Mephisto Aria (31 page)

She shook hands with a dozen Russian politicians, whose names she knew she would never remember. Then the crowd parted and Yuri Andropov himself stepped forward.

The premier, who had gained a reputation for ice-cold and sometimes ruthless calculation in his long career as head of the KGB, looked surprisingly weak. His bland face, rendered even blander by his growing baldness, was pale and slightly jaundiced. Katherina recalled that men like Yuri Andropov were part of the reason that Anastasia had defected to the West. But for all that, he seemed sickly, and the head of the vast and all-powerful Soviet Union looked like a banker in need of a vacation. After working his way down the line of musicians, he shook Katherina’s hand and, in awkward German, thanked her for her performance. A secretary handed him a series of small bouquets, which he presented with presidential formality to each of the performers. After a few additional words, presumably about international cooperation, he left the hall with his entourage.

After the premier’s departure, the corridor returned to its previous liveliness, and people once again crowded around the singers. The high emotion of the concert still lingered, in spite of the extreme age of many of the audience members. Some wore their old military uniforms, ill fitting on aging bodies, and all of them, even the ones who attended in civilian jackets, wore their ribbons and Stalingrad medals. That was what they still carried after forty years: memories, medals, and long covered-over wounds. A few were scarred in a more obvious way, with missing arms or a limp that betrayed a prosthetic leg.

Katherina looked around for the German survivors, knowing there would not be many. Practically the whole of the Sixth Army marched into POW camps where some 90 percent of them perished. Only a lucky few were seriously wounded early in the battle and carried by their comrades to the airfields, from where the Luftwaffe flew them out. In the final weeks, when the casualties were massive, such evacuations ceased. To be a German survivor of Stalingrad was to be extraordinarily tenacious or extraordinarily lucky.

They were also difficult to identify since, unlike some of the Russians, they had no old uniforms hanging in their closets. Few German soldiers cherished their identification with the Wehrmacht of Nazi Germany, and any who had been captured had worn their uniforms to shreds. It was not until a cluster of some dozen old men in business suits shuffled toward her that Katherina recognized the German veterans.

Surely these were the early escapees, the wounded ones saved by the Luftwaffe before the Soviets captured the last airstrip. The number of leg-amputees and variety of prosthesis hands seemed to verify that assumption. She could not imagine that a POW would want to return to the country that had kept him in purgatory for years, even if the government paid for his visit.

One after another, the mostly handicapped German veterans greeted her. “Sehr schön,” they said. Lovely that the daughter of a Stalingrad man could sing for them. None of them remembered Sergei Marovsky but, given the size of the city and the number of medical personnel, it was not surprising. The concert program, she recalled, had listed Sergei Marovsky among the Germans and made no mention of his service with the Red Army. Did the German government not know? Or care? Katherina supposed that highly political events such as the Reconciliation Concert would wish to gloss over such facts as the heroism of a turncoat. In any case, she was relieved that these old men in their sorrowful nostalgia would have nothing with which to reproach her.

After nearly an hour of handshaking and a few tears, the crowd thinned out and the general manager of the Tsaritsinskaya Opera Company arrived to offer his congratulations. She accepted his handshake and then excused herself for a moment, asking him to wait. A few minutes later she returned to the entrance hall with a package wrapped in brown paper and addressed the manager in German.

“Herr Direktor. My father found this in the basement of the Stalingrad Opera House, during the battle which destroyed it. He took it due to a misunderstanding, and it has stayed far too long with my family. I believe you are its rightful heir,” she said, presenting the package to him.

Clearly surprised, the general manager opened one end of the package, revealing the desiccated and dusty leather of a black gauntlet. He smiled, slightly nonplussed, and drew it out.

“I thought it might have some historical value,” Katherina explained. “I suspect there is little else left of that opera house.”

The general manager studied the glove, holding it gingerly, then nodded. “Yes, you’re right. I believe it does have great value for the Museum of Stalingrad. Thank you for returning it.” He held up the glove for a press photo, standing next to her, and flashbulbs flickered.

At that moment, the conductor appeared in the corridor, adding a third face and another photo opportunity. For the next several minutes, the press constructed a photo-documented story out of the presentation.

When the press interest waned, both general manager and conductor turned away and meandered across the hall toward a waiter carrying a tray of champagne glasses.

Katherina was still surrounded by elderly German veterans who seemed to have run out of small talk. One of them, however, stepped shyly out of the circle. Well dressed, in his early sixties, he was accompanied by a slightly younger man who had stepped out also, but kept a slight distance behind him. Both were attractive, though the closer one, with thinning white hair, had a curiously delicate quality to his face, and under long eyelashes, his eyes were an extraordinary bright blue. He spoke in a soft voice, his manner slightly effeminate.

“The program says you are the daughter of Sergei Marovsky.” He held it up as evidence.

“Yes,” Katherina confirmed. “He changed his name to Marow after the war.”

The old man smiled wanly. “All these years I thought he had fallen at Stalingrad. But he made it back after all. You look a lot like him.”

