1636 The Devil's Opera: Chapter Eight

    “Well, that was interesting,” Marla said as she walked down the steps from the Simpson house, hands busy buttoning her coat to shut out the night-time chill.

    Franz looked over as he stepped down beside her. “How so?”

    “Oh, not that she’s coordinating anything and everything she can to support the emperor. That’s a given. For all that she says she’s not political, Mary has been associated with power and influence for so long that if she’s not breathing the atmosphere of politics she starts getting dizzy from the thinness of the air around her.”

    All their friends chuckled from where they had gathered around her and Franz. He held his elbow out to her, felt her take it, and they began walking back to their own house, friends trailing in their wake.

    “And most of the ideas that she and Lady Beth put on the table are good, and reasonable. Parades — you’ll like that,” she twisted her head to look at Thomas Schwartzberg.

    Thomas had finally made his way from Grantville to Magdeburg, having spent the last two years training some of the local musicians to copy up-time music from the many recordings that had come back through the Ring of Fire. Franz was delighted that his good friend had rejoined their little company.

    “Parades, mmm,” Thomas rumbled. “Sounds like opportunities for marches.” He gave a huge grin as the rest of the company chuckled. The amanuensis of up-time composers had developed a definite taste for up-time style symphonic band music. The others in the group, who were all involved with the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra, poked fun at him, which he took in good nature. “I have one in mind.”

    “So what was interesting?” Franz prodded his wife.

    “Oh, the plans for an opera, of course. Master Heinrich can do it . . .” Here Marla referred to Heinrich Schütz, the emperor’s Kappellmeister for the court in Magdeburg, and the foremost German composer of the day. “. . . but can he do it quickly enough to be a help?”

    Laughter sounded from all the group. “Master Heinrich is not one of your neurotic up-timer musicians,” Rudolf Tuchman advised from behind them. “The man is one of the best of our day. He had to write a new cantata every week for weeks on end when the Elector of Saxony was holding court. He will have Arthur Rex ready for rehearsal before you can believe it.”

    “I hope so.” Marla was quiet for a few steps. “Funny, but for all that the Arthur legends are truly iconic in our literary history, even by my time there were few musical treatments of them, and none that were of the first rank. Well, except for Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde, Parsifal and Lohengrin.” Franz saw the expression of distaste cross Marla’s face. It was apparent that Wagner was not her favorite composer. “But those only dealt with peripheral stories, not with the main legends. I hope Arthur Rex proves to be the exception to that rule.”

    They had arrived at their house, and Franz dug in his pocket for the door key. After a moment of fumbling at the lock, he swung the door open and they all trooped in, led by Marla. There was a busy minute or so of doffing coats and finding places to store them. Their friends all found places to sit or perch around their parlor.

    Franz looked up as Marla stepped over to him. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to let you guys talk about the orchestra programs without me. I’m . . . tired,” she murmured. And to his eyes, she did appear to be wilting.

    “As you wish. I will try to keep the discussion quiet in here.” He squelched all the other things that rushed into his mind to say. It had been an eventful day; if she desired time alone, he would give it to her.

    Marla kissed his cheek, then crossed through their friends, smiling and speaking to them as she did. They all watched her leave the room, then turned as one to look at Franz, uniform sober expressions on nine faces: Rudolf and his brother Josef, Thomas, Hermann Katzberg, Isaac Fremdling, Paul Georg Seiler, and Matthaüs, Marcus and Johann Amsel. Friends old and new, all close, all part of the nucleus of musicians committed to the future of music envisioned by Marla and Franz. All now looking at him with the same unspoken question on their faces.

    “Yes, Marla is doing better,” Franz responded. “No, she is obviously not back to her normal from before the miscarriage. Frau Mary and Frau Lady Beth both tell me that she’s doing well, but that it might be some time before she is fully recovered.” He withheld from them Mary’s final statement on the matter to him: “And Marla may never fully regain her joy, Franz. To lose her firstborn like that, with no warning, is devastating. It can’t help but change her. We’ll just have to hope that it doesn’t change her for the worse.” Which was now his daily prayer.

 

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    Outside The Chain there was a bite of cold in the air. Simon pulled his jacket close around him with his left hand, checking to see that his bread was still tucked away.

    The moon was shining full, and in the light Simon could see Hans look over at him. “So, your other arm is crippled?”

    “Doesn’t work at all,” Simon said in a monotone.

    “Did you hurt it as a younker, or something?”

    “Born with it, I guess.” Simon swallowed hard. “Been that way as long as I can remember.”

