The ensemble comprised eighteen players—trumpeters, flutists, a cellist—but Max only had eyes for the woman in the second row, third seat on the left. The violin cradled against the pearl sleeve of her gown, her long skirt almost touching the ground. She, like all the women on the platform, had dressed in her finest attire instead of the black frock she typically wore to perform.
The opera last weekend had been canceled after Bruno Walter left Austria, but no one canceled this dance at the lofty town hall even if a majority of the musicians playing tonight were Jewish.
The Viennese would be hard-pressed to put together an orchestra without Jewish players. An impossibility perhaps. And what was Vienna without music?
Dozens of formally suited men lifted their arms as they prepared to dance; then the beaded gowns of their partners began twirling in unison between the columns, creating their own percussion from the silk and satin in their skirts.
The world seemed to have gone mad right before Max’s eyes. The rioting in Vienna’s streets, fighting with both words and clubs. Yet hidden behind the armor of these golden walls was a respite of beauty and peace. Here, for the night at least, Austrians danced together instead of fought. Celebrated the music that once mended their fractured differences.
Herr Neubacher, Vienna’s newly appointed mayor, swept past Max, dancing with the wife of a philosopher who’d recently returned to Austria, part of the group expelled over the years for supporting National Socialism. In the past month, Nazi supporters by the thousands had flooded back into Austria, marching across the welcome mat that Hitler had laid out for them.
Many aristocrats in this room wanted to fold their identity into the greatest country in the world, even if it meant losing their beloved Austria. The humiliation of the defeat two decades past had flamed their pride, the fire burning hotter within them every passing year. Many who fought and lost that great war as young men saw the opportunity for victory now. An opportunity to show the world that they would no longer cower.
“Max.” His mother stepped in front of him, her blue satin gown glowing in the chandelier light. “Aren’t you going to dance?”
He nodded toward the orchestra. “My partner is currently occupied.”
“As she will be all night. There are many other women who’d like to accompany you.”
“I don’t want to dance with anyone else.”
When his mother glanced back at him, her lips were pressed together in disapproval. She liked Luzi well enough, and she certainly liked Frau Weiss—the two of them had been friends since their days studying at Vienna Conservatory, bonding over their love of composers such as Ludwig vanBeethoven and Johannes Brahms. His mother seemed to disregard the growing animosity toward the Jewish people in Vienna. She loved music, and most of the musicians in Vienna happened to be of Jewish descent. The only time she disparaged a musician was when one appeared too lazy to hone his or her craft.
His mother didn’t disapprove of Luzi, but she didn’t want him to make any commitments before he finished school. However, it didn’t seem to him that he would be going to Gymnasium much longer if the new government was going to force him into the Wehrmacht when he turned eighteen.
His father moved up beside them, nodding toward the floor. “We should dance the next one.”
Klara Dornbach gave a brisk nod. “Of course.”
Max stood behind his parents, watching the dancers over his mother’s shoulder. Both his parents stood solemnly, displaying the air of their aristocratic bloodlines. As if they would protect themselves in the future by reminding others of their heritage.
They’d been arguing again before they left the house tonight,his father insisting that Mussolini was still going to defend their country, his mother saying that if the Italians were planning to help, they would have done so months ago.
Both his parents knew well what was expected of them in the old Austria and had tried to impart the importance of these expectations to Max as well. But Hitler, it seemed, didn’t put much stock in the bloodlines of aristocracy, though the man they called Führer was very much focused on the blood pumping through veins if it happened to be Jewish. Max had spent most of his life focused on the future, but the past was all that seemed to define people under this new regime.
The music ended, and a new set of dancers, including his parents, stepped onto the floor. Max’s gaze settled back onto Luzi. If she saw him, she didn’t give any indication, her eyes focused solely on the music stand in front of her. He inched to the front of the crowd, and when the maestro finally rested his wand, Max moved forward to escort Luzi to the refreshments in the next room. She tucked her violin into its case and clasped it shut, protecting the instrument until they began playing again.
“I wish we could dance together,” he said.
She glanced toward the floor, empty now as the dancers poured into the side room. “Not tonight, Max.”
“But at least we can eat.”
Luzi shook her head. “I don’t want any food either.”
“You must be famished.”
When she smoothed her hand over her sleeve, he saw it tremble. “My nerves can’t tolerate it.”
“But your body needs it.”
“Please, Max, don’t make me fight.”
He reached for her trembling hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. “I wouldn’t dream of fighting with you, Fräulein.”
Her hand clutched his arm at first, and then it began to relax as he guided her through the crowd, out onto a balcony that wrapped around the grand city hall, overlooking the park below. They both leaned across the balustrade, breathing in the balm of cherry blossoms that sweetened the breeze.
Max smiled at her. When he was with Luzi, all the hostilities in Vienna, all the secrets, seemed to disappear. “You are playing beautifully.”
