The Savior by Eugene Drucker Page B

tenuous balance that kept her from dissolving.
    â€œMarietta…” His voice sounded different to him, thick with emotion even in those four quick syllables. He repeated her name and once again heard a voice that was no longer dry, commonplace, matter-of-fact. She looked at him, her lips slightly parted, her deep black eyes half closed.
    â€œWe can keep working together,” he said, “at least in the class. I don’t know if you felt the same way I did every time we played the slow movement of the Brahms sonata last month. Music never meant as much to me, I was never able to forget my own problems like that. I’m not quite sure how to tell you…but I’m so glad you came into my life.”
    A smile was struggling to break through the rigid cast of her face. Her eyes began to blink rapidly. As the tears came, he pulled her toward him.
    Â 
    The next month was the happiest of his life, but by January 1935 she had to leave the Hochschule. The Nazi director who had been installed in the spring of ’33 finally had his way over the objections of a number of professors and saw to it that no Jews remained in the school. Soon afterward Marietta told him she was moving to Frankfurt with her family. Her father worked for a Jewish organization there, which promoted all sorts of cultural events and helped Jews emigrate to other countries.
    â€œWe’ll find a way to stay together,” she said.
    â€œHow? You’ll be leaving the country.” The pleading, the despair he heard in his own voice frightened him. They had spent so much time with each other during that month, playing through a large part of the sonata repertoire, but also going to movies, plays and concerts. He could hardly imagine coming to the Hochschule every day without seeing her, without hearing that voice.
    â€œOne of the projects my father is organizing concerns Jewish musicians. Huberman and Toscanini want to form an orchestra in Palestine next year or the year after. As far as I know, the auditions are only for players with Jewish blood, but maybe…” She looked at him shyly. “Maybe they could make an exception where mixed marriages are concerned.”
    Â 
    After she left, he couldn’t concentrate on his work. His violin teacher, Professor Kerner, noticed the change in his playing and asked what was wrong. Gottfried had never confided in him before, but as he looked into the old man’s watery gray eyes, he needed to unburden himself. As far as anti-Semitism was concerned, he knew he could trust him. Kerner was one of the teachers who had opposed the expulsion of Jewish students from the Hochschule, and he was the one who had fought for Ernst’s right to play the Brahms Concerto.
    His eyes widened as Gottfried told him of his love for Marietta. But when Gottfried spoke about her father and the plans for a Jewish orchestra in Palestine, Kerner rose from his chair and walked over to the window. “I’ve already heard something about this proposed orchestra,” he said, gazing out at the street. “There will be so many displaced Jewish musicians that I doubt the orchestra will have room for non-Jews.”
    He turned back toward Gottfried, who could see the anxiety in his face.
    â€œAnd frankly, if you decide to stay in Germany after all—for whatever reason—you could find yourself in an awkward position. Not so much because of your involvement with Marietta. That sort of thing is not uncommon, especially in the music world. But a connection to a Jewish organization like her father’s could eventually be dangerous.”
    Gottfried told himself that the professor’s fears were exaggerated. After all, didn’t the government want the Jews out of Germany? One of the items on the agenda of her father’s committee was emigration.
    The next month he heard from Marietta that auditions for the new orchestra would soon be held in Frankfurt, and that with her