    They walked a few steps in silence, then Hans spat to one side. “Tough.”

    “Yah.”

    They walked a few more steps.

    “Family?”

    “No.”

    “Tough.” Hans shook his head.

    “Yah.” The taste of ashes was back in Simon’s mouth.

    “Got a place?”

    “Found a nook behind a chimney over in the new town. Stays warm there.”

    Hans shook his head again. “Not tonight. You’re my luck; you’ll come home with me. Meet my sister.”

    Simon still wasn’t sure what kind of man this Hans Metzger was. He shook his head in return. “You don’t have to do that.”

    A large hand landed on the boy’s shoulder again. “I owe you, boy. You’re my luck.” The hand moved on to muss his hair. “Least I can do is give you a warm dry place to sleep tonight and food in the morning.”

    Simon felt the lump of bread in his jacket. Food in the morning would mean the bread could feed him later. And he could probably run away if he had to. He knew the ins and outs of the alleys and streets and ruins better than anyone. “All right.”

    “Good. Down this way.”

    Hans turned down a cross street. Before long they exited the old city, crossed the Big Ditch and were in a slightly more reputable neighborhood than the depths where The Chain was sited. Simon was tired. His feet were beginning to drag. It had been a long day for him, so he was very glad when Hans turned into an alley between two buildings.

    “Come on, boy.” Simon followed Hans’ broad back up a flight of narrow wooden stairs. They arrived at the top, and he waited while Hans fumbled with a key in a lock. After a few moments, Simon heard his friend sigh in satisfaction and push the door open.

 

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    “Hans? Is that you?”

    Simon’s ears perked up at the sound of the voice from inside the rooms. It was a clear bell-like soprano that seemed to tease his ears, so unlike the voices of the vegetable sellers and bar maids that he saw on the streets.

    “And who else would it be, Ursula?” Hans reached back and drew the boy into the room with him, then closed the door. Simon could make out a figure sitting in a chair with a candle on a nearby table.

    “Oh!” Simon heard the surprise in her voice. “You have someone with you.”

    “Ursula, meet my young friend Simon . . . I never did learn your other name, boy.”

    Simon felt a laugh coming up his throat, which he hurried to turn into a cough. “Bayer.”

    “Ah,” Ursula said, “you are from Bavaria.”

    “Yes. I mean no.” Simon was flustered now. “I was born here in Magdeburg. My father came from Bavaria, I think.”

    “Well, it is good to meet you, Herr Bayer. Please excuse my appearance.” The young woman was sitting in a robe, yellow hair plaited into a thick braid that hung before her shoulder. Simon was stunned by how beautiful she looked in the soft candlelight.

    Hans dropped his hand from Simon’s shoulder, ducked his head and shuffled closer to his sister. “I . . . uh . . . I forgot how late it was, and I wasn’t thinking. Sorry, Uschi.”

    Ursula gave a warm smile up to her brother. “I know. It’s all right.” She lifted her hand. “Help me up, please.”

    Hans took her small hand with one of his and placed the other under her elbow. Simon watched as he gently lifted her from the chair. She came to her feet, then she . . . sagged. Simon almost jumped forward, afraid that she was falling. But then he could see that she was standing on her feet, she just wasn’t straight. Her right shoulder was dropped, which meant that her hip probably was as well.

    Ursula reached to the table where the candle was and picked up a cane that was hooked over the edge of the table. With that in hand, she lurched into motion. Step by laborious step she made her way to a door in one wall. She leaned on the cane as she reached to open the door, then pivoted slowly to look back at her brother and his guest.

    “Good night, Hans, Herr Bayer.”

    “Good night, Uschi,” Hans said. Simon’s tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. He could say nothing.

    Hans sighed after her door closed and sat down in a chair across from Ursula’s. He waved Simon to a nearby stool.

    “It happened during the sack of the city,” Hans began. “We were trying to get out, get away from Pappenheim’s troops. I was able to force our way through the crowds, able to hold on to her and keep her with me. She was only fifteen, and so small, so delicate.” There was a pensive expression on Hans’ face in the candlelight. “I thought I could keep her safe, keep her protected. But there came a surge of the crowd and her hand was torn from mine. I turned and looked for her, I called for her, I started pushing against the flow trying to get back to where I lost her. Then I heard her scream.”

    The big man clasped his hands together, hard. “She had fallen, and before she could get back up some fool on a horse had ridden right over her. Her left leg was cut up, but her right . . . the knee was crushed, and the bones were broken in two other places.”

