The Seventh

December 1941 Berlin

Line after line of SS officers were sitting in silence. For this one hour they were just brothers, fathers, and sons. Even Joseph Goebbels, sat front and centre, had for the moment lost his aura of violence. A hundred musicians and singers had done the inconceivable and disarmed uniformed men consumed with war.

The mid-winter skies were free of the menace of black RAF shadows, which left only Mozart's music to cause the tingle of hair-raised skin. Furtwangler—statue-like on the conductor’s podium—held total control over the hall as he left the final note of the Requiem suspended in the air. Breaths were held as the silence allowed for a few more seconds devoid of the chaos in Europe. The maestro lowered his hands, a motion so slow it was almost imperceptible, and the spell was broken—the applause instinctive.

When Hans left the concert hall for the thirty-minute walk home, the streets were white. The city looked clean in the same way it had seemed washed of its sins by Mozart. Back in his childhood home of Münster, the first flakes appearing in the sky had always delivered excitement to a young Hans Stotzer, but the twenty-seven-year-old Berliner Hans now knew of its impermanence. The snow on the roofs kept Christmas and its façade of peace alive for longer, but like many other Berliners in winter, Hans walked looking down at the cobbles rather than up to the sky.

The soles of his shoes fought for traction on the apartment steps as he tried to open the oak door to the hallway. His numb fingers gripped his instrument case handle while his spare hand fumbled with the key. As the door creaked open, he was met with the permanent aroma of daily cooking from the seven other households in the building.

His post-box revealed a hand-delivered envelope with familiar writing that he tucked into his pocket before heading up to his floor. Like most apartments in this part of the city, the stairway was cavernous, and it was impossible for him to climb the stairs of the building unnoticed. The echo from each step seemed to increase in volume the later the hour of entry.

When he arrived at his apartment, visible vapours were still being omitted from his breath but a coarse brush doormat at his front door offered some insulation from the stone flooring. He switched on the light to expose the orderly state of his home. His house slippers were neatly placed just inside the door, and he felt their comfort as he changed from his shoes, putting the wet soles on a piece of newspaper ready to be cleaned. The hallway rug was positioned equidistant from each wall, inviting entrance through to his living room.

Hans had moved to his apartment six years ago when he joined Hitler’s orchestra. Unlike many of his colleagues, he didn’t need the isolation of a house in the suburbs. He did not teach any private students, so there was nothing to disturb his neighbours, and he also rarely practised at home, preferring instead to use the rooms at the Philharmonie Hall. This saved both commuting time and rent on a larger house which would force him further out of the city.

His armchair had a familiar comfort to it. Inherited with the apartment from its previous Jewish owners, it was positioned in front of his record player, which at this time of night was more of an ornament than the messenger of music. As he stretched out his legs and closed his eyes, the zing of his ritual Jägermeister spread through his mouth. Each sip warmed him from the inside.

Hans was fighting his inner feeling of pride. He was a member of the orchestra that everyone wanted to play in. He had earned his position as member of the trombone section and deserved every compliment that came his way concert after concert. He spent each night looking forward to the next rehearsal, the next performance. There was immense privilege that came with his job: Goebbels, in his role as Minister for Propaganda, guaranteed that there was no conscription; the pay was greater than that of most civil servants; and he travelled regularly—always away from the fighting and never towards it. But, however much he loved his lifestyle and profession, he knew the high price he had paid for it.

The letter was typically succinct. Johannes could talk and joke more than anyone, but he always used the minimum number of words in his notes to his best friend.

Don't forget - lunchtime drinks tomorrow.

I'll come by at 12.

J.

They got the usual greeting from the hotel doorman, 'Heil Hitler.’

‘Heil Hitler.’ Johannes responded for them both as they entered the hotel lobby.

‘Nobody says good afternoon anymore, do they?’ Hans joked under his breath.

‘I know. I think I can only swim in circles now you know. My right arm is twice as powerful as my left after all this saluting.’

Whilst they shared the same age, the two friends contrasted in appearance. Hans was the tallest by a few centimetres, but Johannes was the physically the most imposing of the two. He would likely battle with carrying too much weight all of his life. Whereas Hans wouldn’t leave his apartment without ironing his shirt, Johannes was more relaxed in his appearance; not slovenly, but he was a man who never looked comfortable in his clothes.

The Hotel Adlon was their usual culinary haunt because the menu included Johannes’ favourite dish. They crossed the shiny lobby to the restaurant and were greeted by the Maître D and another ‘Heil Hitler.’

‘Heil Hitler.’ This time they answered in unison, suppressing cynical smiles until they took a seat at a table by the bar. The waiting staff were alert to the most nuanced of signals from the guests and the minimum lift of Hans’ arm was met with eye contact from their approaching waiter.

