Hidden Away (4 page)

After a moment, his eyes opened. He turned them to me before I could shake myself out of the stupor that had befallen me. I felt trapped in his gaze as he locked eyes with me. “Now it’s you,” he whispered.

It was enough to shock me out of my ridiculousness. I’d missed my cue to begin playing. Stomach knotted at my failure, I forced my fingers to play. I had practiced this piece numerous times and could perform it perfunctorily without needing to intellectualize it.

Besides, I was busy berating myself for the missed cue, and pushing myself to ensure it never happened again.

I looked up for a moment and saw the handsome violinist staring at me, the smile tugging at his lips. His eyes sparkled as they once again caught me. His expression was soft, and it was hard to look away from him. But as my heart jumped into my throat, I had to look elsewhere.

I made it through the rest of the evening, but only because it ended quickly. While the others were relatively fast in packing up and moving toward the exit of the hall, I lingered, as I tended to avoid certain social situations that required me to talk to people I thought were my superiors.

But I had nothing to pack up, so I ran my fingers over the black and white keys. I turned around, facing the seats in the house and gulped when I saw Peter Waldenheim standing in the aisle next to the front row, his eyes once again trained on me. He held a dark brown fedora hat in one hand, his violin case in the other.

“Some of us are going out,” he said, the ever present smile complemented by the intriguing twinkle in his dark blue eyes.

Friends from university had told me about the nightclubs they visited. While most were frowned upon since the Anschluss, there were some that apparently were still acceptable. I had never gone to one. It never seemed like a comfortable scene for me. Besides, my uncle was strict in regards to socially acceptable behavior.

Under his unyielding eyes, I bowed my head and looked at my shoes.

It was only when he asked, “What do you say?” that I realized I hadn’t responded to the obvious invitation he’d just extended.

I shook my head and picked at the cotton fabric of my slacks with my fingers. When I’d gathered my courage, I looked up. He was still looking at me with that smile playing on his lips. Instead of the normal heavy feeling in my gut, the butterflies took off again under the intensity of his gaze. “I should get home.”

The smile remained as he said, “It’s not late.” Shifting my weight, I tried to think of a substantial excuse to use. I didn’t want to tell him that my uncle was very particular in regards to my whereabouts, or that the possibility of spending an evening of leisure with a great man like the renowned Herr Waldenheim was just too much for me. I would be nervous all night. I already felt sick at the thought of it; I didn’t want to enhance that feeling. It was safer for me to return to my aunt and uncle’s home and retire to my room.

I shook my head again. “I should go home and practice. Obviously, I—”
“You sounded perfect, Kurt. The only thing lacking was your timing, but you can’t work on that alone. We’ll all be back tomorrow. Come out with us.”

Somehow I took a step toward the stairs leading off stage. As I descended down into the house, I found my voice again. “I don’t usually go out. I wouldn’t know….” I trailed off as soon as I was face to face with Peter.

“We’ll take good care of you,” he said quietly. “Please join us.”

I couldn’t look at him any longer. He created such a strange sensation within me. I longed to be on my way back home, away from the intensity of these feelings. I felt uncomfortable, but the pull to him was as obvious to me as the decadence of the golden hall in which we stood.

Once again, I declined with a shake of my head. “I must go.”

When I looked back up at him, his smile had shifted. Something in it told me he saw right through me. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a question. I had a feeling we would repeat this interaction the next evening. I wanted to tell him I would not go out with him tonight or tomorrow or a week from tomorrow, but instead, I heard myself say, “Perhaps.”

He seemed to accept this, and together we walked out of the Musikverein. Outside, under the awning, he turned to me and held out his hand. “It was my pleasure to meet you, Kurt Klein,” he said as I took the offered hand in mine. The feeling that it was more than a simple pleasantry swept through me once again.

“It was mine,” I returned.

 

At this, his face broke into another huge grin. “Until tomorrow.”

