Chapter 30
THE BARUCH AUERBACH ORPHAN ASYLUM
May 1837
Was this the cure for heartache?
Sara stood in the central courtyard of Berlin’s Jewish orphanage. She watched a dozen or so boys, dressed alike, hair cut alike, as they kicked balls, played catch, and organized footraces. They wore sturdy shoes.
For several years, Baruch Auerbach, the leader of the Jewish Freischule, had been gathering funds to expand the orphanage. He was filled with dreams: a new, larger building to accommodate more boys. A separate, connected facility for girls. More classrooms, music and art lessons, an infirmary and a live-in nurse. Sara gave generously.
Today, however, Herr Auerbach wanted something different from her. He wanted time. Love. He was searching for Ehrenmütter, “honorary mothers,” as he called them, to give the orphaned boys a semblance of family. To help guide their lives.
Herr Auerbach believed she would be a good candidate. Or so he said. She didn’t know whether she could entirely trust him on this question. She was, truth be told, the largest contributor to the orphanage. Naturally he would want to keep her close by. At seventy-six, she might be too old for the role he suggested.
Nonetheless, she’d agreed to come here today, with several of her friends, to tour the orphanage and share the midday meal with the boys.
A teacher rang a bell. The boys lined up and proceeded in an orderly fashion to the washroom. Soon after, they were seated at tables in the refectory.
Herr Auerbach was a stout, balding man who rarely smiled. “I’ve given you a group of nine-year-olds,” he said as he led Sara to a table. He announced to them, “Boys, this is Frau Levy.”
“Good afternoon, Frau Levy,” the four boys said.
Herr Auerbach had them well trained. He departed. Sara sat down.
The boys stared at her. Sara stared at them. They looked endearing in their tidy identical uniforms. Their hair, mussed during their games, was now neatly combed. All four boys had dark hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. They were neither thin nor fat. They looked healthy. Well fed and well exercised.
Kitchen maids served the food table by table, starting at the opposite end of the room. Sara glanced at her friend Amalia Beer, sitting nearby. Amalia already had the four boys at her table engaged in conversation, eagerly responding to her questions. Amalia had a gift with children.
At Sara’s table, the boys continued to stare at her in silence. She didn’t know what to say to them. She had no trouble talking to Lea’s children, but they were family, with an abundance of shared experiences. Finally a topic came to her:
“What are you studying?”
No reply.
She turned to the boy on her right. “Are you studying history?”
The boy looked away as he responded. “We’re learning about Frederick the Great.”
She should have asked their names first.
“What’s your name?” she said to this boy.
“Daniel.”
“My—” She was about to say that her father’s name was Daniel, but she stopped herself. She didn’t want to elicit sad memories from the boys. “So, Daniel, tell me about Frederick the Great.”
He looked at her now. “He won the battles of Hohenfriedberg, Rossbach, and Leuthen.”
“That’s right.” I was born when Frederick the Great was king, she thought but didn’t say. Would they find this fact about her interesting? Would it make the past more alive for them? She had to say something. “When I was born, Frederick the Great was king.”
“Did you know him?” said the boy on the far left, his eyes widening.
“No, I—please, tell me your name.”
“Georg.”
“Well, Georg, I never met him, but he was the king, so in a kind of magical way, people felt they knew him even if they didn’t.” Where had this bit of wisdom come from? She hoped it was true.
“I think I know him, even though I don’t. Didn’t,” said Daniel. “After all, he won the battles of Hohenfriedberg, Rossbach, and Leuthen.”
“Frau Levy, please tell us something else about Frederick the Great,” said Georg.
Sara pondered. “He liked to speak French. Because of that, when he was king, many children were taught how to speak French. I know how to speak French, for example.”
Quietly the boy on her left said, “I can speak French.”
“And what’s your name?”
“Carl.”
“How did you learn to speak French?”
“My mother.” He stopped.
No one said anything. What had happened to their parents? Sara didn’t need to ask. Death in childbirth, disease, poverty, desertion . . . there were many reasons for children to be here. And these children were the lucky ones, not living on the street as beggars, filthy and barefoot, sleeping in alleyways, starving.