‘Two small beers and marinated fried herrings please. Can we have some fried potatoes too?’

They clinked glasses as they toasted each other’s health. The sound added to the dining room’s percussive background noise of cutlery meeting porcelain.

‘Prost.’ Johannes’ tenor voice carried more than the other guest’s subdued conversations.

‘It will be good to have you back after Christmas Jo. It has been weeks since a tuba player was needed.’

Johannes was the resident tuba player in the orchestra. He only had to make appearances when larger works from composers like Wagner and Bruckner were on the programme. Hans and the other two trombone players Frantz and Dieter, all looked forward to these concerts. Johannes had a way of making the low brass section feel complete, musically and socially.

‘That’s the problem with my instrument: lots of sitting around waiting for something to play. December’s programming has been fortunate for me and Ingrid though. It has been good to be around at home a bit more.' replied Johannes.

'Our loss, Ingrid's gain I suppose. Not many fathers are able to be home at the moment.'

Concentrating on the rim of his beer glass, Johannes paused before continuing with a more serious tone. 'I know, but even with two of us, you know, it is really hard. Hitler wants us all to produce lots of German babies, but he isn’t the one having to look after them, is he? I tell you Hans, it's difficult, far tougher than I ever imagined. I can't wait for the trip next week. I know I shouldn't say that because Ingrid can't escape it, but I am desperate to be able to get away and back to work.'

‘You need to call on Uncle Hans. You know I would love to look after little Hannah. I’m always happy to come over and sit with her so you two can get out or just get some rest.’

’Thanks, my friend. To be honest I think Ingrid is struggling more than she lets on, but she just won't let anyone help.’ He scanned the room and leant in closer to Hans to keep the conversation private. ‘You remember those sermons from the Bishop of Münster that your mother got copies of?’ said Johannes.

‘She hasn't held on to them, has she?’

‘She re-reads them all the time. God knows what would happen if they were found in the house.’

‘She needs to be careful Jo.'

‘You don't need to tell me. The thing is, all that stuff in the sermons about what they are doing to disabled kids and the poor people in the mental asylums—it has really affected her.’

‘I can imagine.’

Johannes held his glass by the base and moved it round in a small circle unable to respond.

‘Listen to me Jo, you need to tell Ingrid that it is safe for me to be there and that I know about Hannah's problems. You can’t do all this alone. I know why she doesn't want the authorities poking their noses in, but she can trust me. Of all people, she should know how I feel about these kinds of things.’

‘Thanks Hans. I’ll do that. I just wish we could take Hannah to a doctor, but Ingrid just doesn't trust anyone.’

‘Is nothing improving?’

‘Nothing. I know that is not unusual—lots of kids develop late—but honestly, Hannah doesn't say a thing. We have tested all sorts of things and are convinced that she is probably deaf, but we are terrified that there is something more.'

‘Look, let me help. Talk to Ingrid. She is my friend as much as you are. We need to be there for each other when it matters.’

The food arrived which allowed the conversation to drift into more mundane matters. They had graduated from the Conservatory in the same year and landing work as stage neighbours in the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra had cemented their close friendship. After discussing the politics, people and music of the orchestra, Johannes talked about football and Hans mocked interest. ‘Yeah, so one team kicked the ball into the net more than the other. Remind me to cancel all the fun things in my life so I can watch it next time’.

Lunch was followed by a golden coloured French brandy. They paid, leaving an extra generous Christmas tip and left the hotel to another set of ‘Heil Hitlers’.

'Enjoy the weekend,' said Hans.

'Will do, although it will be ruined by the dread of hearing your terrible trombone playing again next week.’

'As you know, I am always happy to provide the fodder for your nightmares.'

It was an early start on Monday morning. Hans was at the Philharmonie Hall by seven. He wanted to have a couple of hours warm up and practice before the train journey to Hamburg. Identity checks on top of loading a full orchestra meant the journey north would take almost four hours. There was a rehearsal scheduled that afternoon before the evening concert.

The only sound at the Philharmonie that morning came from Orchestra Practice Room One. Hans worked through the most difficult passages of the upcoming symphony. He knew the parts well; it was a staple of every German orchestra’s repertoire. However, being a member of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra meant nothing could be taken for granted. Mistakes must stay in the practice room. They could occasionally leak into rehearsal but were never to cross over to the performance. Getting a position in this orchestra was one of the hardest challenges for any musician but losing it could be one of the easiest.

Bruckner wrote using voluminous broad chords for the trombones and tuba. Hans knew what to work on. Furtwangler, the most esteemed conductor of his era, demanded a rounded and resonant sound with definite entry but never a harsh start to the notes.