Katherina’s heart leapt. Finally, someone who remembered her father. Someone who could describe him, tell of the wounds he had bandaged, men he’d saved. She was hungry to hear it all. “Did you know him as a medic, or were you a fellow soldier?”

“Both, actually. Your father treated me for shrapnel but we were also very good friends. His excellent surgery saved my life. I was sure he had been arrested for something, and I myself was in a bad state, both physically and mentally. But a Russian guard, a man named Kolya, befriended me and helped me survive the first hard weeks after surrender.”

“I am so happy to meet you.” Katherina studied the veteran’s face, an idea forming. But no, it was not possible.

He had been standing somewhat stiffly and bent toward her, with one hand behind his back, like an officer poised midway in a military bow.

She offered him her hand, and he presented his own. It was missing the last two fingers.

“Müller is my name. Florian Müller. I don’t suppose he ever mentioned me.”

Holding the mangled hand in her own, Katherina felt tears well up. “Yes, Mr. Müller. He did. With great affection. I believe we have a lot to talk about.”

Postscript

This novel deals with several highly specialized realms: Stalingrad, postwar Germany, East Germany (DDR), Communist Russia, the Faust myth, and the world of opera. While the author has endeavored to avoid stereotypes or errors, the limited scope of a novel inevitably requires a certain superficiality. I beg the indulgence of any readers who have a greater expertise than I do in any of these areas.

Stalingrad: I have tried to do justice to the scope of horror of this battle (July 1942 to February 2, 1943), which is considered the bloodiest in modern history, with combined casualties estimated at nearly two million. It marks the turning point of WWII, which led to the eventual defeat of Nazi Germany.

Most sources indicate a woeful lack of medical supplies on both sides. The German collection hospitals (of which Station Nr. 6 really was the cellar of a bombed-out opera house) seem to have suffered the worst, particularly after surrender, when they were simply cellars full of the untreated wounded and dying. Vasily Chuikov, commander of one of the victorious armies, did indeed have severe eczema, although it is highly unlikely that he would have allowed a Wehrmacht doctor—least of all an anti-communist Russian emigré German—to tend him, however effective the treatment was. The Red Army, filled with commisars, ever watchful for the weakening of Stalinist support, would likely have shot so severely tainted an individual as Sergei Marovsky. This, however, is fiction, and our hero has made a pact with the devil and thus achieved this little miracle.

Postwar Germany: The 1940s and 1950s were tumultuous decades for Germany, and it is unfortunately beyond the scope of a novel to do justice to its nation-shaking events: occupation, reconstruction, political divisions, economic crises, blockade, airlift, partition, etc. in their complexity. Regrettably, these have been only hinted at or omitted, though they could be understood to cause a radical difference in the character, that is, the fears and expectations, of the two generations whose lives are described in the novel.

East Germany: The Deutsche Demokratische Republik (DDR) was a self-declared communist state that existed from October 1949 until October 1990. Soviet occupation troops remained in DDR territory throughout its existence. Berlin, completely surrounded by the DDR, was divided into East and West sectors, with the western portion open to Germany by way of three air corridors and various heavily monitored land routes. Thus, in order to escape the border police (Grenzpolizei), our heroines had to drive first westward to West Germany and then fly eastward back to Berlin.

The world of opera: The author wishes to point out that it is not possible to become an opera star by selling your soul to the devil. I tried, but the devil never returned my calls. A singer achieves an opera career with a) conspicuous talent that does not wear thin after a few years of stress, b) stamina and patience to get through the long period it takes to establish a reputation, c) financial and emotional support during the lean years, d) a good agent, and e) a great deal of luck.

The author apologizes to any actual opera performer who might read this story for making it seem that fabulous engagements follow one after another, week after week, that performers never catch cold, and that it takes only a few short rehearsals before the show goes on. The author acknowledges that rehearsals are grueling affairs that involve hundreds more people than just the opera stars, and that a breathtaking amount of behind-the-scenes work and money goes into a performance. Given the effort it takes to walk up and down stairs in costume and act out a role while sweating and singing very high notes, it would seem unlikely that one could fall in love onstage. But what do I know? The devil never gave me a chance to try. However, all the singers I have asked have said that the pleasure of being “in voice” and “in sync” with fellow performers on a good night is incomparable.

The following operas and choral works were addressed in the novel and are recommended for your enjoyment. If you consider yourself opera-challenged, you might want to start with “Excerpts from…” any of these works.

Tosca: Italian tragic opera. Giacomo Puccini

Ein Deutsches Requiem: German variation on a requiem mass. Johannes Brahms

Die Zauberflöte (Magic Flute): Comic opera. W. A. Mozart

Nozze de Figaro (Marriage of Figaro): Comic opera. W. A. Mozart

Carmina Burana: Scenic cantata and sometimes ballet. Karl Orff

Rosenkavalier: Comic opera. Richard Strauss

Carmen: French tragic opera. George Bizet

Walpurgisnacht: Fictional, never performed anywhere.

Justine Saracen