“Carl, say something in French,” said Daniel.
“Parlez-vous français? That means, ‘Do you speak French?’”
The boys laughed. Sara laughed, too.
“Your accent is perfect, Carl,” Sara said.
“Merci.”
“I know two words of French,” said the boy on her far right. “Elias, that’s me,” he said before she could ask. He patted a finger against his chest. “Mais oui. That means, ‘but yes.’”
“Very impressive,” Sara said.
“How do you say ‘I’m hungry’ in French?” asked Elias.
“J’ai faim,” Sara replied. As their conversation continued, their food arrived, a goulash soup with fresh bread, rather delicious, in Sara’s opinion, and the boys appeared to agree, finishing their portions. In response to their queries, Sara taught the boys—not Carl, who already knew and helped the others with pronunciation—the French words for bread, beef, carrots, onions, and potatoes. The kitchen staff returned and distributed second portions, which the boys enjoyed.
Too soon, it seemed to Sara, a teacher again rang a bell. Time for afternoon classes.
The boys stood. Sara stood. As the boys waited their turn to join the line leaving the refectory, Daniel said, “You’ll visit us again next week, Frau Levy? Teach us more French?”
“Yes, I will.”
Her boys took their places on the line and marched out with their teachers. Sara joined the other ladies in the center of the room, but she barely heard their exclamations—adorable boys, so polite, so well-behaved. All these ladies had children of their own. Most had grandchildren.
Herr Auerbach said, “If I may impose upon your time for a brief discussion . . .” He led them to a meeting room. He presented his plans for the orphanage. Sara had heard all this before, and she didn’t focus on it. Instead she tried to recall the details her father had told her about his meetings with Frederick the Great. Sixty, seventy years ago, that was. Her father had visited the royal palace of Sans Souci more than once. How had he described it? If only she could remember. She wanted to have something special to share with the boys next week.
At the end of the meeting, Herr Auerbach walked the ladies out. Sara’s carriage was waiting up the block. Her driver spotted her and approached.
Goodbye, goodbye . . . Sara went through the required rituals with these women who’d been her friends for decades. Amalia drew her aside to confirm an outing they’d arranged for tomorrow and then climbed into her own carriage and was driven away.
Sara’s driver helped her into her carriage, and they set off.
She turned to stare back at the building. She wondered if an adult would sit with her boys at supper this evening. If they woke up in the night in the dark, if they had bad dreams, who would comfort them?
Today was Wednesday, and on Wednesday afternoons, Sara visited Lea for tea. The day being pleasant, they sat at a table on the terrace. The footmen arrayed miniature cakes and a silver tea service before them. The sound of piano music reached them . . . Fanny was in her study in the nearby Gartenhaus. She played a few phrases, stopped, and tried the phrases again in a slightly different configuration. She was composing.
Fanny’s seven-year-old son, Sebastian, raced across the lawn chasing his father, the irresistible Wilhelm Hensel. Hensel (as everyone called him, even Fanny) was kind, considerate, and filled with high spirits. He was the suitor who’d been sent away for five years. He’d returned on schedule to marry Fanny.
Hensel pretended to be caught by his son. They turned, and now Hensel chased the boy, who laughed as he ran. Sebastian was a blond-haired, angelic child. His bright eyes seemed forever animated by happiness. Father and son resembled each other, Hensel more weathered, but the link was clear. Hensel was a Christian, and Sebastian was being raised Christian.
Noticing Sara, Hensel said, “All right, my boy, let’s say hello to Tante Levy.” Hensel straightened Sebastian’s shirt and his own, and they approached the terrace.
“Good afternoon, Tante,” Sebastian said with great seriousness, as if he’d been practicing the art of proper greetings.
“Good afternoon, Sebastian.”
“Wonderful to see you, Tante,” Hensel said.
“And you, Hensel.”
In recent years, Hensel’s reputation as an artist had grown. Commissions in various states of progress filled his studio. He created captivating portraits of the family, pictures filled with spontaneity and vivacity.
