Saving Mozart Read online

  I had planned that for the return journey. I didn’t want to embarrass Hans. So I stuffed myself with tonic pills. In order not to die before time.

  The journey went well. I was coughing a lot, but the musicians took care of me and gave me hot tea from their thermos flasks. They called me maestro. They laughed and sang throughout the journey. Even the quartermaster, who definitely had one too many. It was lively.

  A military truck and a bus were waiting for us at the station in Innsbruck. They took us to the barracks where we would be housed. A substantial meal was served to us in the canteen but I was too exhausted to have any appetite. I went straight to bed and slept as I hadn’t slept in ages. In the morning, I went through the scores while the musicians shined their boots and polished their instruments. Then they got their ceremonial uniforms out of their trunks for the dress rehearsal. A disaster. The German marches were passable. But the Italian anthem? A veritable act of aggression. Enough to provoke a vendetta. I did my best to correct the worst mistakes. Without insisting too much. Haven’t I already betrayed Mozart? So why fuss over a brass band from Salzburg?

  Hans arrived in the afternoon, limping like a wounded mule. He was pale but elegantly dressed. I was pleased to see him. Now I could finally take my train to nowhere. He begged me to go with him to the office of the barracks commander. I was very tired. Noticing that, he took my arm and helped me to walk as one does for an old man, pulling me by the sleeve, encouraging me, even though he was the one who had difficulty walking and stumbled all the time. In the end, I didn’t know who was supporting whom. By the time we got to the door of the office, outside which a sentry stood guard, I really thought Hans was going to faint.

  Three officers were sitting inside, having a meeting. At the end of the table, a potbellied colonel with pink cheeks and a horrible scar on his forehead. To his left, an SS officer with so many badges, swastikas, skulls, wings and pins of all kinds glittering on his black uniform that I couldn’t even tell what rank he was. And on the right, a young special forces lieutenant in camouflage dress. We had to return their Nazi salutes, without losing our balance.

  We learned that the ceremony would be taking place the following day at the Brenner Pass. At the actual station on the pass, which is on the Italian border. The Führer was expected to arrive by train early in the morning, in his personal car, at the same moment as the Duce, coming from the Italian side, also by train. It was there that the brass band would come into play for the first time in spite of the noise of the engines. Everything was timed down to the last second.

  Lined up like a guard of honor along the central platform between the tracks, the brass band would have to strike up the music as soon as the two trains entered the station and approached at the same dignified speed, Hitler’s coming from the north on the left-hand track, Mussolini’s coming from the south on the right-hand track. The two trains had to pass each other slowly then draw level, on either side of the central platform, coming to a halt immediately the two official cars were exactly opposite each other. A loud banging of cymbals and drums would mark that solemn moment.

  Then the brass band would strike up the national anthems, while the two leaders got off and walked across the platform toward each other, followed by the members of their delegations, shook hands, exchanged a few pleasantries, reviewed the crack corps and climbed into an official car to hold their meeting. Nobody could say how long the audience would last or what the two men would be talking about, with such pomp. And in secret. As soon as they finished, at a signal from the Italian majordomo to the head of the Führer’s personal guard, the brass band would start up again and continue playing until the trains had left.

  It was at this point that Hans suddenly spoke up. He ran through the program, the list of marches and anthems, pointing out that the judicious choice was due to Herr Steiner, here present. I was taken aback. I started coughing and couldn’t stop. He must have looked like an idiot, our Herr Steiner, shaking like an old lady while those hardened soldiers looked on pitilessly. Holding it with the tips of his fingers, the SS officer handed me a white silk handkerchief embroidered with the insignia of his unit. Hans next informed these gentlemen that, given his difficulty in walking, he would require my assistance. He also praised my knowledge of Italian, which might prove useful in case of any last-minute adjustments by the Duce’s head of protocol or escort. He even mentioned my invaluable contribution to the preparations for the next Festspiele and how well my writings had been received by the gauleiter of Salzburg.

