Saving Mozart Read online

  I can’t get the D minor Requiem out of my head. Mozart died before he could finish it. He was about the same age as Jesus.

  Monday 4 March 1940

  Double dose of tonic pills. They work!

  Dr. Müller’s medicine cabinet is brimming with treasures. Drugs, poisons, potions. A veritable arsenal of life and death that he can use as and when he wishes. Basically, we’re at his mercy. A drop of arsenic here, a dose of morphine there, and it’s all over.

  To be able to kill whomever one wants, whenever one wants. So many people have that power. Generals, nurses, streetcar drivers who go too fast. There’s nothing more commonplace than a homicide. It’s within everyone’s reach. A motive isn’t always necessary. Rather, a state of mind. A desire.

  The more I write for Hans, the more I realize how preposterous this whole extravaganza is. Salzburger Kultursommer, that’s the name they’ve chosen for the Festspiele this year. The summer of culture!

  Some Beethoven to start, to warm up the audience before hitting it with Bruckner’s Seventh. Mahler admired Bruckner’s music. He said of him that he was “half-simpleton, half-god.” Isn’t that how the Germans see Hitler?

  For the brochure, I merely mention that the Anton Bruckner Conservatory is in Linz, not far from the house where the Führer was born. Obviously, I don’t quote Mahler.

  That first concert is reasonable, I suppose. But the second? To have one of Mozart’s violin concertos, in the Mozarteum no less, preceded by a composition of Wilhelm Jerger! SS Lieutenant Jerger. Very much in vogue. Like Karajan. He’s in charge of reorganizing the Vienna Philharmonic. Which he’s gone about doing with the greatest zeal. Hans was personally acquainted with one of the Jewish musicians Jerger has just had deported to the east. A viola player, like my mother. Jerger himself is a bass player. Originally.

  From Vienna, Wilhelm Jerger brings us a vigorous modern sound, at once baroque and very pure. That’s what I wrote.

  Tuesday 5 March 1940

  The tonic pills strengthen me. And make me nauseous. Everything disgusts me. I hum passages from La Traviata, to forget my heartburn. Libiamo, ne’ lieti calici . . . Opera was the one and only reason I learned Italian.

  I find it hard to work, to concentrate. But I don’t want to disappoint Hans. Or abandon Mozart to his grim fate. O mio rimorso!

  Günter is no braver than I am. His elderly chess partner died yesterday morning. It’s been a blow to him. He says the only reason he wants to keep going is so that he can carry on taking care of the seriously ill patients on the third floor. Which is not very sensible. Spending all that time with the dying, he risks infecting the rest of us.

  I offered him one of my tonic pills. Actually, I’d like to see if they make him nauseous too. I don’t trust Dr. Müller.

  The atmosphere in the sanitarium disgusts me. I can no longer stand the unremitting presence of those emaciated faces, those cardboard masks all around me, lying in wait for me in the corridors, passing me on the stairs, following me to the latrines. Like shadows.

  Saint-Saëns, Danse macabre.

  Wednesday 6 March 1940

  Hans came to see me. Very much on edge. He doesn’t look well. He’s still limping. His ankle still hasn’t healed since the skiing accident.

  I had taken refuge in the chapel to write. Who told him where to find me?

  He looked through my rough drafts and made a few corrections. He’s very pleased with me. I’m a good writer when I want to be. I know how to juggle with grammar, to flush out the perfect word, to turn an elegant sentence. But Hans will still have to submit the texts to the committee, to make sure everything’s all right, everything’s acceptable.

  He brought up the subject of the brass band again. He knows there will be some Italians at the event, some very important Italians. So he needs to dig up a few Italian marches, not just Tyrolean or Bavarian ones. It isn’t easy to find any in the library of the Conservatory. Time is short. Only a few days to prepare everything. Hans doesn’t know the exact date. Or even the place. But the gauleiter is counting on him. And he’s counting on me.

  I made fun of Hans and his constant anxieties. He wasn’t offended. All he said was: You don’t know how it is out there. What’s happening . . .

  And he doesn’t know how it is in here.

