Mendelssohn is on the Roof (9 page)

The faces of the figures were cheerful, for the holiday they were celebrating was a joyful one in which everyone, even the youngest and humblest, was allowed to participate. But he sensed that even they, with their calm good humour, were reproaching him for his sins.

He left the exhibition room quickly and returned to his office, which was on a different street.

T
O BE MASTER of a conquered land on its way to becoming a German land is tiring and enervating work. Life was better in those long-ago days before they seized power, when he could fight the enemies of the Reich directly, when he could chase them around the room at meetings and then connect with a fist to the jaw. Life was better when he could see the enemy standing before him, visible, blood trickling down his face, and he could stamp on him with his high boots, polished until they veritably glistened. Life was better at Columbia-haus, where he could interrogate conspirators of the Night of the Long Knives, watching the blood soak through the plaster walls of his office. Life was better in the Polish campaign, dropping bombs on villages from his own plane and then, because the Poles had no anti-aircraft guns, flying low, barely above the ground, in order to see the cottages burning, the confused human vermin racing back and forth, the dead bodies lying on the ground, frying in the flames.

He had fought the enemy face to face in those days. Now he only gives orders to bring about its destruction. He is the master of hundreds and thousands of subjects, setting a complex machinery into action, making sure it operates well, checking its various parts, improving them, perfecting them, introducing technological innovations, all the while remaining invisible himself, receiving figures, reports and graphs, signing death sentences without ever seeing the condemned, going in to check the results only on occasion.

But to be master of the land is the task assigned him by the Leader. It means that he must renounce everything personal, that he must be alone, that he must have no friends, that he must be inscrutable and inaccessible even at home among his family, even at parties and dinners. All that remains for him is music; it always helps when he feels tired; it offers peace and contentment; the tensions of the day melt away in it. He remembers listening to Beethoven’s Fourth after the Night of the Long Knives, remembers how it gave him renewed strength to carry on, to continue interrogating enemies and beating confessions out of them. The music cleansed everything that time, even the blood.

But now he can no longer listen as he pleases. Though he has an excellent gramophone in Panenske Brezany, one that is not for sale anywhere, but was a personal gift from the director of Siemens, and though he has records of virtually the entire classical repertory, still he rarely plays them, because he doesn’t like canned music, however well produced. He no longer plays in an amateur quartet – his playing has got too rusty and his hand can no longer hold a bow, because he has used it too often on police duty.

What about concerts and opera performances? Nowadays these bring him little pleasure. They’re official occasions organised to honour some important event or visitor; mainly they serve as background for official gatherings. Even the house concerts of chamber music at the Waldstein Palace aren’t actually ‘house’ concerts but social evenings to which he is obliged to invite all sorts of people – generals, big shots of the SS Elite Guard, the highest officers of the Gestapo, chance visitors. These people have no interest in classical music – they would much prefer operettas or films with Marika Rokk. They attend these concerts because they don’t
know how to get out of it tactfully, while he, on the other hand, has to invite them to discharge social obligations.

Small wonder, then, that they’re bored, that they yawn, inspect their fingernails, cough and clear their throats, clean their monocles, and even doze off. How can he possibly enjoy music under such circumstances? What good is it to invite the finest musicians and conductors of the Reich to Prague, when they must perform for such uneducated audiences, who applaud only dutifully and never with enthusiasm. And, of course, the artists sense this immediately; they have a well-developed instinct about their audiences. Therefore, they play and sing any old way, without distinction, and instead of demonstrating the strength of their artistry, they spend their entire day running around the city shopping for goods and foodstuffs. They demand special rations allowing them to bring home bacon, poultry and woollens.

Even tonight he is expected to attend an opera
performance
, Mozart again,
Don Giovanni
, at the Stavovsky Theatre. The opera had its first performance there and it would be performed there again today, the day the stolen theatre is to be restored to German hands. What better opera to invite the minister of the Reich, the Leader’s favourite, to attend? He had escorted the distinguished guest around for the whole day before entrusting him to the head of the Central Bureau who was to show him the Jewish memorials. The Acting Reich Protector’s kindness did not go so far as actually showing him Jews. Besides, the head of the Central Bureau was better suited to it – he himself knows nothing and wants to know nothing about the Jews besides the Leader’s command – that they be annihilated. This command would be carried out, but it
was easier to do so if one saw the Jews only as numbers instead of having to actually meet them in real life.

