Home. A difficult concept in a new world. How to find oneself at home again? America banged with the sound of its newness. Far away, the blanketed cities of Europe huddled, the rust of blood on their stones. All that dark tragic history, that sense of cynicism and fatalism, led to a point of view that would be known, in the more dignified sense, as “European philosophy.” All founded on certainty, fear, and the inability to prevent death. Europe reeked of death. As it did of philosophy about death.
Here hopes rained like gold, promises burned the land to a crisp, and there was no history to be seen in the hastily thrown-up houses of the United States of America. “Thank God, no history,” thought the refugees. By which they meant, no history from which to hide.
The major parts of their lives were lived in the key of Memory, the darkest chord of all. They were to resonate to that combination of notes for the rest of their lives, even their children, and those children’s children, would always feel in themselves that urgent straining, moaning sound. Lives lived in the key of B minor.
So to find again the concept of home. Would they ever? And did it matter, finally, in the end? Home would be burdened, secretive and surreptitious, dark and quarrelsome, with moments of coziness and even, if one dared, a little tenderness. And in the end, they would have lived together, grieved, loved one another to the best of their abilities, and survived the Old World and the New.
Herbert’s ears, large and translucent, thrummed to the A sound. In the New York Public Library, hunched though he might seem, his heart fluttered with excitement, even when he seemed most humble. He floated on the stairway, or slightly above the floor of the reading room, close to the angels of libraries, the angels that bent over the newspapers draped on the racks and whispered “Shush, shush” soothingly. Herbert was near them, supported by golden light. Herbert vibrated to the A of Animus, of Angel.
Was he, as rumored, the Grand Vizier of the International Society of Freemasons? A former minister? The keeper of the ward room? Was he the former head groom of the stables of the Austro-Hungarian Empire? Was he the undersecretary of trade? Or the valet of that undersecretary? He floated joyfully on the universal tone of the A, the tone of the new world. A for Aid. A for Adjust. For Antagonist. A, also, alas, for Appease, his basic nature. A for Arms.
“I am Alive.” Herbert’s blood sang, “I am useful. Use me, my dear people. Ask me. As long as I Am, I shall Assist. This is my reason for being.” He bent his head in gratitude. How else to repay the debt of being Alive?
How could it be that he lived and his younger son did not? Herbert would have exchanged places—he saw always the eyes of his grieving wife—but fate had not decreed this. His purpose was to stay Alive, to bring his family and others to the new land, to quiver to the universal A, to refuse to submit to B minor. “Lord, you ask too much of me!” Herbert’s shabby shoulders hunched under their burdens.
“Only what you can support,” was the answer that came, sealed by that heavy ring, the moist lips upon it, his papery, dry hands seized between the clutching hands of others. The wet, too-prolonged kiss, the reverent but insistent pleading. Did no one but he sense the deep irony of it all?
“Lord, I am just a little man.”
“My servant.”
Herbert knew he was addressing a void. An atheist from early childhood, a rationalist, a believer in Esperanto and the goodness of man, a believer in rational solutions to the world’s conflicts, he was ironic enough to know that beliefs ultimately meant nothing. He was not afraid to express, even to himself, that there was no God. Even if, sometimes, he prayed to this No-God, involuntarily, trying to impress his own will on circumstances. Herbert believed in power. It was only power that could command, from time to time, a power made of money and threats and goodwill and the gift of his personality.
Still, in spite of it all, Herbert held on to his belief in mankind and its need for communication. Chess, Esperanto, rational appeals to human solutions, the international rights of man—these were the only hopes. Oh, yes, and children. His grandchildren. His own personal hopes. Soon he would begin reading Goethe with Maria. She was almost old enough. Only in his grandchildren could he hope to pass on the traditions of learning. If there was to be any pride that Herbert would allow himself, it was only when he thought of his grandchildren.
Herbert could not envision a time when he would not frequent the Automat, making deals for human lives. He could not imagine a day not spent at the New York Public Library, where, out of the gloom of the great hushed hall, small figures broke from the general dimness to fling themselves at his feet, presenting their appeals. He felt each life, each loss, as if it had been his own. But in another way, like a giant rock in the water, he felt nothing. He was implacable-seeming, even while he was being imperceptibly worn down.
“Bless you, Herr Hofrat.” He allowed his ring to be kissed. His eyes closed for a moment in remembered pain. But there was no time for his own feelings, really. “Bless you.”