    Simon heard Hans swallow, hard.

    “I almost went for him. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone, before or since, but him I wanted dead. Still do, for that matter. If I ever see his face, he’s a dead man. But she screamed again, and I turned to her. I picked her up and carried her, out of the city and away to one of the villages. I didn’t care where we went, so long as Ursula could find help.”

    Simon could see that scene in his mind; Hans cradling Ursula and walking as far as he had to go.

    “It was months before she healed and could walk again. The leg didn’t heal straight, and it’s shorter than the other. You’ve seen what she’s like.”

    Hans stared ahead, rocking his clasped hands. Simon said nothing, just waited.

    “She’s a saint, Simon. I know her leg hurts, but she hardly ever complains. And she never blames me, even though it’s my fault she got hurt. She’s a saint,” he repeated. “She hardly ever gets out, because of the leg. It hurts her to walk, and she doesn’t like people staring at her, but she does what she has to do. She takes in embroidery and sewing. She reads her Bible. And she’s so good it almost kills me to see her like she is.”

    There was another long pause. Simon broke the silence. “Is . . . is that why you brought me here? To meet her, I mean?”

    Hans looked into his eyes. “Yes. I mean, I thought . . . You’ve got a weakness,” Simon’s pride flashed a bit at that statement, but he forced it down, “I thought you would understand what she’s going through.” Hans looked down again. “You’ve been my luck tonight; I thought maybe you could be hers, too. Maybe even be a friend.” Simon could see his hands twist together. “I think she may need a friend, maybe soon.”

    The big man looked up again with a strange expression on his face. Simon looked back at him solemnly. “If Fräulein Metzger will have me, I would like to be her luck, and her friend as well.”

    The biggest smile of the evening broke out on Hans’ face. “Great! That’s great, Simon. We’ll talk to her about it in the morning.”

    They sat together in a companionable mood, neither speaking. At length, Hans rose and went through a door opposite the one into Ursula’s room, returning with a thick blanket.

    “Here. You can pull the two chairs together, or roll up in this on the floor for the night. We’ll do something better if you stay over longer.”

    Simon took the blanket, marveling at how thick and warm it was. “Oh, this will be fine. I’ll just roll up in front of the fireplace.”

    “Go ahead, then, before I blow out the candle.”

    Simon wasted no time in kicking off his wooden shoes. Suiting his actions to words, it was the work of moments to lay the blanket out in front of the fireplace and roll up in it.

    “Good night, lad.” Simon heard Hans blow out the candle. Darkness descended in the room, alleviated only by the glow of the banked fire in the fireplace.

    “G’night.”

    Hans walked across the room in the darkness. The door closed behind him.

    It had been an exciting day. Simon had never dreamed when he awoke in his cramped little nook this morning everything that he would do. New people to meet and adventures of a sort. He yawned, and fell asleep thinking that Fräulein Ursula was an angel. He’d never met an angel before.

 

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    Marla stepped into her study and pulled her lighter out of her pocket to light a lamp. She and Franz hadn’t been able to afford a generator package yet, so they were still making do with lamps and candles. After getting the light started, she stared down at the old stainless steel Zippo for a moment. Odd how something that had belonged to her cigar-smoking grandfather and had almost been thrown away by her non-smoking dad was now something that never left her possession, especially now that someone was producing up-time style lighter flints. She’d heard that the stuff they made it from came from India. She didn’t care if it came from Antarctica, as long as she could keep using the lighter.

    She looked around the room, knowing without hearing them that the guys were asking Franz how she was doing. Truth was, she didn’t know how she was doing, so how was poor Franz supposed to know?

    Some days Marla felt almost back to normal, that the miscarriage was past and over and done with; others, it was all she could do to get out of bed. And mood swings, oh my — on a bungee cord, it seemed like.

    The worst thing was that she couldn’t seem to focus. That was perhaps the most frustrating thing of all to her, that she just could not seem to finish anything. The room was filled with music books, all open to pieces that she had started to learn or review, only to drift away from them when something else caught her attention.

    She didn’t want to be that way. She was tired of being that way. She could feel a dull knot of anger forming in the pit of her stomach; anger partly at her circumstances, at the unfairness of life that had robbed her of her daughter, but also anger at herself, for drifting and not standing firm to start again.

    Marla felt a snap of decision. “Enough,” she said out loud. Order would return to her life, beginning with this room. Before she retired to bed tonight, this room at least would be clean and orderly again.

    With that resolution, she began. Each book was picked up, place marked and closed, then returned to the waiting shelves.

