Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

Hell it was, and then some.

Surrounded by principal singers and choristers, while below in the pit members of the orchestra and conductor Hans von Bülow sat with eyes fixed up at him, Richard Wagner, at centre stage, was breaking his own record for verbal fire and brimstone. “Must I once again remind all of you,” he shouted, “that an octave contains twelve semitones … twelve equal parts of what is known as the chromatic scale … something with which I hoped you would be at least vaguely familiar, each and every one of you? Do you suppose I wrote certain notes in the score with the intention that singers and instrumentalists could ignore them at will? Listen to me: There are no throwaway notes in my score, absolutely none! Singers are dispensable. Players are dispensable. Yes, even conductors. But not one single semiquaver I take the trouble to insert in my score is dispensable! Is that understood?”

Without waiting for responses, and totally indifferent to the expressions of exhaustion and sagging postures of the cast, Wagner barked, “Von Bülow, the singers will take a pause … ten minutes. Meanwhile I want to hear again the introduction to the third act. Woodwinds and horns, remember: this is what I call the Renunciation theme. It is supposed to reflect the sadness and frustration experienced by the hero Walther, and by his mentor Hans Sachs, because hidebound tradition at this point in the opera seems to be triumphing over freshness and creativity. The opening phrase must be played with subtlety, do you hear? It must convey at one and the same time a sense of obstruction and a sense of hope! You must play the phrase loudly but not too loudly, firmly but with a feeling of compassion. Life is full of difficulty, but life is not coming to an end. That is what I want to hear from you.”

Turning to the singers, Wagner snapped his fingers. “All right, the rest of you … go … ten minutes and not a minute longer.”

As the singers began their retreat from the stage, I managed to catch Hershel Socransky’s eye and signalled that I would meet up with him backstage.

He was not happy to see me. “What’s this all about? As you can see, we’re in the midst — ”

“We have to talk,” I said firmly.

“Talk? About what? What is so important that — ”

“Trust me, I would not be here if it weren’t important.”

“Then tell me — ”

“Not here. Not now. I will wait until the rehearsal is over. I’ll be sitting at the back of the auditorium. You will join me there. Then we’ll go where we can talk privately.”

“But the rehearsal will last at least another hour.”

“I said I would wait until it’s over.”

“I’m very tired,” the young tenor pleaded. “As you can see, all of us are ready to collapse. Can’t this wait?”

“It cannot. And I am in no mood for any foolishness. I’ll be in the back row of the house. Be there!”

One hour, as it turned out, exploded into two hours, at the end of which mutiny hung in the air like a thundercloud, the cast on stage whispering conspiratorially among themselves, the players in the pit shooting hostile glances at von Bülow who in turn shot hostile glances at Wagner. The soprano engaged to replace Karla Steilmann had earlier stormed off the stage in tears. The tenor engaged to replace Wolfgang Grilling in the role of Beckmesser followed closely in her footsteps vowing not to return until a suitable apology was offered (Wagner’s choice of “lifeless” to describe his rendition of a particularly key passage had not sat well with him). Only the man known to Wagner as Henryk Schramm seemed, by some act of God, to escape the Maestro’s scathing criticism. Only he, “Schramm,” despite evident fatigue, managed as he departed a courteous nod toward Wagner, then to the musicians below grumbling as they laid aside their instruments.

“I must say, Herr Schramm, you displayed extreme courage and coolness under fire. You possess amazing resolve.” We were seated now opposite one another at a table in a small quiet café on Odeonsplatz, not far from the opera house. The customary supper crowd would not arrive for an hour or so.

I ordered coffee and two cream buns.

“Make it three, I’m famished, please.”

“Good. One for me, two for my friend,” I said to the waiter.

“Oh, so now we’re friends? In that case, Inspector, let’s drop the ‘Schramm’ business. You know my name is Hershel Socransky. You know my background. What more needs to be said?”

“Much much more,” I replied. “Consider the facts, Socransky: Your father was an outstanding musician tragically driven to suicide, for which you blame Richard Wagner. You are a Jew in a world of opera not widely hospitable to Jews, especially the world of Wagnerian opera. You come all the way from Minsk, and gamble that you will be hired to sing the leading role in this new production. You manage to add a threatening note into the picture hoping, no doubt, to unsettle Wagner, though the man already lives such an unsettled existence one wonders how on earth he manages to get out of bed every morning and face himself in the mirror!”

I waited for Socransky to deny any of this but he sat silent, looking me straight in the eye. The waiter arrived, set down two cups of coffee and a plate with the cream buns. “Will that be all, gentlemen?”

“I’d like a cognac,” Socransky piped up, as though catching his second wind. “A large cognac, please.” Returning to me, he said, “Please, Inspector, don’t let me interrupt your train of thought.” I noted a slight smile on the young tenor’s face, a mixture of patience and amusement. “Has the ‘train’ arrived at the station?” he asked.

“Not quite,” I said. “There’s one more stop on the route.”

A snifter of cognac arrived, which Socransky finished off in a single draught.

“That’s not how they do it in France,” I said.

“That’s how we do it in Russia,” he responded, biting hungrily into a bun. “Pardon me for speaking with a mouthful. Please go on, Inspector. You were saying there is one more stop — ”

“Yes indeed. This woman Vanderhoute … remember her? Well, here’s another fact, my friend. You knew her for some period of time before the night she died. She and my late colleague Detective Brunner had some prior contact with you. In fact, they were attempting to blackmail you … for money of course. You resisted. Somehow you learned that she was on a mission of her own that might involve killing Wagner. That would interfere with your own mission — whatever it was, or is — and so you decided to dispose of her. You lured her to your rooms and did away with her, making it appear that you killed her in self-defence.”

A smile returned to the tenor’s face. “There’s still one cream bun, Inspector. Care to share it with me?” I indicated my refusal with a shake of my head and waited while he ate it and finished the remains of his coffee as though we had all the time in the world. He used a snow-white linen napkin to dab the corners of his mouth and wipe his fingers clean of crumbs, then sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. “God bless Germany,” he said, “land of canons and cream buns! Now then, Inspector, let us suppose … just for the sake of argument, of course … that your theory is correct. What then?”

“You have two choices,” I replied. “One: Withdraw immediately from your role in Die Meistersinger . By immediately I mean today. There is a train which leaves tonight for Russia. Be on it. I will see to it that your necessary travel papers are in order. Two: Stay and face prosecution for the murder of Cornelia Vanderhoute, as well as for threatening the life of Richard Wagner.”