When We Danced on Water (14 page)

Chapter 26

T
he dancers jostled one another genially as they made their way from a last curtain call to the Staatsoper dressing rooms. A general consensus of having staged an outstanding performance well received by an appreciative audience floated above them, through them, like a light, lacy cloud. Teodor was not part of the happy bustle; he was still, intensely, back in the dance, in his small solo, surprised to find that he could not recall how he had danced. He could only remember the moment before he began, and the roar of the audience at the end of his last tour en l'air, which, he now recalled, was a triple turn and not the single he had rehearsed. This startling recollection made him feel anxious. What had he done? How else had he exaggerated his tiny role, his three minutes of dance? And what would the ballet master think, and his fellow dancers? Would he be branded an unreliable and selfish dancer? Would they despise him, punish or even banish him from the corps? He was, after all, not a Dane, dancing with the Danish ballet only thanks to the goodwill of one or two of its directors. Perhaps, he pondered sadly, this would be his demise.

He stood away from his fellow dancers, stepped out of line and let them pass on without him. Not a one caught his eye, not a one insisted that he continue with them. That's it then, he thought, they despise me. And rightly so for trying to steal the show. He tried again to recall how he had danced, but it was, mysteriously, nearly a complete blank, as though someone else had pushed up from within him and performed in his place.

The stage was silent now, bereft of dancers and stagehands. He could hear the scuffle of his ballet slippers as he made his way down the hall to the dressing room. He would slip in as quietly as possible, he would find a way to apologize, first to the ballet master and then to the company, perhaps even publicly. He had not meant to dance with such abandon, certainly had not planned such an extravagant debut, and he hoped they would believe his sincerity and give him another chance as a dancer and as a friend.

He pushed his way through the dressing room door. The company, and quite a number of well-wishers, a few in the uniform of the Third Reich, stood crowded together. They were listening to the ballet master, who was addressing them in German for the benefit of their hosts. Aproned maids were passing out small glasses of champagne among the dancers and the assembled guests.

“Mr. Levin, won't you come here, please?” Teodor felt one hundred eyes upon him as he made his way to the ballet master for what he knew was to be a public upbraiding. He stood long-faced and miserable beside his teacher.

“I wish to compliment you all, my dear dancers and pupils, on an exceptional performance. You were on a whole polished and professional, and I am proud of your poise and your technical excellence.”

The ballet master motioned to a young German soldier, who stepped forward. “Corporal Brendel has been sent with a message from Herr Hitler himself. Please give him your attention.” The soldier read a pompous trumpeting of the Danish ballet company that praised Germany's Aryan neighbors for their physical beauty, skill and endurance. The members of the troupe listened patiently, then turned their attention back to the ballet master.

“Before we raise our glasses in a toast, I would like to say a word about our young Mr. Teodor Levin, who stands here to my right. As you dancers know, and our dear guests may have sensed, Mr. Levin, himself a guest in our company from Poland, did not comport himself according to plan. In his two years with us he has clearly learned and mastered the meticulous and energetic footing in the Danish fashion and can leap with the best of our dancers. But here tonight you saw his Russian training shine through our Scandinavian style. And while there is no denying the fact that young Teodor will have to learn not to surprise his fellow dancers and his teachers with an unrehearsed bravado performance, there is also no denying that what we saw here this evening, and what we all must know, is that Mr. Levin is a dancer of rare quality, of outstanding talent and sensitivity, and that this, his debut, will be remembered by all who witnessed it as a magical experience. It serves to remind us how beautiful, how demanding and courageous, how inspiring the ballet is. Mark my words, ladies and gentlemen, this is the beginning of a brilliant career for our Mr. Teodor Levin.

“Now let us raise our glasses in friendship and camaraderie, let us toast beauty and excellence, let us thank our gracious hosts, and let us drink to the new star born in our presence, this evening.
Skål!
Prost!
”

“
Prost!
” the crowd responded in unison.

Teodor stood, glass in hand, too shocked to drink. In an instant they were upon him, his confreres, with congratulations and hugs, with pats on the back and kisses on the cheek.

