Leipzig, the years that had forever defined happiness for him. Nothing can turn back time. ‘Except for music. Music can bring back memories. This boy has changed beyond recognition, but the formula of his musicality is the same – the formula of life potion… The memories he stirred earlier today when he was playing Mozart… What was it if not a miracle? It felt like being at home again, I caught a whiff of my mother’s favourite perfume, saw a glimpse of that freckled girl with golden-brown hair – my father’s piano pupil I had fallen in love with as a child… Music can bring back memories, at least some of them… I’d be happy with the tiniest reminder of what life used to be like. Besides, Helmut needs it as much as I do. Before we go our separate ways, we need to close the chapter and seal the past.’ He followed this line of thought, completely forgetting that he indulged in the same weakness he had criticized Helmut for – clinging to fantasies and turning a blind eye to reality.

Frank stretched out on the narrow bed and stared up at the night sky through the slanted roof window. Every inch of his body ached with dull pain, and lying in bed didn’t help. He now often had difficulty falling asleep even when he was very tired. His thoughts roamed aimlessly, waking him up again and again.

‘Robert!’ he heard a familiar voice and felt somebody touch his elbow.

‘Morning, Herr Meisinger! Sorry, I didn’t see you.’

They were both in a hurry. Herr Meisinger was chairing an examination board that day and was already in danger of missing the start of the exam. Frank was to meet with his friends to discuss the new musical play they were working on together. He was running terribly late: Kurt and Lotte were waiting for him in a café on the opposite side of the street showing every sign of impatience. When Kurt saw Frank stop to talk to an old gentleman, he rolled his eyes with irritation and pointed at his watch.

‘How is your health, Herr Meisinger?’ Frank asked politely, casting an apologetic look at his friends.

‘Fine! Never felt better, my dear boy. What are you doing tomorrow evening?’

‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

‘Oh, good. I’m giving a lecture on Bach for the Hermeneutics Society. You probably heard me talking to your father about it the other day. Now the thing is, I need you to play Toccata and Fugue to open the evening and create the right mood. You won’t have to stay for the rest of the lecture if you are busy. I know it’s short notice, but that useless Rudolf has come down with a cold again…’ and he eyed Frank’s light coat disapprovingly.

‘Don’t worry, Herr Meisinger. I’d be only too happy to help. Tomorrow evening I’ll be at your complete disposal.’

‘Excellent!’ The old professor glanced at his pocket watch and began to edge past Frank. ‘In that case, I’d like you to play a few more pieces during the lecture to illustrate my points.’

‘Of course.’

‘… And perhaps something to round up the event. I’ll give you a call later today, we’ll discuss everything in detail.’

‘All right.’

Frank nodded to his friends meaning, ‘I’ll be right with you.’

‘Oh, one more thing!’ Herr Meisinger turned around abruptly… ‘You remember my pupil, little Krauss?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Remember we saw each other last week at a party at the Kaufmanns’? You played four hands with a little boy…’

‘Oh yes, of course! L’enfant terrible…’

‘You do remember then. I’ve been thinking, Robert. Perhaps could you practise duets with him.’

‘Duets?’

‘Yes, duets. The boy is very talented, but I’m already worried about him. He hates four-hand pieces. He refuses to play with other instruments. He doesn’t even want to try.’ He shook hands with a passing colleague: ‘Morning. I’ll be in a minute.’