A Peaceful Summer. Ace Anthony
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you even in Britain.”
“I wanted to be with my family; I missed home…”
“I have a copy of your Chopin concerto. Bought it in London… I watched both films with your music score, about a hundred times each and… Your Matilda is an absolute masterpiece, by the way! I read everything there was to read about you… Oh, and I don’t think I ever missed American swing on the radio…”
Frank was surprised and touched; he was embarrassed that he had very little to say in return.
“I couldn’t always follow your progress, Herr Krauss, but I heard from my colleague about your successful debut in London…”
“Herr Krauss!” A vaguely familiar expression of annoyance rippled the smiling face. “You don’t remember me at all then? Frank, it’s me! Call me Helmut. Or just Hell.”
Frank was trying to tell his age. “I’m 26,” he counted, “that makes him, what, around17—18?” Helmut looked younger – maybe because of his medium height, maybe because of that healthy boyish thinness and springiness about him, which suggested he’d been routinely exercising since early age. Swimming and tennis, Frank remembered. And of course he remembered the rest of it. Good old days in Leipzig. Frank was at the conservatoire at that time; Helmut was a small boy, spoilt, ill-bred, but distinctly talented. They practiced duets for almost two years, very successfully. In fact, they were inseparable then and simply adored each other. Frank smiled at the memory of that time. But he just couldn’t project that dear funny face on the features of the stranger standing in front of him.
“How long do you think you could stay with me for?”
Frank couldn’t believe he was so naïve. Doesn’t he know? Well, he’s been abroad after all, he thought.
“As long as your family will have me here, I suppose.”
“Really?!” Helmut jumped and grabbed Frank’s wrist. “But, Frank, this is wonderful! Think of what we can do together! And we don’t have to stay here in the first place. We’re going to America. We’ll simply rip the world to pieces, you and me!”
Frank didn’t know where to begin.
“I can’t go anywhere, Helmut. I’ve been in a camp. Strictly speaking, I’m still a prisoner.”
Helmut hesitated then raised his eyebrows understandingly:
“Ah… The camp…”
“I think what your parents were trying to say is that I’m not allowed to leave the house.”
“Nonsense… You are with me,” Helmut said slowly and bit his nail. His mother’s little plan sank in at last.
“You are with me,” he said again resolutely, shrugging off some unsaid thoughts. “We start tomorrow, and today you play Gershwin for me. Please,” he remembered to say. But he forgot to ask whether Frank was tired or hungry.
Chapter 3
When other inmates nursed the idea of a miracle that could divert the bleak course of their fate, Frank only smiled and said nothing. A coup. A new law. A powerful friend. He thought he was the last person to have a chance, and the Krausses were the last people he was expecting that chance to come from. In fact, he had almost forgotten his little Helmut.
“How could this have happened? Back in America he was my lucky charm, I wrote stacks of piano music imagining I was writing for him. But when the nightmare descended, I didn’t remember him once… How could this have possibly happened? A passing thought about that bouncy child with a cheeky grimace on his little face would have been enough to last me through any misery.”
There had been a lot of misery to handle. With the arrival of spring he picked up a bit only to realize that there was a slow death ahead of him. “I won’t survive another winter.” It was as simple as that. He resigned to the idea the way he had been resigning to everything since Sachsenhausen had become his home.
His story wasn’t extraordinary. He returned hastily from America after the news of his father’s arrest. He knocked on every door, appealed to every form of authority. Some friends tried to help but couldn’t stretch too far, others completely abandoned him. And everybody without exception advised him to sail back to America without delay. All his attempts failed leaving him completely drained. It wasn’t long until he ended up in prison himself. A mistake, he still hoped. Just as it was with my father. A ridiculous misunderstanding. It will clear up soon. It didn’t. It only gained momentum downhill until one day he realized he would never return to normal life, he’d never see his family, and the world outside – inside, everywhere – would never be the same. Music, his second self, was now something alien and distant. His life, once filled with playing and composing, was like a chapter from somebody else’s biography. It was only a short matter of time before his physical death – and he thought about it only yesterday.
Today he was standing in the sunlit, spacious kitchen waiting for Frau Krauss to speak. It was late morning, the time after breakfast. The staff had apparently been sent away. An untouched cup of tea was steaming on the table. She smoked a cigarette after cigarette. She didn’t look at him because she didn’t want him to look at her. She had aged.
“So, Herr Frankel. We meet again.”
Her eyes swept over him up and down, down and up, resting briefly on his face:
“You remember Helmut?” She sipped her tea. “Answer.”
“I remember him.”
“He hasn’t changed.”
She took her time, savouring the tea.
“How long have you been in Sachsenhausen?”
“A year and a half.”
“And you belong there, you know. You belong there with other rats.”
She shivered and reached out for another cigarette. The pack was empty.
“You married?” she suddenly asked.
“No.”
“My husband is concerned that you might run away. Or do something stupid. Like make a call to somebody. Or put some ideas into Helmut’s head.” She tore open a new pack of cigarettes. “If you do run, you’ll be caught of course. And hanged.”
Frank said nothing. She looked him full in the face.
“If you compromise this family, you compromise Helmut, is that understood?”
“I understand.”
“You’d better. You wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for him.”
“I understand.”
She leant back in her chair and gave him a long stare. Her face, Frank suddenly realized, expressed curiosity. Satisfaction and curiosity. She almost smiled.
“Once you said he had a great future, and you wished him happy. Do you still feel that way?”
“I do.”
“So I told my husband.”
She rose.
“Follow me. There’s something you must see.”
They went up a few stairs, through sun-soaked rooms to the part of the house where they had first met the day before. The dining-room was cool and dim.
“Open the curtains.”
Frank did. When he turned, he stopped in his tracks. The long dining table was paved with glittering rectangles of photographs. She looked back at him relishing the effect.
“Come here.”
Colour pictures were her greatest pride. She showed them first. “You don’t feel the truth unless you see it in colour. The way we, German people, see it.”
They were bright pictured