Morley Torgov - The Mastersinger from Minsk

“Yes, but the trouble is,” von Braunschweig said, “that his radical ideas are not confined to music and the eyebrows he raises are not those of his fellow musicians alone. Maestro Troublemaker fashions himself an expert on social and political issues. Writes these damned articles in newspapers here and abroad about freedom and the necessity to revisit and revise laws and regulations that are well-established and are the very fabric of German society. What’s even worse, Preiss, is that the man has the gall to suggest that art is what German culture is all about. Art! My God, when was the last time an artist led an army to victory on a battlefield, I ask you?”

“You appear,” I said, “to take this entire Wagner business very personally, sir.”

“And with good reason, Preiss,” the mayor said. “You see, the eyebrows that have been raised by Wagner’s activities belong to the highest government officials in Bavaria. And they have made it all too plain to me that if Munich is to continue to enjoy the blessings of tax contributions from the state treasury, money that is urgently required to maintain our fine institutions, our magnificent boulevards and parks, then we must get rid of this man Wagner or at least silence him once and for all. You say I take it personally, Preiss? That is an understatement.”

Commissioner von Mannstein gently laid a hand on the mayor’s arm. “I have to mention to the chief inspector another troublesome aspect, Your Honour … that is, if you will permit me — ”

Von Braunschweig looked annoyed. “I thought I had covered the subject fully,” he said.

In a low voice, the commissioner said, “There’s the matter of Wagner’s outspoken anti-Semitism, Your Honour. His attacks on Jews and their effects on German culture, to say the least, are vicious.”

Looking even more annoyed, the mayor shot back, “Who the devil cares about the Jews, von Mannstein? They are nothing but pimples on our backsides. If there’s a problem with our Jews it’s purely secondary. In fact, it’s less than secondary.”

“With all due respect, Your Honour,” the commissioner said, “there are Jewish bankers in Frankfurt who are very vital to Germany’s economy. I’m sure you are aware of that. They can scarcely be regarded as ‘pimples.’”

“Then let the citizens of Frankfurt wrestle with that particular problem,” von Braunschweig said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “My concerns are for my own constituents here in Munich.”

And for your own comfort and welfare as the highly paid, handsomely housed, and soon-to-be-generously pensioned mayor here in Munich , I added in my own mind. I had expected that, having raised the issue of Wagner’s anti- Semitism, von Mannstein might pursue the matter further. The mayor’s brusque dismissal, however, was enough to discourage him. Turning his attention to me, the commissioner said, “What His Honour wishes now, Preiss, is that you, being the officer most fitted for the task, should find a way to insert yourself into Wagner’s circle, become somehow as close to him as one can become, keep a keen eye on his activities … not just musical, you understand, but generally. We need to know what he’s up to, who are his allies. In short, Preiss, we need to build a strong enough case against this man Wagner so that once again he can be sent into exile never to be allowed back into Germany … never .”

“And when am I to begin this assignment, Commissioner?”

The commissioner extracted from his vest an exquisite gold pocket watch. “The time is now twelve minutes before noon, Preiss. You have just begun.”

Foreign visitors to Munich are often amused (and frequently distressed) by the penchant on the part of local restaurateurs to give their establishments exotic French and Italian names — for example Café Paris or Trattoria Venezia — when a quick glance at the menus reveals that the cuisine is strictly German. This happens to be the case with my favourite eating place in Munich, Maison Espãna, whose proprietor makes no apology for fraudulent misrepresentation and brazenly serves the best Wiener schnitzel in Europe in a large room filled with dark woods, plenty of polished brass, and the golden glow of gaslight. The owner, Sigmund (Ziggy) Bolliger, greets me always in French or Spanish whenever I enter his restaurant, both of us knowing full well that beyond his simple greeting he speaks not a word of either language. (What would life be without these charming little illusions?) On this particular evening, however, seeing that I was accompanied by two very attractive young people, Ziggy forgot himself and welcomed me in German, all the while fixing his eyes on the female in our group.

“Herr Bolliger,” I said, “I’ve assured my guests that they haven’t lived until they’ve tasted the Wiener schnitzel at Maison Espãna. Let me introduce you to Fräulein Karla Steilmann and Herr … or should I say Heldentenor? — Henryk Schramm.”

“Did you say heldentenor, Inspector?” Bolliger looked impressed. “Then these must be opera singers!”

“How clever of you, Ziggy,” I said. “In your next life you should consider a career in the police force. Now give us a nice quiet table where we can talk, please, and a bottle of your finest Riesling.”

At a corner table away from the hubbub of other diners, I offered a toast, the three of us raising our wineglasses. “To a successful premiere of — what is the name of the opera again? -”

“ Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg ,” Schramm said.

“Of course,” I said. “You must forgive me. Opera titles with more than two words give me trouble every time. Here’s to Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg .”

Each of us took a sip of wine.

“And here’s to Richard Wagner!” I added with a little too much enthusiasm.

Schramm and Steilmann looked at me as though I were mad. “Are you serious , Inspector?” Schramm asked.

Steilmann seemed to be struggling to avoid bursting into laughter. I put down my glass. “Have I said something amusing?”

She said, gently chiding, “Surely you’re being disingenuous, Inspector Preiss. You did see him in action the other night, did you not? And you expect us to toast this … this terrorist? When I was a young girl I witnessed my mother giving birth to my baby sister. Believe me, Inspector, her agony was nothing compared to what it is like preparing an operatic role under Maestro Wagner’s tutelage.”

Schramm nodded vigorously in agreement.

“Then tell me this,” I said, “if he is, as you put it, a terrorist, why are you subjecting yourselves to such torture? After all, Wagner is certainly not the only composer of operas in Europe. There’s no shortage, thanks to Mozart and Beethoven, though both are long gone now. And then we have Verdi and Berlioz and Rossini and — ”

“Yes yes, of course, Inspector,” said Schramm. “But the answer to your question can only be answered with another question. Why does the moth seek the flame and why do sheep follow their leaders fatally over steep cliffs?”

“Oh come now, Schramm, do you want me to believe that opera singers have something in common with moths and sheep … that all of you share some inexplicable death wish?”

Schramm laughed. “All right, Inspector, I admit I’ve exaggerated somewhat. I do have a habit of answering a question with a question. I suppose it’s part and parcel of my upbringing.”

“And where might that have taken place … your upbringing, I mean?”

Schramm looked down at the glass of wine in his hand. “Oh, my family lived in a number of towns. It’s really not very interesting, Inspector, I assure you. Let’s just say the Schramms lived a very itinerant life.”