  The fat colonel did not say a word. He merely gave me a respectful smile. The young commando lieutenant said that he had no objection to my presence from a security point of view, as long as a routine check of my antecedents was made. Which was meaningless in the context. The SS officer looked me up and down, rather like Dr. Müller when he examines me, and asked me if I had served in the Austrian army in the last war. I said yes, in the artillery, and that I had been wounded in combat. I straightened my back, and tried to put on a good show, even to smile. You see, Dieter, from that moment on, I did everything I could to put them off the scent. Because I’d made up my mind to go to that damned ceremony. To kill Hitler.

  Hans gave a deep bow to the officers, not forgetting the Heil and the salute. I held out the handkerchief for the SS officer to take back, but he refused it. Outside, Hans apologized profusely. He was shaking all over. As was I. I merely thanked him for the honor he was doing me. He seemed a little surprised. But also very relieved. That evening, I stuffed myself with tonic pills. The whole box.

  During the night, on the bus ride, I didn’t sleep a wink. I watched the stony embankment rush past the window, the better to think. You know me, I’m not the impulsive type. On the contrary, I’ve always been extremely cautious. I’ve always taken care not to rush into things, to weigh up the pros and cons before any undertaking. I very much take after my father for that. He wanted at all costs to protect us from imponderables and unknowns, to spare us what he called “unpleasantness.” He lived his whole life on the defensive.

  Basically, any suicide is a way of bringing an absurd situation to an end. Mine, as was my wont, had all the characteristics of a well thought out, carefully planned act. Logical rather than reckless. In fact, I could have drunk my poisoned potion that night on the bus and watched my life fade away in the darkness, calmly following the course of the stones at the side of the road like a ribbon unwinding. So where did this sudden desire to assassinate Hitler come from? And why the Führer? It was Dr. Müller I really wanted to kill. I never could stand the man.

  Kill? It’s a funny word. Not at all in my vocabulary. In the end, I couldn’t find any plausible reason for my decision. Not even the pious vow I had taken some time ago. To save Mozart.

  I’ve just come back from the canteen. I was hungry. I absolutely must finish this letter. As soon as possible. The chapel is filling with light. Spring is coming. It’s been much less cold lately.

  We got to the Brenner Pass before dawn. The little station was swarming with soldiers and SS. They searched the musicians’ trunks, took the trombones to pieces, felt the weight of the drums, checked the passes. My vial was wedged between my press card and the SS man’s handkerchief in the inside pocket of my jacket. I was just behind Hans. They pinned badges on our lapels. Our names typewritten on little pieces of card adorned with swastikas. And then they led us to the waiting room. There was coffee and biscuits. The musicians immediately went and took up position on the central platform, between the two frozen tracks. I waited for the fog to lift a little before I joined them. It was bitterly cold. I forgot to put my coat back on when I went out. We rehearsed the most difficult passages and I took the opportunity to look around at the station and watch the comings and goings of the soldiers. I had no idea how to go about it. I considered approaching a soldier, with my respectable air and somber clothes, and grabbing his weapon from him just as the Führer got off the train. But I have no idea how to handle the new submachine gun
s. They’re nothing like the blunderbusses of the Great War. In any case I realized that the badge they had pinned on me allowed me to move about freely. I walked up and down the platform to warm myself. And to accustom the guards to my presence.

  Lined up in serried ranks, their backs to the two tracks running on either side of the central platform, feet together right on the edge, two cordons of commandos formed a human barrier. Among them, I recognized the young lieutenant from the day before. The distant whistle of a locomotive sounded through the fog. To the north, the Austrian side. Then, in response, the shriller, closer whistle of the Italian train climbing the pass. The lieutenant yelled orders above the din of the approaching engines. The soldiers immediately stood to attention. Impassive in spite of the drizzle and the icy wind of morning. I was shivering with cold, but I made an effort to stand straight and not to cough. I was so disorientated that I almost forgot to give the signal. Or was it the quartermaster who gave it in my place? Whichever of us it was, the band started to play. I heard the opening tune as if it were coming from the back of a cave. You see, Dieter, from that moment on, everything happened as if in a dream. In a mist.