Upon Fanny and Hensel’s marriage, Abraham had ordered an art studio for Hensel to be built as an extension of the Gartenhaus. Thus Fanny had never left her parents’ home. Lea’s other children had scattered. Rebecka was married and had two children. Felix and Paul were both married, but had no children yet. Despite Paul’s talents as a cellist, he’d become a banker, joining the Mendelssohn bank. London, Paris, Hamburg . . . business took him everywhere, and he’d experienced great success.
“Papa and I are playing tag,” Sebastian said.
“And you must continue,” Sara said.
“Thank you.” Sebastian ran off. “Try to catch me, Papa,” he called over his shoulder.
“Please, do excuse me,” Hensel said, bowing.
“Of course,” Sara said.
Off he went in pursuit.
Sipping their tea, Sara and Lea watched them until the game of tag turned into hide-and-seek and Sebastian and Hensel disappeared from view, into the farther corners of the garden.
Lea seemed preoccupied. She’d faced much sadness in recent years. Abraham had died. Fanny had lost two babies when she was far along in pregnancy, the second only a few months before. Lea herself had been unwell over the winter.
“You seem subdued today, my dear,” Sara said.
“Yes.”
Sara didn’t want to press her.
Fanny played a longer segment, the haunting melody drifting around them.
“This music is gorgeous,” Sara said. “What is it?”
“It’s one of Fanny’s new pieces for solo piano.” Lea sat up, anger evident on her face. “I must tell you: once again, Felix has written to Fanny refusing to give his permission for her to publish her compositions.”
So this was the issue preoccupying Lea. The debate about whether Fanny should be allowed to publish her music had been going on within the family for some time.
“Just this morning, I told Fanny to go forward without Felix’s approval. I’m sorry to say I raised my voice to her, as if she were still a child. I hate to take sides when my children disagree, but in this case, I must. I will write to Felix, to urge him to reconsider. I hate to grant him such power over her. But he seems to have that power anyway.”
Almost eleven years had passed since Sara had seen the siblings perform Felix’s Midsummer Night’s Dream overture on the piano. Since then, Felix had been hailed as the greatest composer of the era. He’d garnered international renown. Our Mozart, he was called. His compositions were performed everywhere, from the courts of royalty to concert halls, to the homes of admirers who played his music from inexpensive mass-produced piano editions. He was based in Leipzig and traveled constantly. Meanwhile Fanny stayed home, caring for her family, composing, organizing Sunday gatherings, and writing an endless stream of letters to her brother.
That Felix should forbid Fanny to publish her work was outrageous to Sara. She’d said this to Lea more than once, but she wouldn’t remind her niece of past discussions. As if starting afresh, she said, “What concern is it of his? If anyone else’s opinion were necessary, and I don’t think it is, surely her husband’s would be the crucial one.”
“Hensel supports her wholeheartedly. Encourages her in every way.”
“Well, then.”
“She continues to value her brother’s opinion above all.”
“But Fanny’s work has been published before, and under Felix’s name, as you well know.”
Sara regretted her tone, but the issue enraged her. Everyone in the family knew that six of Fanny’s songs, with their ethereal beauty, had been included in Felix’s published sets of lieder—not simply included, but presented under his name. Disgracefully, Fanny had assisted in the technical aspects of the publication of the collections, preparing the manuscripts for the printer while Felix journeyed across Europe conducting his orchestral compositions and receiving extravagant acclaim.
“What exactly does Felix say now, to justify himself? Wait, I will tell you: he says that publication would be inappropriate for a woman of her elevated position in society. That she should devote herself to the needs of her husband and son, and to the supervision of her cook and butler.”
“How well you know him.”
The dictates of society were strict and harsh, as Sara herself was well aware. And yet, sometimes rules could be circumvented. In this case, Sara believed, Fanny’s talents were such that she could and should transgress society’s rules.
