Chapter 15

I needed proper clothes for my first high society event. Marta called ahead to Hurwitz & Sohn. Moshe and Nathan Hurwitz—father and son—were the best and fastest tailors in Berlin. Everyone in the Nightingale used them for costumes and their everyday clothing.

Their shop was on Hausvogteiplatz, a street populated with talented tailors who, a century ago, began to reproduce Parisian haute couture.

“Marta said you needed the latest in Berlin chic,” Moshe, the father, said, “ . . . by tonight.” He whipped off the yellow cloth measuring tape slung around his neck and measured: arms, legs, inseam, neck, and torso. “Oy,” he repeated with each new measurement.

“Is there a problem making me a suit?”

He raised his hands. “For us, there are no problems. We pride ourselves in pleasing every customer. What sort of suit did you have in mind?”

I didn’t know, nor did I have to. Combining Marta’s instructions, Moshe’s expertise, and some unknown seamstress toiling somewhere nearby, I owned the latest-styled suit with a perfect fit, in a matter of hours.

*

The taxi chugged past a series of ornate mansions styled after Italian palazzos until we came to Haus Bechstein. This two-story villa, with its many turrets pointing skyward, had the feel of a medieval cathedral. The livery turned into one end of a u-shaped driveway. We climbed four weathered marble stairs that lead to arched-shaped doors. A tuxedoed manservant ushered us to a salon filled with walking, talking mannequins from Berlin’s grace and wealth.

I spied Wolf wearing a new blue suit with a crisp white shirt and collar, a drab tie, and shiny black patent leather shoes. His uneasiness was palpable. Emil, on the other hand, was in another part of the room with a woman old enough to be his mother.

The women present went from deathly thin to matronly. Most were dressed in ornate silk gowns rimmed with necklaces of blazing jewels. Their fingers were bedecked with diamonds. There was a large fireplace at one end of the room and a concert grand piano with the lid propped open at the other.

Wolf’s reputation preceded him. He was surrounded by a cluster of society ladies that made no attempt to hide their fascination with a man connected to violence.

Marta and I ambled toward them. When I caught Wolf’s eye, he excused himself and grabbed my arm. “There you are, Friedrich. And with the beautiful Marta.” He bowed deeply, cupped her hand, and brought it to his lip in his best Austrian manner. When he straightened, his glowing eyes locked onto hers. “Friedrich told me you were beautiful, but I had no idea you were this wondrous.”

“Danke, Herr Hitler,” she said with a smile meant to conquer. As a Nightingale veteran, Marta took Hitler in stride.

“Fräulein Marta, please call me Wolf.” With that, Wolf threaded his arms through Marta’s and mine and ushered us to meet our hosts, the Bechsteins.

The Bechsteins were a dozen years older than Wolf. Frau Bechstein could barely stop pawing him. “Isn’t he charming,” she whispered to Marta.

Wolf bowed. “Frau Bechstein, I am unworthy of your kindness.” He brought her hand to his lips and a smile to Frau Bechstein’s face.

“Herr Hitler, you must come and meet the others.” Before Wolf could answer, Frau Bechstein whisked him away to a knot of men conversing in a far corner.

The dynamic of rich men and women speaking to other rich men and women in hushed tones fascinated me. In the end, I knew people were just people. Take them out of their fancy garb, put them in a sauna, and they looked no different than the rest of us. Yet in this setting, it was their carriage and the way they interacted that made them different.

It soon became clear that Wolf was right to change his approach to access this wealth. Wolf reassured the industrialists they had nothing to fear from us. More to the point, they needed us to fight the Communists who vowed to take everything from them, while we would not.

I was not so sure, however, how this change of attitude would go down with others in our party. Most of the top men called themselves socialists . . . and meant it.

Frau Bechstein was the epitome of the perfect hostess. After introducing Wolf to a knot of men, Frau Bechstein presented me to Hugo and Elsa Bruckmann. Hugo was a wealthy publisher and Elsa had money in her own right. “The Bruckmanns are visiting from Munich. You must introduce them to Herr Hitler. They will be most interested in what he has to say.”

