not far away, sipping their drinks, talking. Frank stiffened at the sight of a couple of SS uniforms. The bursts of laughter and animated voices contrasted with the forgotten radio mumbling monotonously in its corner.
Frank hadn’t been noticed yet. Maybe it was the dim air sliced by the slanting rays of the evening sun that made the trick. He stood still, mesmerized; he thought if he stirred, he’d become visible.
A woman in a white apron went in through the opposite entrance, carrying a tray with lemonade. The children surrounded her, pushing each other, screaming. One of the women put down her cup and went over to help to hand out the glasses. “Erich, be a darling, switch off the radio. Erich! ’ Erich, whoever he was, didn’t bother, and the radio remained as it was, grumbling a happy tune now. The company of men suddenly laughed in unison at something a large man was saying. He looked very pleased with himself; his shiny face flushed, he leant back in his armchair trying to say something over the laughter and gesticulating with his cigar.
Just after the woman with the tray left, a teenaged boy stepped in: “What is it now?” “Your parents wanted to see you…” His face was bored and sour. He thrust his hands into his pockets and leant against the doorpost. In the cheerful family scene he stuck out like a guest on a reluctant courtesy visit. And he meant it: he was wearing a crisp shirt, a tie, and a new suit – a perfectly fitted tweed jacket and knee-length trousers, not particularly German in style. His wavy blond hair was neatly cut and parted on the side. Fresh suntan, peeling nose. He was a splendid picture of healthy Arian youth. When he caught the sight of Frank, his blue eyes widened and stared.
Frank looked around as he suddenly heard a woman’s voice behind his back:
“I knew you’d be surprised, dearest. You remember your early teacher, Robert Frankel. He is here to mentor you again.”
The woman Frank recognized immediately – Frau Krauss, thinner and older than he remembered. And her son is… “He can’t be…” Frank turned to look again, but the boy was already dragging him away by the elbow:
“It’s bedlam in here – we are going to the garden.”
“There are rules, young man… ’ a man’s voice roared warningly through the noise of the living room. “Magdalena, tell him…”
“Your father is saying that Herr Frankel is not a guest…”
“Have a nice squabble, you both, I think I’ll miss this one,” the glazing gave a sharp tinkle when he pulled the French window shut.
“Sorry about that,” he said in English when they were walking across the loan. “That’s the only manner of speaking they understand…”
A gust of warm wind threw the maddening smell of lilac blossom into Frank’s face. Now that he knew the ultimate purpose of his journey – to play music – he almost fainted and could barely move his legs. The garden, the sun, the warm fragrant air, the dandified boy walking by his side, kicking the grass – everything suddenly felt so wonderfully dizzy and real.
“Your English has improved,” Frank said cautiously to cover up the fact that he’d been barely listening.
“Yeah, to think only I couldn’t say „Tea for Two“ once without making five mistakes,” he laughed. “I’ve lived in England with my relatives for the last eight years. I only returned two months ago. It’s awful here; the place is nothing like I remember. I’m moving to New York, actually. But first I need to reclaim my German to explain to my family what insufferable idiots they are, and how much money I need.”
He glanced at Frank and said after a moment’s hesitation:
“I thought you were in New York.”
“I was. I returned two years ago.”
“But you did very well there. They talked about 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