  In working as Hans’s ghost writer, his slave in a way, I feel as if I’m selling my soul. And betraying Mozart.

  We’re all slaves of words.

  Thursday 7 March 1940

  Günter is in a delirious state, and sweating profusely. Last night, for the first time, he spat blood. I took the chessboard out. He dictated a few moves, knight to C4, queen to C5, and then fell asleep. Fortunately for me. He was very close to winning the game.

  My tenant didn’t come. She sent me a pan of soup and a little note to apologize. She’s pregnant. Her husband has forbidden her to visit me, because of the germs. With his promotion, they’ll have enough to raise the child and pay the rent. The breaking-in stage for the new model of locomotive is over. It’s going to be unveiled in a few days’ time, on the line going up to the passes, at an official ceremony. Not only official but secret, she added.

  I’m sorry she can’t come to see me anymore. I like her. She’s gentle, very polite, a little naive. She is the only woman I ever see apart from the nurses. I’ve even stopped calling on the services of the cleaning woman, who’s ugly anyway. I still have the urge to make love. But not like that.

  Friday 8 March 1940

  Günter’s bed is empty. Last night they took him to the third floor. I didn’t hear anything.

  I miss him. But going upstairs to see him is out of the question. I’ll just have to stop thinking about him. Forget him. He’s the one who dumped me, after all. Without even finishing our game.

  Haven’t heard from Hans. I hope he isn’t in trouble with the Gestapo because of anything I wrote. All I did was slip a few ironic touches in between the lines, a few nods to the more informed spectators. References to the wise and discriminating choice of works and the discipline of the performances. Anyway, most people who go to concerts don’t understand anything about music. They have much too good an ear for that. Dozens of ears, all sitting there in rows, listening. Transported.

  Strange that the Germans should be such music lovers. Music is a constant process of trial and error . . .

  The fighting on the Finnish front has intensified. The British government is handing out gas masks to the population. In Warsaw, the Jews have been moved to a specially allocated area. The Reichsbahn has announced the production of a new Meiningen diesel engine, which will be stronger and faster.

  Impossible to change the wavelength, the button on the wireless is stuck with glue. The manager told me it was in order to prevent arguments. One of the patients came up to me and whispered in my ear that it was to avoid anyone trying to tune into clandestine radio.

  I can’t forget Günter. I keep trying, but I can’t get his face out of my mind. Like Christ’s in the chapel. But more distinct.

  Saturday 9 March 1940

  No sign of Hans. I’m worried.

  Still nauseous. And finding it harder and harder to breathe. I’m endlessly clearing my throat, and spitting a lot, but not blood. Is Doctor Müller poisoning me? During the examination, he seemed distant, ill at ease. He didn’t say anything when I stared for a long time at the medicine cabinet. Usually he reprimands me. Don’t even think about it, my dear fellow.

  He keeps the key in the pocket of his white coat. At the end of the day, he leaves the sanitarium in his ordinary suit. He leaves his coat hanging from a hook on the back of the door.

  Sunday 10 March 1940

  Dead calm. Glorious day.

  I managed to get into the doctor’s office. The key to the cabinet was there, in his coat. All the flasks are listed, the levels marked with lines, the doses taken written down in a little notebook, with the dates. Ditto for the boxes of pills, with the quantities and dates written on the lids. In a vial,
I made up a little mixture for myself with those syrups and liquids that seemed the most harmful. I restored the levels in the flasks with my own urine, up to the marks. There was also a powder, labeled with a skull. I took a few pinches, which I replaced with dust from the floor. Should I swallow the whole thing now and have done with it? It’s a lovely day to die.

  I’ve decided to go outside one last time and swallow my potion in a park. Or by the river. In short, not to die here like a rat.

  Monday 11 March 1940

  The wall was too high. And besides, on Sunday the gate is closed and the custodian and his son stay in their lodge and get drunk. Impossible to pass without their seeing me. I’ll go out today, just after visiting hours. I’m going to leave this notebook with a notary. Along with my will. In a sealed envelope addressed to Dieter, care of the Austrian Consulate in Haifa. Dieter is an Austrian citizen, after all.

