Hidden Away (3 page)

Why do I feel so obsessed about this?

As the night dissolves into day, I drink coffee and smoke cigarettes as I think of the past and wonder about the present.

Chapter 2

 

Vienna, Austria
1941

E
VER
since I was a child, I’d been told I had considerable talent. From a very young age, my proclivity for piano had been noted. I’ve been told that as a toddler, my family had been unable to keep me away from the upright piano in our living room. Having woken my parents up in the middle of the night, apparently I would smile gleefully when they entered the room and play them something I’d only just heard a few days before.

My parents ended up selling the piano on what happened to be my eighth birthday in order to purchase bread and a small cake. They saved the rest of the money, but I knew it didn’t last long. There was a music shop down our street, so whenever I could, I would visit it and play the piano until the owner chased me out. I’d done this for years. He never minded previously, but that was when my family could afford new clothing. That was when we weren’t destitute.

The cost of everything went up in Germany after the Great War, but it didn’t affect my family until late 1928. It was at that time that the wounds my father suffered during the war began to impede his ability to work. He was a glassblower until he broke more items than he made. Then, having no other way to make money, he worked in one of the oldest Biergartens in Munich. He served beer to those who still had money to buy it.

The job didn’t last long, and by the time Christmas of 1929 rolled around, he was completely unemployed. We had nothing left to sell. I made a little money by playing the accordion at the same Biergarten. It wasn’t enough for my family to live on, so in the late winter of 1930, a month and a half after I turned nine, I was shipped off to live in Vienna with my aunt and uncle.

My mother’s sister had always liked me. Her husband made good money as the owner of three bakeries. It was decided without my input that I would be better off with them than with my parents. Financially, it was true, but I never felt at home with them. My aunt was kind, but my uncle kept an orderly house. Most of my time was spent inside my room.

I didn’t mind much. The piano was in my room, but I missed my family in Bavaria immensely.

My uncle’s money bought me a seat in orchestral workshops and later into the Imperial Academy of Music and the Performing Arts. Again, I had been told my talent was great and worked hard to produce flawless music. I composed a few pieces of my own, but never showed them to anyone. They were too simplistic —not good enough for a culturally rich music hub such as Vienna.

Still, praise for my talent continued, but as I stood outside the Musikverein many years later, I doubted myself even more than usual. It would be my first major concert outside of university productions. I would not be performing solo, but the reputation of my fellow artists preceded them. It felt like the whole world held them in high esteem—myself included—and I was an obscure nobody next to them.

The thought of playing with them was too overwhelming, so I studied the outside of the place for quite some time. The structure of the building itself was impressive. It made me feel diminutive. Built over seventy years ago, the not-quite-pink façade reminded me of the musical history of the city. I believed people called it neoclassical in design. My insides twisted. Thinking about the musical history of the place made me feel even more insecure.

Who was I to think I was good enough to play in the same city where Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, and Haydn played?

I counted the windows with the promise to myself that after I finished, I’d muster my courage to go inside. It took another quarter of an hour before I finally
did
enter. As soon as I made my way to the concert hall, the butterflies in my stomach flapped their wings even faster.

Inside the hall, the butterflies stopped. In fact, I was quite certain they had all died. Now my stomach ached at my feet. I stood mouth agape, staring at the beauty of the place. Even with all my musical experience, I’d never seen the Big Hall of the Vienna Music Association. I knew now why they gave it the moniker “The Golden Hall.”

Surrounding the seats were golden pillars in the shape of women and balconies of gold, trimmed in a rich red. The ceilings were high—all in gold except for the paintings of Apollo and the nine Muses. The bright chandeliers illuminated every ornate section of the concert hall.

I was lost in the beauty, never wanting to return to the cold reality that lay beyond this magical building.

For a moment, I thought about counting the seats to reclaim control over myself.

I did not, as it would’ve taken too long. There were easily over fifteen hundred seats and room for patrons to stand. Just as the panic began to creep up within me again, a violin sounded, stealing my thoughts.

I looked up at the stage, focusing on it for the first time. Standing next to a beautiful grand piano —the piano
I
would play—was a handsome young man. An exquisite violin was nestled between his chin and shoulder. Even from this distance, I could see the length of his fine fingers as they depressed the strings on the fingerboard. He was tall, with dusty brown hair that shone with strands of dark blond as the light hit it. Eyes closed as he played the music.

It seemed like there was no one else in the huge hall but him. I was aware there were others on stage, but they, like me, stood silent as this man played. He played the closing song we would perform a month from now. It felt a bit lopsided, and my fingers ached to touch the keys of the beautiful grand piano next to him, but I dared not move.

This concert had brought together many talented musicians, but it would be this violinist and I who would take center stage. This song, a Christmas carol, would highlight us, while the others would fade back into the orchestral background

When I had seen the list of selections we would play, I had been a bit shocked by the three carols chosen. While they hadn’t been banned since the National Socialist German Workers’ Party took control in Germany, the Christmas songs had been changed. Many within Austria and Germany no longer felt comfortable even performing them. There would be no singers in our performance, so no one to give voice to either the old lyrics or the new NSDAP lyrics.

I thought it a risky choice to make, but now hearing how it was being played—by the violin only—I was thrilled to perform it in a month’s time. I had thought about how the piece would be played, but never had I imagined it to be so powerful.

There were skilled musicians in the world, and then there were musical geniuses. I had no doubt that this man was in the latter group.