  The two trains emerged from the fog almost at the same time, going very slowly. They were covered in flags whose sharp flapping, joined with the roar of the big engines, covered the sound of the horns and drums. The locomotives again greeted each other with a few hoots, as they met and passed in the station. And then, with a hiss, the two trains came to a perfect halt on either side of the platform. The Duce’s train on the right-hand track, the Führer’s on the left. In the middle, on the platform, the brass band was still playing, shrouded in a mirage of smoke and steam. I could hardly breathe. The burning smell of the diesel crushed my lungs and made my eyes smart. Although that also made me look appropriately moved. Some young soldiers also had tears in their eyes, real ones.

  Just as I thought I was about to faint, a kind of screaming shook me awake. The song of the trumpets had suddenly become more intense, deafening. Like the shriek of someone being strangled. The two trains formed a sound corridor, trapping the music in their metal vise, perfectly amplifying the effects of the brass and the beating of the bass drum, which the fog had muffled until then. Sustained by this racket pounding in my ears, I recovered. Gradually.

  Some SS men in full dress uniform laid red carpets at the feet of the official cars. Italian and German dignitaries were already getting off the other cars. I managed to step back a bit in order not to get caught up in the crush. I even glimpsed Hans at the end of the platform, gesticulating and signaling to me to come back. I was stuck there, huddling against the icy side of the German train. Paralyzed.

  The officers quickly took up their positions and everything abruptly froze. The engines fell silent. The clamor of the brass band rose now with ever greater clarity above the platform. The station’s sheet metal roof, lined with a ceiling of pine planks, proved excellent for the acoustics, freeing the music from the bottleneck in which the trains had trapped it. I told myself to make a note of that. How good the vibrations were.

  An elegant personage in a dark suit got out of the Duce’s personal car. He looked like a chamberlain. He came and stood next to me. We were the only two civilians in that sea of uniforms, helmets and plumes. He gave me a friendly nod. I whispered a polite formula in Italian. A high-ranking Nazi immediately came and shook his hand. Clicking his heels and calling him “my dear count” and “Your Excellency.” I recognized him. Graying hair backcombed, stiff back, black jacket like an admiral’s, exactly as in the press photographs. Von Ribbentrop. Which meant that the other man, the count, must be his opposite number, Galeazzo Ciano. Ribbentrop glanced briefly at my badge, read my name and, without saying a word, drew his colleague aside. The two Foreign Ministers conversed for about ten minutes, just a few yards from me. Hitler and Mussolini had still not appeared.

  My chest was hurting. I needed to clear my throat, to spit. To sit down. My legs were shaking. I leaned on the car. Two huge hands grabbed me by the elbows. Be careful, sir. It was the train driver. He was checking the connecting rods. He wore a tall cap with a black peak and rough leather gloves. An oil can and a dirty cloth were hanging from his belt. He also read my name on the badge and gave a start of surprise. Herr Steiner? He introduced himself in a whisper. My tenant’s husband! And then he stiffened. Like a statue.

  I turned. Mussolini was standing at the door of his carriage, stretching his arm into the air, as if blessing the men cheering him. On the other side of the platform, Hitler now also appeared. To be greeted by screams of Heil, and the sound of clicking heels, and rifles being shouldered. The horns and percussion of the band, which I had completely forgotten, blared out. Quite emphatic for the Duce. Even louder for the Führer. It was grotesque. An awful pounding. The bad music tore my eardrums. A fairground din. Like those provincial circuses where they beat the drums to announce the entry of the acrobats. All the solemnity of the occasion vanished in one fell swoop. And my fear with it.

  Ribbentrop, the count, the SS, the soldiers armed to the teeth, the flags with their garish colors, too long, too big, hanging now at the waxed sides of the trains: it was all like a carnival. So this was History in the making? A scout parade?

  Having at last got off the train, the two heads of State advanced slowly toward each other, step by step, as if each feared to be the first to reach the middle of the platform. They embraced, then reviewed the troops. Both were dressed in heavy gabardine coats that came down almost to their ankles. They walked ahead, alone, followed at a distance of some yards by the members of the two delegations. The soldiers stood perfectly still, numb with cold and reverence. Nobody smiled.

