was afraid. “I really should—”
“Get home? Practice? Work on timing?” He took off his fedora hat, pinching it by the crown with the fingers of his left hand. He stepped toward me. I took a small step back, but was reminded of my position on stage when the backs of my legs hit the piano bench. I forced myself to stand my ground, even as he drew closer.
With the same grin, he said, “Your excuses no longer work for me, Kurt. I shall take it as a great personal insult if you decline again.”
I didn’t know what to do, so I stood still. When he was but inches away from me, I could feel his breath against my cheek and could only focus on his mouth. The beautiful mouth that produced such a seductive sound when he spoke. “Do you follow the works of Michael Tippett?”
Taken aback by the question, I sputtered, “II’m, I’m sorry?”
“The English composer? Or Francis Poulenc, the Frenchman?”
I still didn’t understand him or his purpose until he asked, “Surely, you know Tchaikovsky?”
My mouth went dry. Was this a trap of some kind? Why was he asking me about these composers? He had to know they were forbidden. “Of-of course I know of them, but they’re banned, Herr Waldenheim.”
It seemed as though he’d moved even closer, although there was no way he could have. “ Peter ,” he stressed. “I’m Peter . And do you know why they’re banned?”
I blinked, swallowed hard, and forced out the words. “They are degenerates, and their music is not fit for the good people of the Reich.”
His smile was sly, but he stepped back. “And what about Oscar Wilde, Kurt? Do you—” “He’s an author, not a musician,” I cut in.
The violinist moved away even more and placed the fedora on his head. “Think about them, and their connection. When I ask you next time if you’d like to join us for a drink, I expect you’ll have a better answer for me.” With that, he turned and quickly descended into the house. He raised his right arm in a wave as he walked away from me. “Goodnight, dear Kurt.”
I stayed for nearly an hour after he departed. When I was at home, alone in my room, I dug out the big book from the very back of my wardrobe. It was a relatively comprehensive list of world musicians. Its publication date was well before 1932. Through quick page turning research, I figured the common link between composers. Putting it together with the slim knowledge I held about the Irish author Oscar Wilde, I realized that Peter Waldenheim was asking me about famous homosexual figures.
What I didn’t understand was if he was asking to get me to incriminate myself, or if it was some kind of subtle way of asking me about my own feelings. Was he trying to proposition me without being obvious? Could he share in my feelings? Could he be attracted to me? I could only hope. Despite knowing the risks of my feelings, I couldn’t help but have them.
On Sunday there was no rehearsal, so I spent the day thinking of the possibilities, staying out of my uncle’s way, and perfecting a few pieces.
Monday, the group of us practiced until evening. Herr Weber was quite pleased with our progress, and admittedly, we were coming together nicely. I kept my thoughts diligently on the task at hand. I did not look at the violinist for fear of a poor performance. Distraction, no matter how beautiful, would not help further me.
At the end of our session, the hope began to rise within me. He promised he would ask me again, expecting an answer more to his liking.
But by the time I had stood up, pushed in the bench, closed the cover of the piano, and reached for my hat and coat, Peter Waldenheim had gone. I looked for him again, but all I saw were the retreating backs of the other musicians. Something sweet within me deflated. I pulled the bench out after removing my coat and hat once more. I counted the organ pipes above me, then began to play.
I told myself not to feel the well in the pit of my stomach. It was for
“Get home? Practice? Work on timing?” He took off his fedora hat, pinching it by the crown with the fingers of his left hand. He stepped toward me. I took a small step back, but was reminded of my position on stage when the backs of my legs hit the piano bench. I forced myself to stand my ground, even as he drew closer.
With the same grin, he said, “Your excuses no longer work for me, Kurt. I shall take it as a great personal insult if you decline again.”
I didn’t know what to do, so I stood still. When he was but inches away from me, I could feel his breath against my cheek and could only focus on his mouth. The beautiful mouth that produced such a seductive sound when he spoke. “Do you follow the works of Michael Tippett?”
Taken aback by the question, I sputtered, “II’m, I’m sorry?”
“The English composer? Or Francis Poulenc, the Frenchman?”
I still didn’t understand him or his purpose until he asked, “Surely, you know Tchaikovsky?”
My mouth went dry. Was this a trap of some kind? Why was he asking me about these composers? He had to know they were forbidden. “Of-of course I know of them, but they’re banned, Herr Waldenheim.”
It seemed as though he’d moved even closer, although there was no way he could have. “ Peter ,” he stressed. “I’m Peter . And do you know why they’re banned?”
I blinked, swallowed hard, and forced out the words. “They are degenerates, and their music is not fit for the good people of the Reich.”
His smile was sly, but he stepped back. “And what about Oscar Wilde, Kurt? Do you—” “He’s an author, not a musician,” I cut in.
The violinist moved away even more and placed the fedora on his head. “Think about them, and their connection. When I ask you next time if you’d like to join us for a drink, I expect you’ll have a better answer for me.” With that, he turned and quickly descended into the house. He raised his right arm in a wave as he walked away from me. “Goodnight, dear Kurt.”
I stayed for nearly an hour after he departed. When I was at home, alone in my room, I dug out the big book from the very back of my wardrobe. It was a relatively comprehensive list of world musicians. Its publication date was well before 1932. Through quick page turning research, I figured the common link between composers. Putting it together with the slim knowledge I held about the Irish author Oscar Wilde, I realized that Peter Waldenheim was asking me about famous homosexual figures.
What I didn’t understand was if he was asking to get me to incriminate myself, or if it was some kind of subtle way of asking me about my own feelings. Was he trying to proposition me without being obvious? Could he share in my feelings? Could he be attracted to me? I could only hope. Despite knowing the risks of my feelings, I couldn’t help but have them.
On Sunday there was no rehearsal, so I spent the day thinking of the possibilities, staying out of my uncle’s way, and perfecting a few pieces.
Monday, the group of us practiced until evening. Herr Weber was quite pleased with our progress, and admittedly, we were coming together nicely. I kept my thoughts diligently on the task at hand. I did not look at the violinist for fear of a poor performance. Distraction, no matter how beautiful, would not help further me.
At the end of our session, the hope began to rise within me. He promised he would ask me again, expecting an answer more to his liking.
But by the time I had stood up, pushed in the bench, closed the cover of the piano, and reached for my hat and coat, Peter Waldenheim had gone. I looked for him again, but all I saw were the retreating backs of the other musicians. Something sweet within me deflated. I pulled the bench out after removing my coat and hat once more. I counted the organ pipes above me, then began to play.
I told myself not to feel the well in the pit of my stomach. It was for
Similar Books