As Frau Bechstein glided away, I shepherded the Bruckmanns to Wolf who stood in the center of a group of new admirers.

Frau Bruckmann gushed. “I will forever be in Frau Bechstein’s debt for this introduction. Now that we have finally met you, we want to give our support, Herr Hitler. Isn’t that right, Hugo?”

Hugo rolled his eyes as if to say, “Here we go again.”

I searched for Marta who now had her own gaggle of admirers. I studied her from afar. Marta could not have looked more elegant. Her dress hugged in a way that enhanced her athletic form. I was proud of the way men clustered around her. I slipped next to her. “Care to join me where it’s less noisy?”

With champagne glasses in hand, we strolled past the large grand piano nestled on three stout, ornate legs. A young girl, perhaps twelve years old, waylaid us.

“My name is Lisolette Bechstein, but most people call me Lotte.”

“Are you the daughter?” I asked.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Your name gave it away.”

She crossed her arms across her budding chest. “Sometimes I wish it were different so I could be like everyone else.”

“If I had your name I would shout it from the rooftops,” said Marta.

“Well, Lotte, this is Marta Feidt and I’m Friedrich Richard. We are with Herr Hitler.”

Lotte trapped her lower lip under her top teeth . . . forming a question. “Everyone flocks to Herr Hitler. Is he as special as they say?”

“I just met him,” said Marta, “but I can already tell he is a most special man.”

Lotte clapped her hands in glee. She looked at me with doe eyes. “Can you introduce me?”

“Before I do, I have a question.” I stared at the name imprinted across the fallboard above the keys. “Your name is Bechstein and the piano is labeled ‘Bechstein.’ I am guessing that it is no coincidence.”

Lotte’s plain-featured face beamed. “My grandfather, Carl, founded the company almost seventy years ago. We’re the largest piano manufacturer in Europe.” Then her smile faded. “At least we were until the British confiscated our manufacturing plant, our showroom with its inventory, and the concert hall we built in London. The same thing happened in Paris.”

“Lotte, your home is beautiful,” Marta said.

“I know what you’re thinking. How can we afford to still live here?” Her innocence had no filter. “We have lots of money.”

“Both pretty and smart,” I said. “Is there anything left of your factories?”

“Oh, we still have the one here in Berlin. Papa says we can’t afford to lose our trained craftsmen, so we continue to manufacture pianos.”

“Who has the money to buy them these days?” asked Marta.

“No one,” said Lotte. “We give them away for free so we can keep our workers employed. This ensures that the quality of our pianos continues. Otherwise, Papa says, if our pianos did not maintain their high standards, our name would be tarnished forever.”

I ran my hand across the Bechstein logo. “This piano is magnificent.”

“Do you play?” asked Lotte

“I dabble.” The piano in the salon at Pension Schmidt was a poor man’s version of this celebrated instrument.

“I would love to hear you dabble . . . except your hands look too large to fit on the keys.”

I jiggled my fingers. “Somehow they work.”

Marta nudged me. “Do it, Friedrich. I’ve never heard you play.”

“Now? With all these people?”

Wide-eyed, Lotte pushed. “They are so engrossed in their conversations they won’t notice.”

“It’s not that I mind embarrassing myself, Fräulein Lotte, but I don’t want to ruin the party.”

“Please, Herr Friedrich?” She pointed to the piano bench.

I edged onto the cushioned seat. The bench groaned from my weight. I held my breath, waiting for it to collapse. When it didn’t, I pushed down on the right foot pedal, the sustaining pedal, and heard a whoosh. I released it and pressed the middle pedal, the sostenuto. The one on the left was known as the soft pedal. I wiggled my fingers, placed them on the keyboard, where they moved across the white ivory with a life of their own. The Bechstein piano had rich and sonorous tones, and the room filled with glorious sounds. Notes soared. I was lost in the beauty of the instrument, in the purity of its sound.

All around guests grew quiet. My heart thumped in my chest, rivulets of sweat poured down my face and in the small of my back . . . and yet I played on. A crowd gathered around the piano. I came to the finale, a crescendo of prestissimo octaves that covered almost the entire range of the keyboard. When I struck the last notes, I held them an extra beat. The ordeal was over. I sat exhausted, hunched over, head down. Afraid to look up.