The chords were soft at first, but there was a certain kind of boldness in them too. Then, as the tempo increased, so did the confidence of his playing. It was amazing to watch. His eyes remained closed. His whole body moved with the motion of his bow arm. The power he exhibited— the power he
created
—through music was astounding.

I was barely aware he’d finished the piece as the applause of the other musicians and the conductor sounded. I clapped as well, but let it linger after the others had stopped. This alerted everyone of my presence. They all looked at me. I quickly lowered my arms to the side, and ducked my head, but not before I caught the violinist on stage smiling at me.

“Kurt?” the balding man I took to be the conductor asked as he walked closer to me. “Kurt Klein?”

I hesitated, then felt foolish for doing so. I knew my own name. “Yes. I’m here to play the piano.”

With a large grin, he said, “Of course you are. I’m the man who requested you. I caught your summer recital at the Konzerthaus.” He was referring to the concert in the small Schubert Hall. It held less than three hundred and fifty seats. “Quite lovely. You have impeccable timing and technique.”

I shook his hand as I blushed at the compliment. “Thank you, sir.” I wondered if I should call him by his name. “Herr Weber.”

When he took his hand back, he said, “You’re a little late today.”

My gut clenched, but I forced myself to look at him. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”

He didn’t respond right away, so I began to count the caryatids, starting with those nearest the stage. Before I could get to the point where I would have to crane my neck to count the ones behind me, he clapped me on the shoulder, startling me.

“Water under the bridge, boy. Let’s get you up on stage to meet your fellow performers.” With that, he took off. I hurried behind him, determined not to let everyone know how absolutely terrified I was. I hoped as I climbed the steps to the stage that I wasn’t sweating nearly as much as I thought I was.

“Here we have Klaus,” Herr Weber said as we stopped in front of an older man with a cello between his legs. He stood up and shook my hand, telling me what a pleasure it was to meet me after Herr Weber gave him my name.

Next it was Leo, Marcel, Alexander, and Steffen, until finally I was standing before the young violinist. Just being so near to him sent chills of excitement down my spine.

“And this talented man is Peter Waldenheim, from Berlin.”

As if I needed the last bit of information to know the name. Peter Waldenheim was
the
premier violinist in Europe. The other boys in university used to travel to see him. They would come back with nothing but glowing words about his performance. Freddy once told me he’d been moved to tears at the sounds Peter Waldenheim had created.

“Herr Waldenheim, I’m so honored to meet you,” I managed to say, even though my throat felt constricted.

His smile was bright. “Oh, I like him, Ernst,” he said to the conductor, who just bowed his head in acknowledgement.

Then Peter took my hand. He shook it, but it felt like something more than just a casual hello. There was something special in how his thumb brushed the back of my hand, and how his fingertips seemed to tickle my palm as they withdrew, that made me feel like it wasn’t
just
a friendly greeting.

My face grew hot, as did the rest of me. “Herr Klein,” he said in a light, laughing voice. When I looked up, I saw his lips were

curved up in a half smile. His dark blue eyes were twinkling. “I doubt you’re much younger than I, so I will call you Kurt, and you will call me Peter.”

I felt like I couldn’t swallow, like my mouth and throat were too parched. I felt ridiculous being so unable to converse, but I finally shook my head and said, “It’s not age that requires me to address you with respect. It’s your brilliance.”

Herr Waldenheim laughed heartily. I felt strange, as if I were being ridiculed or my respect being rejected. It felt the same as when my uncle indicated that my company was unwelcomed, and I should retire to my quarters. I felt like I wanted to run off the stage and hide from this man.

But before I could do so, he said, “Oh, Ernst, now I
really
like him.” He nudged me with his violin, and I looked up. “I’m
Peter
, and from what I know of you, you are just as brilliant.”

The rehearsal was long. At a quarter past eight, we were nowhere near polished, but we were able to assess each other’s skill level and make adjustments as needed. I felt as though my ability to play was the weakest in the group, so I kept my head down and my thoughts focused on the music.

Music had always been quite intellectual for me. Ever since I was small, if some piece didn’t work, all I had to do was
think
about it while my fingers stilled on the keys. After visualizing the keyboard and imagining the sounds they would make, I could return to the piece and play properly.

The same with composing. All of my own work tended to be immature and less sophisticated to those musicians I held in high esteem. However simplistic, the creation of those movements always came with a great deal of thought. My fingers would not touch the piano until the notes were at least partially arranged inside my mind.

During the final piece we rehearsed—a song that would actually play near the beginning of the concert—there were a few sections when the piano was tacet. Without the need to play during these times, I allowed myself to focus on the others. Well, not
all
of the others. Mainly on Peter Waldenheim.

The length of his body seemed to complement the music his small violin created in some way. It was as if he had been specifically created for music. He stood at the end of my piano, a gentle grin curving his lips. Being closer to him than before, I was treated to an even better view of his elegant fingers as they moved on the neck of his instrument. His eyes were closed as before, and his whole being seemed to radiate out, filling the entire stage and completely dwarfing the rest of us.

When he brought his bow arm down, dragging the hair of his bow against the strings that manufactured a sound that was both beautiful and devastating at the same time, his body seemed to deflate with the reverberation of the strings. His back curved, his abdomen drew in as his hips pushed out. Herr Waldenheim’s feet were firmly planted on the stage, but his legs bent slightly as the note echoed in the Golden Hall.