They rode along the quay together. He had the roof of the car down so they could better inspect the city. They looked at the river and at the royal castle. The view was most beautiful from there. The quay had been completed a hundred years earlier, when Prague was a German city. He sat beside the minister and spoke to him about the monuments, about musicians and composers who had visited Prague. The minister knew a great deal about the city – he had undoubtedly studied a number of illustrated books back in Berlin. It was strange to discover that this former architect, well known for his grandiose plans for the reconstruction of Berlin and for the construction of an art centre in Linz, took such pleasure in this city. Surely it must seem small and provincial to him compared to Berlin or Vienna. The minister said, ‘Music in stone,’ and truly this phrase, bandied about by authors of art books, described Prague well. The city was, indeed, steeped in music and brought into harmony by it. The guest wanted to see the German House of Art and expressed a desire to visit the opera. Fortunately, they were playing
Don Giovanni
at the Stavovsky Theatre. It would be a good performance and something to boast about.

They continued across the Charles Bridge to the castle. He particularly singled out the statue of Roland as
incontrovertible
evidence that Prague had always been German. The guest admired the statue on artistic grounds but didn’t seem to get the symbolic significance, nor did he take any notice of the sword the statue was clutching in its hand. He was more interested in the statue’s face. But of course the former architect was one of the few intellectuals in the
Leader’s inner circle. He had never been a soldier, he didn’t wear a uniform, and he had come to Prague in a civilian coat and hat.

Slowly they drove uphill towards the castle through the old neighbourhood called the Small Side – and the minister asked to have the car stopped every so often in order to admire the palaces’ façades.

‘It most certainly is a German city,’ the minister thought out loud, ‘erected by German builders, but …’

‘There are no buts,’ his host interrupted him sharply. ‘The Czechs always lived here as temporary guests. It’s German, to the core.’

‘Yes, you’re right, you’re certainly right. The Leader, after all, said the same thing when he returned from Prague. Its architecture seemed more German to him than the architecture of Vienna. But … the German builders hired Czech artisans. We architects have a trained eye, we can see that they brought a foreign element into their work. They worked in their own fashion. When you picture Nürnberg …’

‘But Prague is Baroque,’ his host interrupted him a bit peevishly.

‘Of course, but after all, the Prague Baroque is different from the Baroque in other cities – Munich, for instance, or Dresden.’

They drove up to the castle and walked about the
courtyards
.

‘What sort of army is this?’ asked the minister when he saw the castle guard. ‘I’ve never seen uniforms like these with canary-yellow lapels.’

‘That’s the Czech national guard – a real joke. The state President lives in one wing here.’

‘I hope we don’t have to visit him.’

‘No, he comes to visit me. Or rather, he doesn’t come, but Frank brings him. That flag of theirs is also just for show. We had to leave them something.’

They stopped by the Cathedral of St Vitus.

‘The Czechs have always had a megalomaniac streak. Wouldn’t you like to go inside? They have the vaults of Czech kings there, and the crown jewels as well. I have the keys to the crown jewels, but of course I don’t carry them with me.’ He smiled. ‘Shall we go in?’

‘I’m afraid we have little time,’ said the minister ‘and I’ve kept you from your official duties long enough.’

‘Not at all,’ he protested. ‘I’m very honoured to be able to acquaint you with the beauties of Prague.’ In fact, he was glad he didn’t have to enter the cathedral.

He had unpleasant memories of the cathedral. The state President, though he barely reached Heydrich’s shoulder, had hunched even lower as he handed him the keys to the crown jewels and humbly thanked him for returning three of them. He was repulsed to see the old man kiss the death’s-head of St Vaclav, as if hoping St Vaclav would have mercy on his land.