Still barely able to speak, he muttered thanks and appreciation under his breath. When the general excitement died down and many of the dancers had moved off to begin removing their costumes, the lone remaining German in uniform approached Teodor, standing close in front of him.

“Your first champagne?” he asked gently, gesturing to Teodor's still untouched glass.

Teodor nodded.

The German touched his glass lightly to Teodor's. “To perfection,” he said quietly. He did not smile when he said this.

The German was only half a head taller than Teodor, but he seemed massive to Teodor in his smart uniform, gold epaulets gleaming. Teodor felt himself awakening, finally, from his performance, and took notice of the man standing squarely in front of him. His fair hair was thin, the color of honey in sunlight, and his eyes a pale blue, too pale, almost translucent.

“
Danke schön, Herr
…” Teodor tried unsuccessfully to read the name on the German's chest.

“Von Edelwald. Baron Friedrich Sebastien Amadeus von Edelwald, at your service.” He clicked his boots and gave a slight nod to his head. “My friends call me Freddy.” Now he was smiling in a friendly way, which Teodor found charming. “And you, perhaps, are Teo?”

Teodor laughed. “No one has ever called me that before. Always Teodor.”

“Teodor, ‘a gift from God' according to the Greeks. But I think Teo suits you best.” Freddy stared into Teodor's eyes too long. Almost to himself he said, “One blue eye and one green. Extraordinary. As unsettling as a Modigliani.” Teodor took a small sip from his champagne. “Drink up young man, you must be parched. You danced as if you were on fire, as if you were fire itself.”

A photographer with a swirl of dark hair pinned into a neat chignon appeared from nowhere and snapped several shots of Freddy and Teo chatting and sipping champagne. “
Genug!
” Freddy said sharply to her after the third blinding flashbulb. He waved her away, then leaned in even closer to Teodor, to whisper into the young man's ear. Teodor could smell him, a mixture of expensive cologne and tobacco. He felt wide awake now.

“I am a
Kunstsachverständiger
, an officer whose job is to advise Herr Hitler on matters of art and culture. He has asked me to join the dancers at the postperformance party at the hotel this evening as his emissary. I should like to invite you, afterward, to a small, private midnight supper. You needn't worry about your curfew, I shall take care of all arrangements.”

Freddy's voice resonated richly in his ear. Or perhaps it was the cologne or the pipe tobacco, or the champagne, of which Teodor had by now drunk nearly to the bottom of his glass, or the gleaming epaulets or quite likely the headiness of the dance and the praise from the ballet master. Whatever it was, Teodor was swooning, overwhelmed and dazzled. He nodded his consent, but in that same instant knew it would not have mattered a bit.

The party was bright and loud, held in a plush reception hall. Teodor was fêted lavishly, plied with questions and champagne. Freddy largely ignored him, engaging in long conversations with the ballet master, the producer and several elegant guests, though Teodor did catch him watching him from across the room several times. There was a seriousness in his gaze he found both a fright and a thrill. Freddy unsettled him, but he could not tell why.

At half past eleven Freddy approached Teodor in a throng of dancers, who parted when the German officer came near. He took Teodor's hand and said, “Mr. Levin, I wish you all the best in what will surely be a brilliant career and I look forward to seeing you dance again soon.” Into Teodor's ear he whispered, “Front steps of the hotel at midnight,” and took his leave. Teodor and the other dancers silently watched the soldier-aristocrat shake hands with the few remaining dignitaries and then depart.

As they made their way to their hotel room, Lars and Niels were in high spirits, reliving the excitement of the evening, while Teodor was pensive. He was aware of each step his feet took, the taste of champagne on his lips. Mostly he was thinking about Freddy. What would they talk about at the table?

At midnight he left the room as the other boys prepared for sleep, on the pretense that he wished to send a telegram to his parents in Warsaw. The front desk clerk was busy with an arriving guest and did not notice as Teodor glided silently across the carpeted lobby and out a set of heavy revolving doors. Freddy was waiting for him on the pavement, and when Teodor first caught sight of him he was framed by the Brandenburg Gate, which stood across the square. Freddy was wearing street clothes and seemed to Teodor to be slightly closer to his own height.

“Come, my friend, we'll walk.”

