1928, Regensburg, Germany
ERICH
My brother Hans and I were running down the hill that separated our parents’ estate from the Bavarian Forest. We made our way to an old abandoned cottage that lay at the foot of that hill. It was dusk, and the night was beginning to encircle us.
“Hans, go inside the house and count to one hundred. I will stay out here.”
“No, Erich, you told me you saw a ghost in that house—I cannot go in there.”
I pushed Hans to the ground and whispered into his ear, “You are a sissy boy, I am the only one who should frighten you.”
I stood up and helped Hans off of the ground.
“Besides, Hans, really, you’re thirteen and should know there are no such things as ghosts. I will go inside.”
I went inside the old cottage—the door I entered through was hanging half off its hinges. It had become dark and the gloom of the cottage enveloped me as I entered. I was afraid and suddenly realized it. With the small amount of light that the flashlight I had brought with me provided, I forced myself to explore some more. I couldn’t let Hans know that I was frightened. I began to count to one hundred but was surprised to hear something and started to tremble.
I heard music and then saw a light up ahead that flickered from some candles. My fear left me, traded for curiosity, and I went into the main room of the cottage to see two older teenagers dancing to jazz music. I stood there, at the entrance of the room, watching them dance. I smiled and started tapping my foot—I had never heard music like this before and I felt an instant electricity. I started to move to it and when the music reached its zenith, I forgot what I was doing or where I was. I was one with this music. This jazz. I didn’t know the name of the music but it knew me and I was heady with it.
However, when the music stopped, when the record was over and the scratch of the rotating needle was the only sound left, I didn’t notice and I gave a loud “whoop” sound of joy. This caused the teenage boy and girl to stop and stare at me. They stared hard, and I realized where I was and became scared again. I froze.
The older boy approached me and said, “So you like jazz, huh, kid?”
I nodded.
The boy went over to the talking machine and gave me the black shiny disk—placed it into my smaller hands, saying, “Here, I have plenty of them, take this and just promise me you will listen to it.”
I nodded and said, “Thank you.”
“Sure, kid, now go on home, it is getting late and you know they say ghosts live here,” he said as he flashed a smile.
My eyes widened at the mention of ghosts and I left promptly. I ran out of the house and past Hans—not stopping along the way until I was up the hill and on my parents’ estate. I was clutching the record and took a moment to look at it in the moonlight—it was a Louis Armstrong record. It was a magical thing to me and it seemed like the boy and girl that I had just seen, and who had given this gift to me, were ghosts. They didn’t seem real, nor did this new music that filled me with such joy.
I walked into my parents’ manor house—through the back porch. I walked into my Father’s study and instantly put on the record. The sound came again and the waves of that sound hit my blood immediately. The music was a drug and put me into a trance. I started to dance to the sound and smiled with joy.
In the grand dining room, my Grandfather and Father, were drinking beer after dinner and chatting.
Hans went into the dining room and told me later what had transpired.
Grandfather had said to my Father, “Carl, what is that sound?”
It surprised Father, the sound, and he said, “I think it is jazz music.”
“You listen to that wicked music, Carl? You have sons …”
“No, I don’t listen to it—I don’t know why it’s playing.”
Grandfather pushed his chair away from the dining table forcefully and followed the music to the study. The sound caused a very different reaction in Grandfather. As the sound got louder and more pronounced, with each step he took toward the study his eyes squinted more and more. He looked as though anger and disgust were pulsating through his veins from the melody.
Finally, Grandfather was standing over me as I danced with my eyes closed.
He cleared his throat.
I stopped dancing and looked up at Grandfather’s face. My joy evaporated.
He walked past me and pulled the needle from the record—ending the beautiful notes. Silencing them.
He shouted, “I never want to hear you listening to this music again. Do you hear me?”
I said, “Grandfather, I …”
“I thought you would say yes; in this case then I must ensure that you don’t …” He raised the record above his head.
I cried, “No please, Grandfather, no please don’t.”
He threw the record with great force of anger upon the marble floor and it broke into pieces.
I ran to Grandfather and punched him in the chest.
Father and Hans were standing at the entrance to the study watching.
Grandfather hugged me hard.
I said, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” through tears.
Grandfather said, “I’d rather you hate me now and be respectable later. This music you are listening to is for niggers and kikes. I will not have my grandson run around acting like a crazy American nigger—this music is tricking you. It is made to make you become unhinged, like—like an animal. It is evil. You are not an animal like those that make this wretched sound. You are superior. You need to act like it. Do you understand?
I said, “Yes, Grandfather.”