    As she worked, Marla’s mind kept returning to what Mary Simpson had told them earlier in the evening, and some of the things she had heard from others about what was happening in Berlin. It worried her. She didn’t want to live in a place and time that was ruled the way the reactionaries seemed to be headed. She definitely didn’t want to . . .

    Marla realized she was standing stock still, frozen, hands locked on the last book she had picked up, unwilling to complete that last thought. She definitely didn’t want to . . . raise children under such a regime. The very thought made her angry.

    Funny how finishing that thought gave Marla some release. Hard and painful as it might be to think about at the moment, she knew there would be other children. She even could see herself holding them. What happened with Alison would not be the end of her story as a mother.

    She turned to put the book away, and the cover illustration caught her eye. The young waif on the cover with her blouse sliding off her shoulders morphing into the Tricolor always sent a chill through her. Les Miserables the musical had had a huge impact on her when she was first studying voice. She still loved it, and hoped one day to stage it at the new opera house, for all that Andrea Abati, her mentor, looked askance at it.

    Opening the book again, Marla flipped through the pages slowly. I Dreamed a Dream, Castle on a Cloud, Master of the House; the songs flipped by one by one, until her fingers stopped seemingly of their own accord. She stared down at the title and the first line of the song, transfixed.

    A slow fire began to burn within her as her mind raced. Yes, this is the one.

    The fire bloomed. Yes, it had the message she ached to throw in the teeth of the Swedish chancellor.

    Blossomed. Yes, the lyrics would need some adjustment and translation. Surely there is a poet in Magdeburg.

    Brighter. Yes, although it was a man’s song in the musical, she would make it hers.

    Hotter, surging. Her hair seemed to float away from her head, the feeling was so strong.

    Marla snatched up the lamp so quickly the oil sloshed. A moment later the study was dark and empty.

 

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    “So, we have The Lemminkainen Suite by Sibelius, Mazeppa by Liszt, von Suppé’s Light Cavalry Overture, the Schubert Military Polonaise, Procession of the Noblemen by Rimsky-Korsakoff, and Stars and Stripes Forever.” Franz looked up from his notes. “What else can we add to our concert slate that we can polish quickly?”

    “We need a symphony,” Thomas Schwartzberg responded.

    “Suggestions?”

    “Beethoven’s Third,” Josef Tuchman said.

    “Good thought,” Franz replied as he noted it down.

    “I know we’ve already got Sibelius on the list, but his Third Symphony is beautiful,” Herman Katzberg said, “and it has some stirring passages in it.”

    “I like that,” Franz said. “It’s a beautiful piece, and since Finland is connected to Sweden here and now, that would suit our purpose.”

    “Shostakovich’s Fifth,” Thomas countered.

    “Too dissonant,” one of the others said. “Even Frau Simpson’s backers aren’t ready for that one yet. It’s way more dissonant that the Sibelius, or even the Vaughan Williams and Barber pieces we did back in ’34.”

    “I agree with that,” Franz added. “In a few years, maybe, but not now.”

    Thomas crossed his arms and leaned back in an exaggerated pouting pose. “But the fourth movement is so cool!”

    “Bide your time, Thomas,” Franz laughed, “bide your time.”

    Before any of the others could respond, the door into the back of the house flew open and Marla strode through. Franz managed to refrain from jumping, but some of the others didn’t.

    “Sorry to interrupt, guys, but I need something now.” By then she was standing directly in front of Thomas, and she thrust an open music book into his hands. “Thomas, I need two arrangements of this song as soon as you can produce them — one for our Green Horse Tavern group, and one for full orchestra accompaniment.”

    Franz looked at his wife as Thomas scanned through the song. Her posture, the way she held her shoulders and her head; they spoke of resolution, of determination. A sense of excitement began to build in him. She looked at him and grinned, and his heart soared to see the fire in her eyes.

    Thomas looked up. “A piece of cake, as you say. Two days for our group, two weeks for the orchestra, less if you have a recording for me to hear.”

    “I have the recording,” Marla said. “You can hear it at the school tomorrow.” She lifted her head and almost danced as she looked around at their friends. “Gentlemen, we are going to give Mary and the emperor all the support they could ask for, and we’re going to give old Ox more than he bargained for.”

    “So what is the song?” Franz asked over the snorts and chuckles of the others.

    The fire in Marla’s eyes seemed to blaze even brighter. “We will give the people a voice with Do You Hear the People Sing!”

    Franz could only nod in agreement.