“The issue is complex,” Lea said, lowering her voice. “Maybe the truth is that apart from those half-dozen songs published under his name, Felix dislikes her work. He told her as much, about her sacred music. He encouraged her to focus on piano compositions. And with these new pieces for piano, I believe she’s reached a very high level of accomplishment. But still Felix won’t change his mind about publication. When Fanny and I discussed the matter this morning, I fully realized the anguish that Felix’s decision causes her, and it breaks my heart. She is desperate for his approval.”
“How does she find the inspiration to continue with her composing?”
“She is compelled from inside herself. She seems to hope that somehow, someday, she’ll create a piece that her brother admires so much that he’ll allow her to publish it under her own name. Oh, Tante, I should have done something years ago, to separate them.”
Sara took her niece’s hand. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”
Sara thought, I, too, have been remiss. I should have found a way to do more to help Fanny.
The melancholy strains of music continued.
“I despair for her,” Lea said.
“Would it be all right if I spoke with her?”
“Of course.” Lea’s mood shifted, to concern for Sara. “You don’t need my permission to speak to my children. You must always seek them out.”
“Thank you.”
Sara walked across the terrace to Fanny’s study. With Fanny concentrating, Sara was able to slip silently into the room and sit on a chair near the windows. She wouldn’t interrupt; she’d wait for Fanny to notice her. Fanny was still hollow-eyed from her illness and her grief following her baby’s death a few months before. Nonetheless, her expression held a fierce focus, as if she composed out of anger, or out of a desperation to prove her worth.
To prove her worth to whom?
The situation between the siblings was difficult to make sense of. It wasn’t Felix’s prerogative to exercise societal authority over his married sister. And in any event, even if the publication of Fanny’s work under her own name did indeed cause any scandal in society—well, the Mendelssohn bank wouldn’t collapse, the family wouldn’t lose its home, Felix’s concert commitments across Europe wouldn’t be canceled.
Fanny reached the end of the section. She lifted her hands from the keyboard. “Hello, Tante,” she said with her usual warmth.
“Hello, Fanny. Sebastian is looking well.”
“Isn’t he marvelous?” She glanced downward for an instant, as if caught expressing an opinion that, as Sebastian’s mother, she should properly keep to herself.
“Hensel, too. They’re very much alike, aren’t they?”
“I think so. Thank you for noticing. I’m very glad to see you, Tante—but tell me the truth, did my mother send you to talk to me?”
“No. I sent myself. After she told me about your disagreement this morning. I want you to know that I join your mother and your husband in supporting your endeavors.”
“I’m grateful.”
“Then why is Felix’s opinion the one that counts above all for you?”
“We are close,” she said with an open sincerity. “We always have been.”
“When you were children. You were close when you were children. You’re adults now. You’re both married. Felix lives far away.”
“We are united in spirit.”
“You are not united in spirit.”
Fanny appeared to flinch, hearing these words.
“You must forgive me for speaking bluntly,” Sara said. “I’m your elderly aunt who loves you, so I can say things other people might not feel able to say. I will say it again: you and your brother are not united in spirit.”
“He wants the best for me, as I do for him. We are honest with each other.”
“He may think he wants the best for you, but that doesn’t mean what he wants actually is best for you.”
“We’ve always looked after each other.”
“When you were children.”
They were talking in circles. Hadn’t Fanny ever grown up? Was she still, despite her husband, son, and the deaths of two babies, metaphorically as well as literally living in the enchanted garden of her childhood? And what about Felix . . . might he have fled his family home struggling to escape what may have felt to him like the suffocation of Fanny’s love or obsession, or whatever the right word was to describe the intensity of her regard for him? Did her constant pleading for approval make him, in the midst of his many professional achievements and commitments, impatient and annoyed?
These possibilities didn’t excuse his cruelty, but they might reveal a facet of the fraught emotions between them.
“I don’t want to discuss this anymore,” Fanny said, but she said it lightheartedly, putting on a shield of amusement. “Shall I play for you the piece as I have it so far, from the beginning?”
They’d reach no resolution today. “Thank you, Fanny. I’d like that very much.”
And so Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel, composer, performed for Sara an exquisitely beautiful piano solo, filled with yearning.
Would anyone outside this private garden ever hear it?