Chapter 2

Frank was now sitting in the back seat of a car. He was still none the wiser as to where he was being taken, or why he had been separated from the group. He knew he was in no position to ask questions. He didn’t even dare to lean back in the seat. He was sitting stiffly, looking at his coarse, heavy hands lying on his lap. He noted with some dull resignation that he didn’t want any answers. Not now, not yet. This intermission was too precious to be wasted. Every pore of his being was soaking up hungrily the fragmented glimpses sliding past him.

What a beautiful day it was! It looked just as beautiful as it had sounded through the walls of the lorry. Frank knew he wasn’t supposed to see or enjoy it. Out of the corner of his eye he stole glances at the ordinary scenes of ordinary life. Life. A man repairing his car by the side of the road. His little son squatting nearby and hitting a stone with a spanner. Two girls pedalling away on their bicycles. One of them shouted something to the other over her shoulder. She had blue ribbons in her pleated hair and a lavish bunch of wild flowers balanced between the handlebars of her bicycle. As the car overtook the girl, the buttercups glided past Frank, bobbing their bright heads cheerfully. Then there was a dog chasing a group of screaming children, two women hanging up their washing. Lovely pictures that had no idea how lovely they were. They flashed by, far too quickly for his disabled senses to take them in. He was stringing them hurriedly like beads. Later – if there’s still any ‘later’ for him – he’ll be savouring each, rubbing their bright colours between his fingers, imagining their smells and sounds. Forbidden joy, stolen or borrowed. Surely there was a price to be paid. ‘I’ll soon find out…’

The car sped on smoothly, purring like a well-fed cougar. The scenery was changing in the meanwhile. The countryside was left behind. It was a landscape now, fresh and cheerful in its spring attire. The green leaves, yet untouched by heat and dust, glittered brightly, and he imagined he could hear them rustle in the wind. The day began to wane, he noted; the shadows stretched and swept across the moving car like a cool, loosely knitted shawl. Houses peeked through the thick canopies and quickly slipped out of view. Just as he wondered again when and where this bliss was going to end, the car turned off the main road, slowing down slightly and then gaining speed with a soft pull. He swayed back and the leather seat obediently took the weight of his reclining back. He could almost hear his shoulders, spine, legs moan gratefully and he was suddenly in so much pain he could barely breathe. Fortunately, the fit soon subsided, and trickles of air started seeping into his contracted lungs. He opened his eyes and looked stealthily at the driver, who apparently hadn’t noticed anything. In a couple of minutes the car pulled into a driveway. Still feeling a little giddy, Frank stepped out onto the warm gravel and looked around to see a white villa of exquisite Neo-Renaissance beauty, half-hidden behind lush lime trees.

He was led inside through the back door, along dim corridors. The air was cool, fragrant of citrus fruit. He could hear a lively commotion somewhere in the house and as he walked, the sound grew louder and louder until he reached its source and was left to wait at the entrance to a large sunlit room.

It looked like the end of a family dinner. About half a dozen of children were chasing each other around, enjoying the fun they were allowed to have and doing so reasonably, knowing that the adults might be busy with their conversations but not too busy to tolerate the noise if it got too loud. The table had already been cleared. The adults were sitting at the far end of the room, sipping their drinks, talking. The radio was mumbling in its corner, sullen and forgotten; its monotonous singing was drowned out by the animated conversation and bursts of laughter.

Frank stood still, mesmerized by the scene and the sound of a dance tune played on the radio. He hadn’t been noticed yet. Maybe it was the slightly hazy air sliced by the slanting rays of the evening sun that did the trick. For a moment he considered going back to the corridor and wait there, but he couldn’t move. He thought that if he stirred, the magic would dissipate and he would become visible.

A woman in a white apron came in through the opposite entrance, carrying a tray with lemonade. The children surrounded her, clamouring and pushing each other. One of the women got up from her chair, put down her cup, and helped to hand out the glasses. ‘Children, quiet! Erich, be a darling, switch off the radio. Erich!’ Erich didn’t bother, and the radio remained on. A group of men suddenly laughed in unison at something a large man was saying. He looked very pleased with himself, his fleshy face was red with excitement. He leant back in his armchair, gesticulating with his cigar and trying to speak over the laughter.

The maid collected empty cups and glasses and headed for the door almost bumping into a teenage boy who had just entered the room. He stepped aside to let her pass and lingered by the door instead of joining the company. ‘What is it now?’ ‘Your parents wanted to see you about something…’ 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 jacket and knee-length trousers. His wavy blond hair was neatly cut and parted on the side. Fresh suntan, peeling nose – a splendid picture of healthy Arian youth. When he saw Frank, his blue eyes widened and stared.

Frank turned around as he heard a woman’s voice behind his back.

‘I knew you’d be surprised, dearest. You remember Robert Frankel, your early teacher. He is here to mentor you again.’

Frank recognized the woman immediately – Frau Krauss, thinner and older than he remembered. ‘And her son is… He can’t be…’ Frank turned to look again and was slightly startled to see that the boy was now standing right in front of him.

He grabbed Frank by the arm and spoke in a brisk, categorical tone:

‘It’s bedlam in here. We are going to the garden.’

‘There are rules, young man…’ a man’s voice warned loudly over the noise of laughter and chatter. ‘Magda, tell him…’

‘Your father is saying that Herr Frankel is not a guest…’

‘Have a nice squabble, you both,’ Helmut said dragging Frank away. ‘I think I’ll miss this one.’

The French window rattled as he closed it behind him.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said in English. ‘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. Had he heard right? Could it really be true that the ultimate purpose of his journey was to play music? Or was it just another cruel dream? That and everything else around him – the garden, the sun, the warm, fragrant air, the dandified boy walking beside him, kicking the grass.

‘Your English has improved,’ Frank said cautiously to cover up the fact that he had been barely listening.

Helmut laughed.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘To think only I couldn’t say ‘Tea for Two’ once without making five mistakes… I lived in England with my relatives for seven years. I only moved here two months ago. This place is awful, nothing like Leipzig. It doesn’t really matter, because I’m going to New York soon… 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 sideways and said after a moment’s hesitation:

‘I thought you were in New York.’

‘I was. I returned home about two years ago.’

‘But you did very well there. They talked about you even in London.’

‘You’re exaggerating, of course…’

‘I’m not!’ Helmut protested, getting more and more excited. ‘I knew many people who admired your band and sought out your records… And I have quite a collection of magazines I bought in London – I read everything there was to read about jazz… I’ve watched the films you wrote the score for, about a thousand times each! Your ‘Matilda’ is an absolute masterpiece, by the way, we must play it here and now. Oh, you’ll never guess! I have your recording of Chopin’s E minor Concerto. Can you believe it?’

Frank was surprised and touched. He also felt deeply embarrassed because he didn’t have much to say in return.

‘I couldn’t always follow your progress, Herr Krauss, but I’ve heard from my colleague about your successful debut in London…’

‘Herr Krauss?! 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 twenty-six,’ he counted, ‘that makes him, what, seventeen or eighteen?’

Helmut looked younger, maybe because of his medium height, or maybe because of that healthy thinness and springiness about him that suggested he had been routinely exercising since an early age. Swimming and tennis, Frank remembered. And of course he remembered everything else. Good old days in Leipzig. Frank was studying at the conservatoire then; Helmut was a small boy, spoilt, ill-bred, but distinctly talented. They practised 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’s face fell again.

‘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 rise to dizzy heights, you and I!’

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 your parents were trying to say 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 unspoken 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.