Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Twice, you say?”

“At the public baths, that was you with the red beard and the large straw hat, of course. And tonight … the extra bass player with the forged note.”

Socransky smiled, his expression one of mordant amusement. “And here I thought I was making life so very interesting for you, Preiss. After all, you must be sick to death of dodgers who lack imagination.”

“We haven’t time for smart chit-chat,” I said. “Give up your plan. If Wagner has committed a crime you believe needs punishing, it is up to me, not you, to deal with it.”

“Preiss, my friend,” Socransky said, “there isn’t a police force in the world capable of bringing Richard Wagner to justice for the crime he committed against my father. That is a special mission for me, and for me alone. I would not let that maniacal woman Vanderhoute stand in my way. Nor will I let you!”

Back came the stage manager looking more upset than before. “My God, what is going on here? Please, we cannot have this!” To the tenor he said, “Herr Schramm, you are due for your entrance in exactly one minute!” Socransky nodded curtly, tugged at his cape and tunic to make certain they were snug, checked his cap to make certain it was centred, leaned forward to brush a kiss on Helena’s cheek, and said quietly to her, “Wish me luck.” He started to move forward in the wings in readiness for his next appearance on stage.

Hastily reaching out, I managed to take a firm hold of his shoulder and spin him around. “Listen to me, Socransky. You’re right. You and you alone can mete out the right punishment. But let me tell you how. Sing the ‘Prize Song,’ sing it as brilliantly as you can. Turn the evening into a total triumph for Wagner — ”

“Are you mad , Preiss — ?”

“Be quiet and listen to me. As soon as it’s over tonight, and Wagner is basking in all the glory … when it seems that all Munich is at his feet … no, all Germany … then tell him who you are, who you’ve been all along … Hershel Socransky, Mastersinger from Minsk. Let him know that a Jew was responsible for his success. Do as I say, I beg you!”

The stage manager beckoned frantically. “Herr Schramm, now — ”

Shaking loose from my grip, Socransky said, “I must go.”

Any moment now the curtain will rise on Act Three. Backstage, my presence no longer challenged by the stage manager thanks to my police credentials, I keep one eye on “Schramm,” the other eye on the royal box with the aid of opera glasses commandeered from the prompter (who has no need of them anyway in his mouse-hole). Nearby, though just out of reach, stands Helena maintaining her distance from me as though I am a leper. As for Commissioner von Mannstein and Mayor von Braunschweig, I have to rely on my imagination. I have visions of these two stalwarts posted outside King Ludwig’s box, ready at a moment’s notice to stand aside and look the other way should anyone — anyone at all — make a move to assassinate Richard Wagner.

Disaster, I am certain, is now inevitable. Yet through the glasses I see the composer and his wife, their hands clasped together on the railing of the box, exchanging jubilant looks, nodding as though saying to each other “Yes!” again and again.

At last, four hours and forty minutes since the opening strain, comes Scene Five, the final scene of Die Meistersinger .

The foreground is transformed into an open meadow, a narrow river winding through it. In the background lies the Town of Nuremberg. Suddenly the atmosphere is thick with festivity. From gaily decorated boats artisans representing various guilds disembark with their wives and children. Each guild displays its banners, waved to and fro boisterously by standard-bearers. To one side a raised stand is erected bearing rows of benches to accommodate the jury of Mastersingers. Dead centre stands a mound about which flowers have been strewn. Here the two competitors for the prize will sing. The Mastersingers’ youthful apprentices lead the merrymaking decked out in ribbons and prancing about with slender wands which they twirl high into the air and catch like circus acrobats. Now the principal guilds — Shoemakers, Bakers, Tailors — take turns parading across the stage proclaiming their contributions to the good life of the town’s burghers. All of this is sung and danced in high spirits. Colour is everywhere: in the set, the costumes, the lighting. I think to myself: if only Sandor Lantos were alive to savor the fruits of his labour.

Now Eva, led by her father, takes her seat near the judging stand. The apprentices call for silence. Hans Sachs, magisterial in the flowing blue and gold robe of head Mastersinger, declares in his authoritative baritone: “Let the Song Contest begin.”

First to the mound is Beckmesser, by all appearances the unlikeliest candidate for the hand of Eva Pogner. Still, as an accredited Mastersinger he is entitled to his turn before the jury. Having earlier stolen the poem written by Walther, but lacking the slightest idea of the music to which it is to be sung, Beckmesser nevertheless plunges into the piece improvising a tune at best unoriginal, at worst silly. Immediately it becomes apparent he hasn’t the slightest understanding of the words either.

The jury of Masters is confounded. “What’s this?” they murmur to one another. “Is he out of his mind?”

Beckmesser plods on, his performance growing more grotesque by the minute, making a complete and utter fool of himself. Outraged by what they’ve just suffered through, the jury wants no more of this outlandish piece of work. But Hans Sachs persuades them to be patient and give the young knight who wrote it his chance. Skeptical, they nonetheless agree out of deference to Sachs.

On stage there is silence again. Sachs calls out, “Herr Walther von Stolzing, come forth!” Dazzling in his black and silver costume, Walther steps firmly onto the mound. The moment is ripe with expectancy. The orchestra offers him an introductory note played serenely by strings and harp. But Walther stands motionless, his lips sealed. He looks up at the royal box where King Ludwig has leaned forward in his throne-like seat, his hands folded on the railing of the box as though he can scarcely wait for the opening words and music of the much-talked-about “Prize Song.”

From the royal box, Walther, still not uttering a sound, lets his eyes roam across the vast audience in the main partère. Then he glances up, up, up, one tier at a time, until his gaze is fixed on the uppermost tier. His lips part slightly, but still no sound.

Wagner too is leaning forward in his seat. Cosima is biting her lip. At the conductor’s podium in the pit von Bülow clears his throat noisily. He raises his baton and, at his bidding, the orchestra replays the introduction. But the tenor is indifferent to the cue and remains mute. Here and there throughout the audience an uncertain chuckle can be heard. Perhaps this is yet another comic turn in the opera?

Wagner’s face darkens. What is happening down there? Has his heldentenor forgotten the words? Or mistaken the cue? Or worse still lost his voice?

For a third time von Bülow lifts his baton. For a third time the strings and harp deliver the opening note. Only then does the tenor seem to find his voice. But the “Prize Song” begins uncertainly, the melody wavering, the words muffled. The unimaginable is happening!

In the royal box Wagner has gotten to his feet. Cosima tugs at his elbow urging him to sit, to calm himself.

Falling silent again, Walther stares pensively down at von Bülow. After what must be an agonizing pause for the entire cast and orchestra, “Schramm” calmly nods to the conductor. Von Bulow taps his music stand once again with his baton, bringing it down loudly this time like a drumstick. The orchestra repeats the introduction. The singer pulls himself erect. He takes a deep breath. His lips part. And he begins: