The officer stares me in the eyes, something most avoid. In the momentary exchange, I watch his Adam’s apple struggle to slide up and down his throat. I hear him swallow, as if sand is caught in his throat. By the look of him, he can’t be much older than me. We’re the same height. He has dark hair and pale skin like me, at least before my head was shaved bald. The only visible difference between us are the clothes we’re wearing,the authority given, and most distinctly, the race and ideology flowing through our veins that no one can see.
“I understand,” I reply.
But I understand nothing. How can anyone expect me to sing for these monsters and with uplifting cheer, too? Ella always told me I was giving so much to others just with my voice—happiness they desperately needed. The people in this room don’t deserve happiness in the slightest. They are the thieves and murderers.
“In the back corner, you’ll find a pianist who will accompany you,” the officer says, pointing through a crowd of people.
No one acknowledges me as I move forward, seeking openings between people to avoid brushing up against anyone or asking for their pardon. My feet squelch and squeak in these clogs from sweat and puddles.
Once I make it to the back of the room, where a row of open windows greet me, I find a dark portrait-like scene unfold: the first row of prisoner barracks is no more than a stone’s throw from here. Perhaps this location is purposeful, allowing the prisoners to overhear the merriment that’s just out of reach.Despicable.
I find the pianist sitting behind a grand piano. He’s a middle-aged gentleman, maybe Father’s age. He has sprigs of white hair poking out of his scalp, matching the lower half of his face. The skin beneath his eyes sags like skin-colored prunes and his eyelids are swollen. I wonder how long he’s been here, how long he’s been playing the piano for these people.
“Hello,” I greet him, keeping my voice down.
He nods his head and widens his eyes, frightened.
No speaking, I gather.
He lifts a hand from the ivory keys and points to the sheet music in front of him, his finger trembling. I’ve heard the artist’s name and his music; however, I haven’t sung in German before. The pianist pulls another sheet out from behind the one I’mlooking at, one with German lyrics that he sets beside his sheet music. The man’s fingers feather across the piano’s keys, as his hands float, and I wait through the introduction, before singing out the first words.
The words crooning from my tired throat are a lie in every possible way. To sing a song about every person needing a home that can bring them happiness when all the Jewish people have had their homes taken from them is cruelty at its finest. If I could block out the people swaying back and forth around me, I would, but I have to read the lyrics.
The guests of the party begin to sing along with me as if they have no idea what they’re staring at, who they’re watching—no one, a man without a home. They don’t care. Not one of them.
The next song is a contemporary piece used in a film years ago about a woman yearning for love and happiness. I know the lyrics and can imagine a world where I could be happy, full of love. My voice fills the space around me, trembling through me in a way I can hardly remember. If I could forget I’m here, singing in German, it would be quite magical, but my heart knows nothing but the cold chill I’ve become accustomed to.
As the song comes to a slow end, I open my eyes to see the crowd of high-ranking men and their wives watching me with hands clutched to their chests as if they believe every word I sing to them. A few applaud but the gesture quickly ends as hushes move through the crowd. They must have forgotten where they are, too.
Hours of singing and dehydration break my voice into a slur of scratched notes. I don’t envy the pianist either. His hands must be sore and aching. I haven’t slept in so long; the room begins to wobble around me as if I’m dancing along with the others. I try to take in a sharp breath to shake the dizzying sensation away.
“Almost over,” the pianist utters. “They’ll kill you if your voice cracks. You know that, don’t you?”
“I’m well,” I say as a cough rattles my chest. I shove my hand against my ribs, holding it back.
“They will leave soon.”
Hunger rakes through my stomach, pinching and burning, reminding me of how little I’ve consumed in the last few days. Yet, I watch the latest round of food passed around to the guests, still eating, still nibbling, for hours on end, while I would do anything for a mere crumb. Do they know how hungry we are? Would they care? And Mother…has she gotten water? Has she been fed anything at all? All I can do is wonder what’s happening to her, and it’s breaking me down.
My breath becomes weak, and the swaying of my body is happening on its own. I spot the edge of the piano to my right and consider pressing my hand down to hold myself up.
The main doors open and close repeatedly. They must be leaving.
I continue to stare over at the side of the piano, responding to the cold zing working through my veins. I’m not well. I watch a woman shrug on a fur-lined coat, her blonde curls bouncing along her shoulders. Ella’s hair looked that way the times she wore it down, which wasn’t often since she found her hair to be more of a nuisance than anything. She preferred to have it woven into a long braid. I loved it any way she wore it. The woman links her arm with a man in a suit, a cigar nipped between his lips and laughter rumbling between them. We never had the chance to attend a formal event or a fine dinner. I dreamed about taking her to a nice place, staring into her eyes all night by candlelight and holding her hand for as long as she would allow me to.
Despite never having the opportunity, I would take back our days in the sewers over all else. We were together and shebrought me warmth and contentment like these people seem to have, as well as their ignorance of the reality of our world existing outside this building.
Bells from a grand clock ring out, calling my attention to the golden minute and hour hands hovering over the twelve. The last song ends, and the pianist pulls the cover down over the keys. I peer over at him, wishing I could ask him what we’re supposed to do now. He nods to a door behind us. I follow him into a corridor with another door ahead of us.
“This is the door we should come in and out each night, not the way you were escorted in. Now, we return to our block for the evening.”
“What about tomorrow?” I ask.
“You’ll receive a daytime assignment, I’m sure. You might not assume so, but there are several opportunities for Nazi chosen musicians here. However, you won’t find any to be gratifying, I’m afraid.”
“I see.”
“Do as you’re told and you’ll have a chance…”