“I am of service,” he replied humbly. “I am at your service. What can I do for you?” He waited, he listened, his large ears backlit, his head like an aureole.
Tonight, shoulders bent, as always, under the shabby overcoat, Herbert waited beside the outstretched arm of the usher, before the ranks of seats in the front row of Carnegie Hall. He stood aside to allow Adeline to enter.
Adeline was wearing her best finery today: the silk dress, low cut over the shrunken bosom, the fine pearly stockings, the shoes, the kid gloves, alabaster to the elbow, with little pearl buttons all the way up. She wore her good fur jacket with the silk lining, into which was woven, over and over, the coat of arms of the Emperor Franz Joseph, delicately embossed. Most important, she wore slung about her neck a stole made of little dead foxes, two of them, their sharp teeth still yapping in protest, their small dark eyes open, veiled and glassy, as in the moment of death. Their entwined tails dangled over her left shoulder. And Adeline wore her hat, black and smart.
The rest of the family followed. Maria was enthralled by the foxes, their sharp glassy eyes and black-button noses. She, too, wore her best dress. She and Philip, solemn in their importance, had promised to sit quietly throughout the entire concert.
As Herbert stood aside to allow his wife to enter the front row, a ripple of whispers swept the hall. “Herr Hofrat,” the voices rustled, like many little leaves, leaves of the weeping willow, shaken out of weeping into a moment of recognition. “With his family.”
The rustling of the audience gathered force, swept from the first rows to the last and up into the first and second balconies. “Herr Hofrat!” Leaning forward, the audience was composed almost entirely of refugees, all of whom had turned out to hear their own, their finest musicians in this city of strangers.
Herbert, embarrassed, sank into his seat. But Adeline stood up immediately, poking him with her elbow. Applause ricocheted off the chandeliers, the royal red velvet curtains, the gilded moldings. Herbert became smaller. Graciously, Adeline turned and faced the audience. She inclined her head regally while she adjusted the little foxes, their bared, snarling teeth, around her neck with one delicate gloved hand. She bowed, her nostrils flaring with the exhilaration of being once again center stage. There had been times when she had been applauded like this in the past. She smiled, self-satisfied.
But the audience would not be quiet, would not sit down. On their feet, they continued to applaud. Their cries rose to the ceiling. “Herr Hofrat!”
Herbert hunched modestly in his seat. But finally, when it was clear that the audience would not stop until he did something, he raised one hand and gave a little wave. “Thank you, my friends. Now, please, sit down.”
The great animal of the audience swelled. There was the noise of many people creaking, the rustling of old coats, the smell of wet wool, the readjusting of bodies into seats, and a few coughs.
Herbert hated displays of any kind. “I am so tired,” he thought.
A hush in the hall, and a single spotlight on the rich velvet curtains. The chandeliers were dimmed, their luster fading slowly. Maria leaned forward in her seat. Her chest would almost burst with the beauty of anticipation, royal red excitement of the just-before.
The Tolstoi Quartet entered onto the stage in Germanic precision, stopping in front of Herbert, aligned, to bow once, briskly, before taking their seats. Instruments gleamed in their gloved hands. The first violinist nodded. And then the music began.
Mozart, of course. The music poured, con brio, out of the musicians’ instruments. They swayed, obedient to their masters, bridled, then lifted and galloped. The chariot of the music took hold of Carnegie Hall, and as in the chariot of Phoebus Apollo, the audience was borne upward, up toward the sun itself. Life, the giver of life: Mozart, a golden god, like rays of the sun, showered notes upon the listeners.
The music lifted the listeners to the rafters of the great hall and then opened the roof so that they were dispersed into the starry sky. And through this music, they were vouchsafed another glimpse of the Europe they had left.
Not the Europe of sighs, of darkness. Not the Europe of prejudice disguised as new intellectual thought. Not the Europe of bigotry and jealousy. For hadn’t insatiable jealousy been the innate cause of this diaspora? The Jews knew it, much as they tried to hide their scorn for the stupidity of “the blond, blue-eyed ones.” The jealousy. How they feared it. It started among children way before the school yard. But in Europe, nothing stopped it. The Continent ran on jealousy. Territorial expansion, covetousness. A small, mean series of countries where everyone knew everybody else’s business.
