Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

I was not the only person at the table annoyed and frustrated. Karla Steilmann, despite my efforts to keep her and Madam Vronsky engaged, from time to time shot glances across the table at Helena and Schramm that grew chillier as the meal went on, and I became increasingly aware that, in response to my questions to her, which were becoming longer and longer, her answers were becoming shorter and shorter to the point where a “yes” or “no” or curt nod of the head was all she managed.

The atmosphere turned more to my taste with the arrival of liqueurs, at which point Helena and Schramm became unlocked and joined the group for a toast, all of us raising our slender crystal glasses. As host I took it upon myself to offer the toast. “To the Fatherland,” I said, “and to German culture! May they continue to flourish!” After a first sip, I raised my glass high again. “A second toast, if I may,” I said with forced cheerfulness. “Here’s to a smashing success for the new opera … Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg … and to a long and productive life for its creator Richard Wagner!” Out of the corner of my eye I observed that Henryk Schramm was the only one whose response was less than enthusiastic. His lips had curled into a thin smile and when he set down his glass it was apparent that he’d barely tasted its dark amber contents. I had intended a third toast but before I could do so Schramm brought the supper party to an abrupt close. Glancing at his pocket watch — a splendid heavy gold timepiece with an ornately engraved cover — he announced, “I don’t know about you fine people, but I’ve been sentenced to a day of hard labour tomorrow at the Richard Wagner Center for Delinquent Tenors — ”

Immediately Karla Steilmann chimed in, “Yes, I too have a punishing day of rehearsals ahead.” Pointedly she said to Schramm, “Henryk, it’s very late, I know, but I’m going to hold you to your promise to see me home.”

With a knowing smile Helena said, “You see, Herr Schramm, time waits for no woman.”

Schramm asked, “But what about you, Fräulein Becker?”

I jumped in. “Oh, don’t worry about Helena and Madam Vronsky, Schramm. They’re in police custody for the evening.”

I should have known this would bring out the mischievous side of dear Helena. “Now Hermann, aren’t you being a little presumptuous? I cannot remember the last time a handsome tenor was concerned about my welfare. God knows even if you don’t; the streets of Munich are not the safest places in the world at this hour of the night.”

“I’m sure you will be in good hands with Inspector Preiss,” Karla Steilmann assured Helena, rising at the same time from her seat and advancing firmly toward Schramm. “Come, Henryk, time to bid goodnight to these lovely people.”

Before departing, Henryk Schramm kissed the hands of both Helena and Madam Vronsky, murmuring to each of them “Be well.”

Later, back at the Eugénie Palace, after seeing to it that Madam Vronsky was comfortably settled in her room, I followed Helena to her suite where, once the door was closed behind us, without so much as a split second’s hesitation she said “He’s Jewish, you know.”

“Who? Who’s Jewish?”

“Don’t be cute, Hermann. Schramm. Who else would I be talking about?”

“What makes you so sure, Helena? Did he say so?”

“Of course not. Don’t ask me how I know. I know. Trust me, Hermann. Henryk Schramm is a Jew.”

As Helena described them to me, the telltale signs that convinced her Henryk Schramm was Jewish were subtle. Producing a flask of brandy that was a routine part of her accoutrements whenever she was on tour, she filled two small glasses, offered one to me, took a sip from the other, and began: “He has a way of using his hands when he talks. Not animated, mind you, Hermann, but expressive. If he’s making a point he uses his index fingers, moving them from side to side as though he’s saying maybe yes, maybe no.” Helena seemed to be smiling to herself. “Rather charming, really, when I come to think of it.”

Dryly, I said, “I’m sure, Helena. What else?”

“Before he takes a first bite of a slice of bread he sprinkles a pinch of salt on it. It’s a habit of his; I noticed he did so several times.”

“Maybe he’s simply superstitious. I believe that particular habit is common among Eastern Europeans.”

Helena shook her head. “This man is not a superstitious type, Hermann. But he is a pessimist. So many of his views of things are stitched together by a dark thread of pessimism.”

“For instance?”

“He’s quite convinced that German culture will fall victim eventually to all the industrial activity that’s consuming our people, that we’ll become a nation of crass materialists. As for himself, he predicts that, as wonderful as Wagner’s new opera is, it will fail and that he, Schramm, will therefore suffer an early end to his career as a singer.”

“Pessimism is not the exclusive territory of Jews, Helena,” I said.

“Of course not,” she agreed, “but they seem to visit that territory more than most tourists, at least in my experience. One other thing, Hermann: did you observe something when he said goodbye to Olga and me?”

“Yes. He kissed your hands. Nothing unusual about that. Even I occasionally stoop to such endearing gestures … that is, when I’m too weary to try something more energetic.”

“Ah, it’s not what he did ,” Helena said, “but what he said. A thoroughgoing German would look into my eyes and whisper auf Wiedersehen at such a moment. He looked into my eyes and whispered ‘Be well.’ Those were his parting words.”

“And you’re saying that’s typical of those people?”

Helena said, sounding sure of herself, “I’ve lived much of my life with ‘those people.’ I am one of ‘those people.’ Remember? I know what I’m talking about, Hermann. My father changed his name from Gershon Bekarsky to Gerhardt Becker after my mother persuaded him he was better off with a new name. But one thing a new name can’t do … it can’t change old habits. So yes, pessimism remained in his bones. And yes, he used his hands a great deal whenever he was involved in some deep discussion. Loved salting his bread. Never said goodbye to anyone without adding ‘Be well.’ I repeat, Hermann, although Schramm never said a word to me during our conversations tonight about being Jewish, he is, he definitely is.”

Without asking permission, I reached for Helena’s flask and helped myself to a second brandy. “That’s not like you,” Helena said, watching as I downed it in a single draft. “You seem to be trying to drown out something.”

“On the contrary,” I said. “In wine there’s truth, but in brandy there’s clarity. Not answers, but at least questions begin to make sense … one question, at any rate.”

Helena teasingly brought the brandy flask to the lip of my glass. “If you’re wondering about making love tonight, Hermann, perhaps a third?”

Gently I pushed the flask aside. “Listen to me, Helena. Given Richard Wagner’s renowned hatred of Jews, why would he engage a Jew to sing the leading male role in one of his operas? It stands to reason Wagner hasn’t the slightest suspicion about Schramm. But there’s an even more intriguing question, isn’t there? Why would a Jewish tenor take the trouble to conceal his background and, of all things, want to sing in an opera composed by one of the most virulent anti-Semites on the face of the earth?”

Once again Helena took up the flask, this time with a serious expression. “Maybe you should have a third drink after all — ”