He played standing up, conscious of his breathing and often checking his posture in the practice room mirror. His light brown hair was neat and trimmed short, his spectacles dark rimmed, and his jawline clean shaven. He reflected on how he had changed since his first trial with the orchestra. Six years had gone by. He was no longer a probationer—his place in the orchestra was assured—and his ego didn’t now drive his ambition.

Hans never had a problem finding the enthusiasm to practice. For him it was as natural as spending time reading. His father had died sitting in a Belgian trench playing cards, a British mortar taking away all future paternal distractions before his first birthday. As he grew up, his mother was either working or sleeping. She never remarried, and as a lone child he spent many hours in solitude. Since leaving home, his mother wrote to him every week, but he could now acknowledge how early widowhood caused her gradual withdrawal from parental involvement. It was his now dead uncle that had first put a trumpet in his hands when he was ten. Promotion to a larger instrument came soon after when the town band needed a trombone player. The solitude of his youth and love of playing had been the perfect match for a daily practice routine.

He finished playing, satisfied with his efforts, and closed the rehearsal room door leaving himself plenty of time to pick up some breakfast and a newspaper on the way to the station. Good pay and single life meant he could feel the warmth of a woollen overcoat and the pride of carrying a new leather suitcase for the journey.

Winter sunshine spilled through the vast bullet shaped windows of the Anhalter Bahnhof train station. High above the platforms, dozens of vertical swastika flags were suspended from the glass domed roof. They fluttered in the draught of the approaching and departing trains. The blood red, black and white insignias greeted soldiers returning from the front just as they had waved goodbye to the city’s Jews as they were all transported to the camps in the east throughout the year. Hans had no difficulty in finding his colleagues. They stood in one large group awaiting the arrival of their train, all holding or standing over their instrument cases, in the same way that soldiers guard their kit bags. As the Hamburg locomotive pulled into the station, the air became thicker. The fog tasted of engineering. Black soot and silver puffs of steam infused with the shafts of dazzling daylight. There was an orderly dilution of the crowd as the musicians moved to the different carriages and climbed the boarding steps.

Maestro Furtwangler was the last to arrive. He walked across the platform followed by the shadow of his fame. Eyes moved from newspapers, heads turned to trace his steps, and an occasional hand was outstretched accompanied by vocal praise for a recent performance. His fame was not reserved for politicians and the social elite—his celebrity status was equal to that of Marlene Dietrich.

The carriage offered the musk of old wood, tobacco and the legions of previous travellers. The chatter from four friends playing cards was joined by the clanking wheels as the locomotive pulled out of the station. Dieter and Frantz sat opposite Hans and Johannes. The overhead rack contained their instruments and suitcases packed for three days on tour. Johannes’ large tuba had left the previous day by truck along with the orchestra’s double basses and percussion.

‘Any word from Olaf?’ asked Frantz

‘Nothing more since his last letter. I am hoping that it is just winter slowing down the post. He was still stationed in Prague the last time I heard,’ replied Dieter.

As his greying hair attested, of all of them, Dieter was the only one with a child old enough to be enlisted. Frantz’s two daughters were both under five and Johannes and his wife Ingrid had baby Hannah just over a year ago.

‘I would imagine he is quite safe with his job though?’ said Hans.

‘He is certainly safer than if he would be on the Eastern Front, but I get the impression from his letters that whilst working in Heydrich’s unit has its advantages, he is having to get his hands dirty.’ Dieter didn’t lift his eyes from his cards while he talked.

None of the brass team were party members, but they all knew that Olaf Meyer was an early convert to the National Socialist German Workers Party. It was known, but it was not discussed.

‘Well let’s hope his Christmas parcel makes it on time,’ said Frantz gently moving the conversation away.

While the friends knew questions about Dieter’s son’s well-being were essential to show support and friendship, they didn't want to ask them. One day the answers may be unspeakable.

The journey passed to the rhythm of the tracks and the repeated tap, tap dealing of cards. When they arrived, Hamburg was a frozen city. The biting North Sea wind passing inland had diminished the sound of human voices. Those few people that were outside kept their eyes on their destination—they walked with determination and in silence. There were no children in the parks. Nobody smoked or laughed on street corners. There were few customers to respond to the shouting from the newspaper stands.

The Laeiszhalle was fully prepared for the musicians and their three performances. The venue owners knew the high political status of both the orchestra and the concert ticket holders. The change in temperature inside prompted the immediate removal of coats and hats. All the chairs were laid out correctly and the auditorium’s lighting was tested. The four musicians of the low brass team—Frantz, Dieter, Hans and Johannes—took their seats and went about their routines of warming up and organising their music. Intermittent and random bars of Bruckner could be determined from the cacophony of scales, arpeggios and exercises.