As the music lifted in Carnegie Hall, another Europe, the “real Europe,” or perhaps the “best of Europe,” was to be heard, reminding the audience of its presence. The unreal, romantic Europe of storybooks. The Europe of beauty, of delicate music and flowers and wine and flirtatious glances. Beautiful meals served beautifully. A Europe of gracious people who wished only to enjoy themselves and think about the meaning of life at the same time. A Europe that valued education. And culture. And beauty, carefully cultivated. The cafés open along the boulevard Unter den Linden. The Tiergarten, with its many flowers just waiting to bloom in neat gardens along the paths. The churches. The Platzes and squares. The crystal, the china, the pastry gleaming with sugar and butter in the elegant rooms of the Hotel Sacher. Love affairs. Perfume. Music. Baroque architecture.
The naked Klimt girls, with their jeweled long hair and jeweled eyes, swirling above eye level. The grapes and cupids and goddesses on the stone windowsills of buildings. The ornamentation of life. Everywhere, what was man-made was made to delight the senses. Nothing was simply what it seemed.
Listening to the concert, the refugees strolled once more along the Ring. They sat in the park and let the sun warm their tired bodies. They drank Kaffee mit Schlag. They talked, talked endlessly. About everything and nothing. Once more, they felt the hopefulness of their philosophies. Philosophy that would soon blow to nothing in the light of history. But for now, a belief in education and in culture. Rational man. Some kind of hope.
As if that could somehow veil the underlying barbarism that they had up until now believed was to be found only in America and in some regions of Siberia. Places where the natives were not civilized enough to appreciate Mozart.
When the concert was over, the Mozart, the Haydn, and the Beethoven, the audience would not be quieted. Encore after encore. Finally, the first violinist held up a white-gloved hand. And the Tolstoi Quartet sat down again and played one Strauss waltz after another until the sun came up on a new day in New York.
Only then did the audience agree to go home, picking up their old coats from their chairs, folding the programs and carefully putting them away and taking themselves and their sleeping children out into the streets of New York. Day was beginning in this icy new world, sharp and beautiful and bright. The first rays of the frosty morning sun touched the first skyscrapers. The Quartet packed up their instruments. They were getting ready for their tour now. Mozart and the old masters were in their guardianship.
Herbert ushered his family out into the breaking day. Maria sighed, lavish with the music she still heard. The family clasped the music to them as Adeline did her little foxes. They wrapped their coats, their music around them. The wind beat against David as he tightened his coat around his neck and, with his free hand, held Ilse against him. Neither of them spoke. Ilse carried Philip, and Maria clung to the hem of her coat. Herbert and Adeline walked together thoughtfully.
Maria heard the silver strains of the music as she walked, half-asleep. In counterpoint against it, jazzy, optimistic, came another sound. Morning in New York: another song.
“Come, children,” Ilse said briskly. “Look, we’ve been up all night.” The children tried to clear their eyes.
“Remember this.” Herbert sighed. “You will not hear a concert like this again.”
At home, a supper—now a breakfast—had been laid out in the little room. All was waiting for the family, the Quartet, and the audience known to Herbert and Adeline. They would host their friends, drink and talk into the full bloom of day.
Walking homeward, Ilse and David thought exhaustedly of their couch, and their desire to be quiet together, to sleep. “Father has so many friends,” David said, sighing, resigned, when the celebration had only been in the planning stages.
“We do this for your parents,” Ilse reminded him. “It is our farewell to the city of New York.” She looked at David tenderly. “Soon we shall have our own room together. Be patient, my darling.”
“Herr Hofrat!” The Tolstoi Quartet, flushed and shining and out of breath, caught up with the little family just as they entered the foyer of the apartment building.
Far away, in a turquoise and fuchsia land of palm trees and jungles and dust, the homunculus that had once been Anna, the little Rat, stirred uneasily, enclosed in a jar. And the fingerprints of Rasputin blazed, dancing once more to music sensed rather than heard. The marks on her body flickered out forever.
Felix, ensconced in an underground laboratory, happily engaged in holding her jar up to light, found himself humming. He whistled, recognizing it was Mozart he was whistling. “Beautiful, eh, Schatzie?” he said as the dog wagged her behind, happy that her master was in such a good mood. Felix squinted once again at the jar. “It was a good trade, was it not, my darling?”