  How could I have forgotten to make a will? How can I die without leaving anything?

  My dear son,

  I’d like you to read this diary as if it were that of a person you’ve never met.

  You are probably the only member of the family still alive. I have no idea what happened to your aunt or your cousins. You were quite right to leave.

  Besides the apartment, which I am bequeathing to you, this notebook is all that remains of me. I’ve written it throughout my illness the better to confront it. Nevertheless, it is this diary, and not my tuberculosis, which has slowly led me toward death. I am dying in it, page by page, inexorably.

  Salzburg is very sick too. Infected. I’d set myself the goal of holding out until the next Festspiele. But not anymore. They’ve turned it into a bazaar for soldiers on leave and louts in evening dress. Music was my last refuge.

  At first, I felt ashamed of this sanitarium. All these decrepit bodies, in their hospital pajamas, aimlessly roaming the corridors, gobbling boiled potatoes, or lying motionless on their grubby beds. I didn’t want to be like them. Even in my condition.

  I wanted to be like the others, the people outside. To go to work or to a restaurant, to keep an amorous rendezvous, to walk on the streets, in the parks. Not anymore. It’s the people outside who disgust me now. And their music.

  I know you like reading. Vallès, Zola, Lorca. I ask you to read this diary. When you have time. My dying whines, the ranting and raving of a grumpy old man, the pettiness of my ugly and pathetic existence. It’s my requiem, my liturgy. Which I dedicate to you with all my heart. Because today, you see, I am no longer ashamed of belonging to the family of the sick. I am proud of it.

  You owe me nothing and I love you very much.

  Tuesday 12 March 1940

  The Gestapo searched the whole hospital. The beds were turned upside down, the closets pulled apart, the curtains torn. The phonograph in the canteen was broken into a thousand pieces.

  They came yesterday, just before I got up. The staff and the patients had to evacuate the premises and go and line up in the courtyard. I didn’t even have time to put on a dressing gown. Or even slippers. Two soldiers kept their submachine guns trained on us. Then they brought down the patients from the third floor on stretchers and laid them out on the ground. Dr. Müller tried to talk to them, to demand an explanation. He was struck in the jaw with a rifle butt. I heard the bone crack. They pushed away the nurses who wanted to bandage his wound with a towel. Between the legs of those in the front row, I glimpsed Günter. He was lying against the wall of the covered part of the yard, shivering. I heard them moving the pews in the chapel, pushing the altar across the flagstones. We stayed for a long time in the courtyard, waiting. I felt a strong desire to urinate, because of the cold. Finally, the inspectors came out. They were holding the custodian’s son by the elbows. He looked to be bleeding, his eyelids swollen and blistered, like a boxer. His pants were wet. He hadn’t been able to hold it in. And then I saw that he wasn’t the only one to have wet his pants. I also yielded in the end, seeing the others. The pee warmed me a little at first. Afterwards it’s cold. It sticks to your thighs. They called out our names, one by one. Each person lifted his finger in turn and took one step forward. One of the inspectors pointed us out to the custodian’s son, who was having difficulty seeing. He looked completely lost. The more they shouted at him, the less he seemed to understand what they wanted of him. I thought about the black market saveloy. Especially when my turn came. But I wasn’t afraid. I was actually very calm. I looked the custodian’s son straight in the eyes. He was squinting. His right eye was much more swollen than the left. I then looked the inspector straight in the eyes. I couldn’t get over the fact that I wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t sang-froid. Rather a kind of British indifference. A stiff upper lip. A pleasant feeling, given the circumstances. I took one step back. This game lasted all morning. At one point, I raised my head, toward the tops of the plane trees and the sky, completely forgetting what was going on. And then they left with their suspect. I immediately went to Günter, who was still lying on the ground, and asked him how he was. He kissed my hand.

  When you come down to it, the Gestapo stopped me from killing myself.

  I didn’t know that I wasn’t afraid. I was even sure of the opposite. Until today.