  The drizzle had turned into fine snowflakes that melted as they ran down my back. My eyes were constantly blinking, because of the wind. However wide I opened them, everything appeared to me as if through a misted window. I felt like a cinemagoer who starts to feel sleepy just as the newsreel comes on and who forces himself to look at a few more images on the screen before dozing off. I discreetly moved away from the ceremony and went and stood by the Italian train, convinced that the talks would take place opposite, in Hitler’s personal car. Those few steps were decisive.

  I suddenly saw the Führer and the Duce coming straight toward me. Mussolini jutted out his chin at me and, himself holding the door open, invited Hitler to get into the car that was just behind me. The Führer did not seem to notice my presence. He was looking down at the step. I could smell his breath. It smelled of toothpaste. He unbuttoned his coat and moved back the sides to help him climb on. The Duce was waiting patiently for him. Diplomats and officers remained at a respectful distance. Behind them, the officials and soldiers of lesser rank were also heading for other cars, in small groups, or for the waiting room. With one hand, Hitler grasped the handle of the door and, with the other, he held out his officer’s cap to me without even turning in my direction. And then he vanished inside. The security cordon drew closer all around me, at the side of the car. The band stopped playing. I stood there on the platform, without moving, Hitler’s cap in my hands. The shoulders of my jacket were soaked with snow. The ink on my badge was running to the edge of the card. I tried to mop it with the back of my sleeve, but only succeeded in spreading it. My name was erased. Only the swastika printed at the top, in the corner, remained quite clear and distinct. Opposite, I saw my tenant’s husband looking at me, completely dumbfounded.

  I don’t know how long I stood there like that, as still as a post. My head was empty. I couldn’t think. There was nothing left but the cold. And my limbs shivering, my body swaying in the wind, cradled by the squall. I stared stupidly at the gray, damp ground. Was it the concrete of the station or the cement of the covered yard? Somebody came up to me, a majordomo I think, and pointed to a door. I thanked him in Italian. He didn’t show any surprise at that. An agent of the Reich to whom the Führer entrusts his headgear must speak several languages. Once inside, I put the cap down on a shelf. I cl
eaned the edges and the peak with the SS man’s embroidered handkerchief. Someone handed me a bowl of hot coffee.

  Inside the car, cooks and flunkeys were moving in all directions, their activity supervised by a kind of head waiter. A sumptuous lunch was cooking gently on kerosene stoves. The aroma of the dishes tickled my nostrils. But my appetite left me as soon as I saw a fellow tasting the food. As in the days of the Borgias. I touched my vial of poison in my jacket pocket. So it was feasible. Almost easy, in fact.

  A little bell tinkled briefly. The head waiter hastened to the official car. He returned with an empty coffee pot on a round metal tray. He handed a cup of fresh coffee to the taster. The taster swirled the liquid around in his mandibles as if it were wine. After a few moments, he nodded his consent. The head waiter filled the coffee pot, came very close to me and opened a little cupboard from which he took out a box filled with macaroons, which he then arranged carefully on a plate. He had placed the coffee pot on the shelf, just in front of the Führer’s cap. The smell of hot coffee did me good. The little bell rang again, nervously. The head waiter came and stood in front of me, screaming to be brought a carafe of water. It was then that I freed my right hand to reach my vial and pour the contents in the coffee pot. The head waiter turned, the carafe in his hand. I barely had time to lower my arm and close my palm on the vial. He quickly placed the carafe, the macaroons and the coffee pot on a tray. His gestures were jerky. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. And then he disappeared at a run into the gangway leading to the next car.

  I no longer heard anything but the rapid clumping of his heels. I imagined the two tyrants down there at the end of the corridor, comfortably seated in padded leather armchairs. Nice and snug. Melted snow sliding down the window. The Duce rising. “A little more coffee, mein Führer?” It was while looking at a train window, a landscape rushing past, a tree receding into the distance, that I had wanted to die. The poison in that coffee pot belonged to me. It was for me.