A long evening of drizzle had turned into a soft haze lit up from within by light from the streetlamps. They strolled leisurely while Freddy talked. “Berlin is not a beautiful city, never has been. Massive, yes, even overwhelming, but never beautiful. It was built more to impress than to please.” Freddy had come to Berlin from southern Bavaria, way down near the Austrian border, where his family had been the local royalty for more than five hundred years. His mother and his wife and three children were installed there, in the family castle.

“You see that building across the street, those round corners? That's a nice example of Bauhaus architecture, which lends a little more character to our oppressive city. A Jew by the name of Mendelsohn designed it, talented fellow. He's gone now, left for Palestine I think.” Freddy stopped walking and so did Teodor, several paces later.

“Say, Teo, I know you can dance, but can't you talk, too?”

Teodor smiled but said nothing. They turned a corner and continued to walk. The buildings were smaller here, clustered together haphazardly. They turned a few more corners and the streets were darker. At the entrance to a courtyard between two buildings Freddy took Teodor's elbow and directed him toward a staircase that led below street level. The stairs were dark, and Freddy kept his hand firmly on Teodor's arm until they reached the bottom. He gave two quick raps on a heavy door, waited, and rapped four more times slowly. A tall black man, taller and blacker than anyone Teodor had ever seen, opened the door. A cloud of noise and smoke accosted them. The black man smiled when he saw Freddy, pulling him ahead of Teodor through the doorway. He was an American, this black man, and Freddy spoke to him in English. Teodor understood nothing.

Through the smoky darkness Teodor could see that the room was vast, and filled with the most colorful, fanciful people he could imagine. This crowd was nothing like the dignitaries he had danced for at the Staatsoper, and certainly nothing like their usual audiences in Copenhagen. These Germans wore bold and revealing costumes, shiny and full of glitter; they were laughing and howling and drinking and petting one another with abandon. A jazz band of American Negroes performed on a small stage in the center of the room while couples and trios danced in wild gyrations. The general atmosphere was that of a circus, and Teodor, barely more than a child himself, was enthralled. The music was fabulous, and Teodor the dancer could scarcely contain his impulse to spin out onto the dance floor.

When they were seated side by side at a table clearly saved for them near the jazz band, Freddy stuffed a pipe with cherry tobacco and, gesturing to the crowd, leaned close to Teodor and spoke into his ear, over the noise. “All of Berlin looked like this a few years ago. Noisy, colorful. Unusual, original, artistic behavior was an asset during Weimar. Until the Nazis came in and cleaned everything up. Now you practically can't hear good jazz anywhere anymore.” He lit the pipe and breathed in deeply, a look of serious concentration on his face.

To speak to Freddy, Teodor had to lean into his body, his chin grazing Freddy's shoulder. “I thought
you
were a Nazi.”

“I am, officially. It's like this: the Nazis as a rule hate people like me from old, titled families. But privately they're enchanted by our blue blood. Hitler is only too happy to spend time with the von Edelwalds, and frankly, my family tolerates him because we want to hang on to our castle and our lands. But when Adolf showed interest in my sister, my mother married her off quickly and quashed a family alliance. As for me, he knows I'm a useful source of information about the arts, and culture in general, so he's given me a plummy job and even put aside a bit of state money to renovate our family home.” A waiter put two beers, a basket of deep-fried chicken wings and several ears of corn on the cob on the table in front of them. “First time for American food?”

Teodor peered into the basket and nodded. Freddy showed him how to eat the wings with his fingers, a fairly shocking enterprise for Teodor, but a welcome relief from the usual decorum. Teodor took a sip from his beer and began to relax.

Freddy, too, unwound, drinking copiously and eating with gusto. “These Nazis,” he said over a buttery yellow ear of corn, “they may have bad taste but they're very art- and culture-conscious. Adolf draws, Baldur von Schirach and Hans Frank write poetry, Goebbels has published a novel. They profess to hate modernism, what they call degenerate art, the stuff that takes a good, hard look at who and what we really are. But it makes them so didactic.” He looked carefully into Teodor's eyes. “I've seen some of Adolf's drawings,” he says, scrunching up his face and shaking his head emphatically from side to side.