Peter joined the others, and with a simple “Good night” to the group, I turned and headed away from the concert hall, away from Peter Waldenheim, and back toward the regulated life I knew.

The walk home was pleasant. It was cold, but no new snow fell. The streets grew less crowded as I made my way east. My aunt and uncle lived in a very nice apartment overlooking a large park. While it had thrilled my parents that I was given the chance to live with them, the austerity of their home was difficult for a child of nine.

Eleven years later, it was still uncomfortable for me, but my uncle provided relatively easy means for me to live. As long as I followed his rules of decency and actively engaged in society, I was allowed free room and board. Now that my training was complete, the expectation of obtaining employment was explicit.

My uncle was a businessman at heart, even if he only owned bakeries. His mind was ever on improving his position. While he would have preferred me to study more practical subjects, not even he could deny my proclivity and talent for music. That is why the new performance with some of the most celebrated musicians in the Reich was so important. It was my uncle’s hope—and thus
my
hope—that it would give me even further exposure. The ultimate goal was to be offered state employment with the Nazis. He had grand ideas of my return to Munich or, better yet, my arrival in Berlin to play for the highest of the high ranking members of the party.

It would serve twofold. It would get me out of his hair, and it would also elevate him. He longed to be seen as a man of vast patriotism to the German fatherland. He would go on at length about what he should do or how he would act if given the opportunity to meet Hitler.

It would bring me pleasure to be able to give that honor to my uncle. Perhaps then he would see my true worth.

But tonight, I returned home with nothing more than memories of a nearly failed rehearsal.
I was not acknowledged until I entered the sitting room, bowed my head, and wished my aunt and uncle “Good evening.”
“Ah, Kurt!” my aunt greeted, rising from the sofa and crossing over to me. She put her hands on my upper arms, then kissed my cheek. “Are you hungry?”
“He can get his own food,” my uncle interrupted from the plush chair by the fire. “Sit.”
I did as he asked. He did not lower the paper in front of his face, but I didn’t need to see his expression to know it was critical. “How did you perform?”
I furrowed my brow as I tried to think of the best possible phrasing for what I knew to be a relatively dismal performance. “There are some issues to work out, but as first rehearsals go, we sounded very nice.”
The paper folded, and I was met with the cold blue eyes that had sent waves of shame through me from the time I was a boy. “I did not ask how everyone performed or how the group sounded. I asked how
you
performed.”

“Very well, sir,” I lied.

“Good.” The paper went back up, and I drew my eyes up as well. “I hear we may have visitors from Germany. Peter Waldenheim is highly thought of in sophisticated circles. This is an opportunity of a lifetime for you, Kurt. I expect you’ll be making the most of it.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I will practice as much as possible and will spend every waking moment perfecting—”

“Waking moment?” my uncle said loudly. Once again, his paper folded down. I was pinned under his glare. “You should be dreaming of this as well. The Reich has need of musicians. Every day they broadcast music to keep morale up, as well as deflate the enemy. You are skilled. This is your chance to let them see you as an asset instead of a drain.”

I knew the last words were a direct commentary on how he saw me. To him, I was a drain on his resources. He hadn’t wanted me, but he could not deny his wife the pleasure of “saving” her sister’s son from poverty.

“Yes, sir,” I said again—my most repeated phrase.

 

“You performed well?” he asked again.

“Yes, sir.” The way he was looking at me made me feel as though he knew something more. As if he’d been in the concert hall and watched my blunders. “Well, sir, I had a small issue with my timing in relation to when to come in, but other than that—”

“Then you’d best start practicing. You have another rehearsal tomorrow.”

 

I stood up, his words dismissing me. “Yes, sir.”

 

My aunt stopped me from going directly to my room. “Not before dinner, Kurt.”

It earned her a glare from my uncle, but I was delighted that she cared enough to speak up. I was hungry. I did not relish the idea of practicing for another two hours before they retired, leaving me free access to the kitchen.