On the other hand, he was happy to point out the statue of St George to the minister. The Leader had admired it enormously after arriving at the head of his armies to take possession of the conquered land for Germany. It seemed to symbolise the Reich itself. Snakes and lizards slither at its base and a ferocious dragon rears its head out of the mud, dirt and mire. The hero in armour stabs the dragon with his pennanted lance. That’s how the Reich triumphs over its enemies! The Leader had first thought of moving the statue to the Reich Chancellery, but after looking it
over again carefully he changed his mind. His unfailing artistic and political instinct warned him of something. He called in a professor of Art History from the German University, an expert on Prague, and confirmed that his instinct had been right. The statue had originally been German; indeed, commissioned by Charles, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. It was a Gothic statue. But then in the sixteenth century it had been recast by some Czech bungler. That’s why it didn’t have the proper German proportions. The hero was smaller than the horse and his face didn’t have the properly severe, constricted, emaciated look of a German hero. He looked like a regular Czech pancake of a fellow. Thus the corrupted statue could not be an embellishment of the German Chancellery but remained in the castle courtyard.

‘I’ll show you the spot where the Leader looked out over Prague. It was actually from a second-floor window, but the view is the same.’

They were silent for a few moments as they looked at the view.

‘The German students rightly named Prague the “Golden City”. Fortunately, Göring didn’t have it bombed.
Otherwise
we’d see only ruins today.’

‘I’ve seen enough of them in Berlin,’ complained the minister bitterly.

Heydrich frowned. He disliked hearing about the bombing of German cities.

The minister continued: ‘We’ll build a new Berlin after the war, a Berlin with broad, airy streets and parks, with grand squares and modern buildings. The conquered nations will pay for it, so we won’t have to count pennies. But this city will probably remain a museum.’

‘Yes, a museum.’ Heydrich suddenly remembered. ‘The head of the Central Bureau is waiting for you in the Cerninsky Palace. My chauffeur will take you there. I must leave you now, but I’ll see you tonight at the opera.’

The minister sat back again in the car. He was annoyed with himself for getting into a dangerous conversation with Heydrich. One had to be very careful with these military types. He had noticed Heydrich’s reaction when he had mentioned the bombing of Berlin.

The head of the Central Bureau courteously opened the door of his car for the minister. They drove back down to the city.

‘You’re about to see an entirely different neighbourhood, the former Jewish ghetto. Unfortunately, it’s no longer a ghetto. Otherwise, we’d keep the Jews there temporarily as they do in Warsaw. But there are interesting historical sights: the old Jewish cemetery, the Jewish Town Hall with the clock that runs backwards, and then our great secret, a Jewish museum.’

The head of the Central Bureau was certainly better company than Heydrich. He obviously didn’t stand on military ceremony, nor was he a stone-face like Heydrich, before whom one had to watch one’s every word. And the tour of the exhibits really intrigued him. Even the blowing of that curious horn in the gloomy half-light of the museum amused him. They said their goodbyes at the hotel near the main railway station. He needed to rest a bit, take a bath, and change clothing before going to the theatre …

‘I’ll be at the theatre, too,’ said the head of the Central Bureau. ‘May I have the honour of visiting you during the interval?’

The Stavovsky Theatre was especially illuminated in honour of the Reich minister’s visit. In the presidential box he was greeted by Heydrich, who presented his wife to him, and then the wife of the Secretary of State, Frank, and finally the Secretary of State himself. Heydrich offered the minister a seat next to his wife. Standing behind them, at respectful attention, were his adjutants. The minister stood out in his evening clothes: looking out over the audience, he saw only men in uniforms and women in formal attire. This preponderance of tassels, cuffs and epaulettes seemed inappropriate for such a lovely and delicate theatre, with its gilded rococo ornamentation in which angels were the predominant motif. Chubby angels and bemedalled military types in high boots that squeaked at the smallest movement of the feet – these did not go together. Actually Mozart himself was not suited to people in uniform. But the audience listened quietly and attentively once the music began. Perhaps the music was so strong that it penetrated even brains dulled by murder and alcohol. Perhaps they forgot about their bloody trade – at least for a while. It was also pleasant not to have this outstanding performance disturbed by the screaming of sirens.