  Wednesday 13 March 1940

  Surprise visit from Hans’s secretary. Hans’s ankle still hasn’t healed. The young man gave me back my drafts. The articles have been accepted, and the Waffen-SS stamp is there opposite my signature. He gave me a little note from Hans. His famous brass band, which is none other than that of the military district of Salzburg, has started rehearsing the pieces I suggested and which have received the approval of the gauleiter. Clearly, I’m highly rated by the Reich.

  Hans is very worried. The brass band has to go to Innsbruck this Saturday night. The famous event will take place somewhere else, he still doesn’t know where, the following Monday. Hans will arrive in Innsbruck on Sunday, against his doctor’s advice. He asks me, neither more nor less, to replace him in the meantime, if my state of health allows it. Just for one day. He wants to be certain the musicians will be well prepared. He doesn’t trust their musical director, a quartermaster always drunk on schnapps. A driver will pick me up and take me to the station. Hans has arranged for my press card to be renewed, signed by the party’s cultural attaché. It should be arriving by special courier from Vienna as soon as possible.

  It seems to me that Hans has got a nerve. Basically, he’s forcing my hand. His secretary certainly wasn’t expecting a refusal on my part. I could see that from the expression on his face when I told him I was sorry but I was unable to perform such a service. My excuse was that my doctor had categorically forbidden me to leave the sanitarium, even for a stroll in the city.

  In the canteen, I found out why the custodian’s son was arrested. He’d promised Sapperstein to take care of his old mother and take her something to eat. For months, she’d been hiding in the attic of the disused annex, two streets away. Did Dr. Müller know? Was he the one who informed the Gestapo, as he had with Sapperstein? But that blow with the rifle butt on the jaw . . . Rumors are rife. Some claim that it was the custodian himself who informed on his own son. Since he wasn’t arrested. Others speak of a nest egg Sapperstein is supposed to have left so that his mother could be taken care of. And it was the money the cops wanted, not the old lady. But what’s the point of speculating? We’ll never know.

  Again the idea of killing Müller. In case he gets it into his head to inform on me in order to avoid another misplaced rifle butt.

  Anniversary of the Anschluss. Big concert in Vienna. Speech by Plaschke broadcast on the wireless. Deutschland über alles echoed through the dayroom. Grim day. Hymns and marches, oratorios and masses. Why does all this have to happen to music? The instruments should fall silent. The tenors, the violinists. They shouldn’t be a party to all this. Out of a sense of decency.

  Thursday 14 March 1940

  Günter is dead. He caught cold the other day, lying on the ground in the courtyard. Now it
’s over, I can forget him.

  I didn’t go to the morgue. Let alone the funeral. I just thought about the prayer for the dead, the one the Jews recite. I thought about it here, in the chapel. I don’t know the Christian prayer either. My father insisted on being cremated. And my mother claimed to be an atheist. It was only for my wife, Maria, that I had to organize a proper funeral. She wasn’t angry with God.

  The custodian’s son won’t be coming back. There’s nobody left to buy me saveloy. Should I ask my tenant?

  Friday 15 March 1940

  In spite of my refusal, a courier came and gave me my new press card. Bearing the arms of the Reich. Naturally, this valiant messenger clicked his heels. Heil Hitler! In front of everyone in Ward 5. I was still in my pajamas.

  Salzburg, Wednesday 20 March 1940

  My dear Dieter,

  This letter will not be enclosed with the will in your favor that I have the intention of depositing with the notary tomorrow and which will reach you by the intermediary of the consulate of the Reich in Haifa. At least I hope so.

  The tenants of the apartment will be informed of the identity of their new landlord in due course. You will be free to sell the property or keep it. If you do not come forward to claim it, the manager of the sanitarium will be appointed as sole legatee.

  I have just come back from the station in a limousine. Accompanied by Hans, who has to go to the gauleiter to make his report. You should see the way the nurses looked at me. And the others.

  I left last Saturday for Innsbruck with the brass band. With me I had the vial I made up last week. I told myself it was the ideal opportunity to end with a flourish. Or rather, with a brass fanfare. To die on a speeding train, while the countryside rushes by. To breathe my last as I watch a tree or a meadow disappear into the distance.