My aunt took me by my hand and led me to the dining room. The food was already in place on the table. When I sat down, I expressed my thanks. As I began to eat, she ruffled my hair. “You look so much like your mother.”

I swallowed the bite of potato, dabbed my lips with my napkin, and looked up at her. “Have you heard from her?”

Aunt Anja’s face fell slightly. “Your father is not so well.”

I let out a breath, but then continued eating. He had been ill for quite some time now. Just as my aunt always told me, worrying about it wouldn’t help him recover.

“Don’t worry, dear. He’ll be fine.” She paused, then, “And when you’re playing for the elite in Berlin, you’ll have enough money to make him well again.”

Saying nothing, I smiled at her. When I was finished with my meal, I washed up the dishes. As I passed through the sitting room on the way to mine, my uncle mumbled, “About damned time.”

Alone in my room, I moved to my piano and began to play. The sheet music was in front of me, but I didn’t need it. I’d always had a way of learning the music easily enough. I made no mistakes, and the ability to play flawlessly left my mind with ample time to think about the day, and more importantly, think about the tall man with the violin. The man whose eyes seemed to see into the core of me. Whose hands were more beautiful than any work of art. Whose smile was sure to haunt me.

Chapter 3

 

Berkeley, California
1951

T
HE
more I think about the German janitor, the sicker I feel. The idea of a Nazi living and working this close to me makes my stomach clench and all the hair on my body stand on end. I know not all German soldiers believed in the politics of the Nazis, but they fought for Hitler and
his
politics. It was because of their service that many of my friends were killed. It was because of their protection that those horrible camps were allowed to exist.

I try to put it out of my mind and simply enjoy my morning coffee. I try to remember that without participating in the war, I would be back in Oklahoma, making bricks or worse, doing nothing. It is a hard thing to remember today that I am happy pursuing higher education. For the past few days, I have been obsessing about the man at school.

My dreams have progressed to outright nightmares. It is only four in the morning and yet I am up. Many of my friends in arms took to drinking to quell their dreams. While I enjoy a beer or a stiff glass of whiskey, I know they are poor substitutes for healing, but still, sometimes I fight to ignore alcohol’s call.

Coffee and cigarettes are also poor methods of healing, but I can think clearly, which is my best armor against the thoughts that plague me. The enclosed porch I added onto my house last year is my sanctuary. Since leaving the service, there was very rarely heavy labor in my life. There was a particular sense of satisfaction I derived from carrying the lumber from the bed of my truck to my house as Charles and his friend sat in chairs on the grass and sipped cocktails.

I was filled with gratitude when the porch was completed. My time overseas gave me the funds to purchase this house and modify it. The screened enclosure allows me to sit and ponder the world, letting the night surround me, but not leaving me exposed.

Charles thought it would be perfect for entertaining—still does—but I am not a man who entertains. There are times when I wish I could be carefree like him. Perhaps if I was as a younger man—a man who had seen less suffering, a man who maintained honor and hope.

Hope. I sit and think on that for hours. I am not a hopeless guy. I have faith that everything will be okay, but that faith does not make the journey any less harsh. I wonder after all these years what kind of world I live in when it produces such skewed thoughts as those that created what I saw overseas. Is this world worth a hill of beans when there are mad men around every corner, waiting to inflict supreme suffering on another?

Can I live in the same town with one of them? Can I live knowing such evil is out there?
Just as the sun rises, I come to the conclusion that I know almost nothing about the man who has sparked all of this in me. Gossip from Charles is not gospel. He may be German, but perhaps he’s not. Perhaps I’ve mistaken his accent. I don’t know his age. He might be younger than I think. He might not have participated in the war. If Charles is correct about the man’s “episodes,” perhaps his home had been bombed, or someone in his family brutally killed. The Russians were not kind when taking a city, and I knew better than many that some American troops weren’t either.
I could drive myself to instability with all these thoughts.
There is only one way of figuring it all out. I will need to see this German again. I will need to investigate who he is to find out who he might have been years ago.