Then the room erupted with cheers. “Bravo! Bravo!”

Marta threw her arms around me and kissed the back of my neck. “You were spectacular. I can’t believe you kept this from me!”

“Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody Number 2,” shouted Frau Bechstein. She leaned into Wolf. “Why didn’t you tell me your young associate was so talented?”

Wolf, still clapping, answered. “We all have our secrets. This was his . . . until this moment.” And then he gave me a look, with raised eyebrows and a quizzical smile, as if to say, “Why the hell did you do that?”

So much for staying out of the limelight.

“That was fabulous, Friedrich. Did you know that Liszt had his very own Bechstein piano? My grandfather made it for him,” said Lotte.

“I can’t believe I played on this one. Thank you.”

Frau Bechstein made her way to my side. “You did not just play on a Bechstein,” she said, “you conquered it. You must come back for a recital. I insist.”

Edwin Bechstein sidled over to me. “I saw you play in Vienna. It was an all-Schubert program.”

“You must be mistaken Herr Bechstein. I’ve never been to Vienna.”

“When it comes to music, I do not make mistakes. Herr Richard, I have heard you play. Perhaps not Vienna . . . but somewhere. You realize this is Haus Bechstein. The greatest pianists in the world have played for us. Your phrasing, the way you used the pedals, no, I am certain I have heard you play before.” He turned to his wife. “Haven’t we, Helene?”

My eyes pleaded with Wolf to rescue me. Why did I make such a spectacle?

“Friedrich will soon join me in Munich,” said Wolf. “When he does return to Berlin, I am certain he will be pleased to play for you again.”

Hearing that, Marta squeezed my hand. When the fuss over my piano playing died down, she blurted, “When the hell were you going to tell me you were leaving Berlin?” Her eyes puddled.

“I just heard about Munich when you did. When I met Wolf and Emil for lunch yesterday, Munich was never mentioned. Not even a hint. He said it to get me out of being obligated to come back soon. Don’t make anything of it.” I reached to reassure her but she stepped back, dabbing her eyes.

“Are you just saying that to let me down easy?”

I took her by the shoulders. “Marta, I have never cared for anyone as much as I care for you. You must believe me. I had no . . .”

“There you are.” We both turned to find Lotte. “There is something I would like to ask you.” Lotte’s cheeks reddened. “Does he have a special person?”

“Who?”

“Herr Hitler, of course.”

“You mean a fräulein? Herr Hitler’s romance is with Germany. He has given himself to his country,” I answered.

“He is so mesmerizing. So romantic. So mysterious. Mother says I should get to know Herr Hitler better. Can you help me?”

I glanced his way; Wolf was conversing with guests. “At the next opportunity.”

Pleased to hear this, Lotte turned away.

Marta waited for Lotte to be out of range. “Just so you know, I do believe that you didn’t know about returning to Munich.” Then her eyes widened; she kissed me on the cheek.

“What was that for?”

“You were brilliant. Why didn’t I know you could play like a virtuoso?”

No matter how close Marta and I became, I would not admit her into the tiny circle of those that knew the truth about me: Wolf, Anna, and a couple of doctors.

“When I was younger, my parents forced me to play the piano while all of my friends played football. They made me practice every day. I hated it. I tried to quit, but they wouldn’t let me. My teacher told them I had talent. That was all they had to hear. They forced me to plug on until one day I refused to play anymore. They pleaded for me to reconsider, but I held fast. The truth is I enjoyed playing the piano but not hour after hour. So I stopped. Then the war came . . . that was that.”

“There were musicians who entertained the soldiers away from the front.”

“I wasn’t one of them. I was in the trenches. I wasn’t drawn to the piano when I worked at Max’s. But something clicked when I went to Kitty’s. It called to me. I started to tinker at the keys and when I did, it was like magic. Everything came back. Maybe it’s muscle memory. Maybe I liked it because it was my choice and no one else’s.”

“Whatever the reasons, Friedrich Richard, today you made your parents proud.”

I hope so, whoever they are.