And After the Fire Page 13

  As her nieces and nephews walked farther along the river, Sara stepped around the corner of the veranda so that she might continue to observe the enjoyment they found in their simple diversions.

  Sara was thirty-five this year. She had no children. She possessed this grand home, filled with paintings and with the shimmering reflections of sunlight upon the Spree. She nurtured this peaceful garden, with its mature shade trees. She organized musical soirées each week for a glittering assembly of friends and acquaintances. She herself performed on the harpsichord or fortepiano at these gatherings. She had everything she could desire.

  Except children.

  Samuel was successful in business. They supported an array of charities, focusing on education for the poor.

  She and Samuel loved each other.

  But they had no children.

  She never spoke to anyone about her sorrow. She never mentioned it to Amalia, who was several years younger than Sara and already the mother of two sons. Nor did Amalia refer to it. Sara’s interfering sisters, who had opinions on every topic, said nothing to her about it, although she felt certain they discussed it among themselves: Poor Sara has no children.

  Remarkably, Sara and Samuel never discussed it, despite their passion and their intimacy. Despite their conversations, late into the night, as they lay linked together.

  A woman’s most important task, and she had not fulfilled it. The only babies she’d soothed against her shoulder were her nieces and her nephews, and Amalia’s boys. The suite of rooms in the palais dedicated to the nursery was empty. She was unfruchtbar. Barren. The ugly word made her flinch.

  “Well, well, this is quite a gathering today,” Sara overhead a man saying around the corner of the veranda, where Sara had stood a few moments before. “These Jews certainly know how to entertain.”

  She recognized the sonorous voice of Wilhelm von Humboldt. Was it an insult? She and Samuel were indeed Jews, and they did, indeed, know how to entertain.

  “Such a lovely setting.” His brother, Alexander, the naturalist and explorer. Sara adored Alexander, who was gracious, gentle, and curious.

  “The Jews have taken possession of the most beautiful properties along the river.”

  “And look how exquisitely they’re preserving them . . . these trees, this garden.”

  “They offer up Herr Beethoven and the finest refreshments as lures to fill their salons.”

  “And here we are, my dear brother, enjoying both. What does that say about us?”

  Wilhelm’s response was to laugh.

  What did his laughter mean?

  “What’s left in Prussia that Jewish money can’t buy?” Wilhelm asked.

  Now Alexander laughed. “As long as they’re the bankers, I suppose everything is up for sale to them, sooner or later. For myself, I’m more than happy to enjoy the fruits of their financial labors. They’ve been good to me, as bankers go. What would any of us do without them? Where would Prussia be, without Daniel Itzig? I noticed that the two princes who’ve blessed us with their presence today are well aware of his achievements.”

  “How right you are. Let us toast Frederick the Great’s Jew—Daniel Itzig, son of a horse trader.”

  Their glasses clinked. Then, silence. They must have returned inside. Sara felt blunt pain. She pressed her hand upon the wall of her home to steady herself.

  Had she in fact lured her guests to be here today? She’d never considered the music of Beethoven to be a bribe. The Humboldt brothers were here virtually every week, Beethoven or no. They were her friends.

  She gazed at the river. Along the shore, the branches of the willow trees arched down to brush the water. Yes, they were her friends. She’d misinterpreted their words. Her garden was beautiful. Beethoven visited her home. Her father had been Frederick the Great’s banker, and he’d served as Master of the Mint. Her grandfather had been a horse trader. The Humboldt brothers couldn’t be faulted for telling the truth. The fault must be that she’d heard a malicious tone where none was intended. Something to guard herself against in future. She wouldn’t let them know that she’d overheard their conversation. To do so would be discourteous.

  The footman was at her side, no doubt sent by the butler to find her. He gave a quick nod. Herr Beethoven had arrived. The butler would be with him at the entry vestibule, delaying him with offers of the cloakroom and refreshment, to allow a moment of organization so that Sara and Samuel could greet him properly.

  Music and Samuel . . . these were her fulfillments. And a house filled with nieces and nephews.

  She straightened her posture, as if preparing for a performance. She walked around the veranda and into the reception room. Conversation ceased. Her visitors sensed that the moment had come. They looked to her for guidance. As she swept through the crowd, along the aisle that opened before her, she smiled to her guests. She saw expectation upon their faces. Her sister Fanny nodded at Sara in encouragement. Her father stood nearby, pride on his face—pride in her. His approval filled Sara with happiness. Beside him was his granddaughter Lea, her hands pressed together in a silent clapping of excitement. Amalia offered her support. The Humboldt brothers were at Amalia’s side, and they, too, regarded Sara with anticipation.

  Samuel waited for her. How handsome he was. Her bashert. She reached him. He took her hand and squeezed it. Together they turned toward the entryway. At last the butler appeared and announced with a flourish, “Herr Ludwig van Beethoven.”

  The renowned composer—unruly hair, broad forehead, probing eyes—entered the room.

  Sara stepped forward. “Greetings, Herr Beethoven. Welcome to our home.”

  Chapter 13

  Scott Schiffman put out his hand to Susanna Kessler as Dan introduced them. He could be polite, even when his time was being wasted. “Good to meet you. Welcome to the MacLean Library.”

  Although Dan had briefed him by phone, Scott wasn’t ready to believe that Susanna Kessler had found an authentic J. S. Bach cantata autograph in—where was it?—a piano bench in Buffalo. Well-meaning individuals turned up at the MacLean all the time, claiming to have found unknown novels by Jane Austen or letters that were absolutely, unequivocally written by William Shakespeare. Dan must have let himself be seduced by wishful thinking, or more likely by admiration for the woman who got off the elevator with him.

  He’d arranged to meet them in the MacLean’s conservation center, upstairs from his office. This way, he could conveniently insist on taking high-resolution digital photographs of the manuscript, if that proved necessary. Which it wouldn’t.

  He led Dan and Susanna across the center’s laboratory and toward the conference room, where they could speak privately. He loved the lab, and he was happy to show it off. The place was a combination of spaceship and barn, high-tech venting tubes paired with rough-hewn wooden beams that crisscrossed the ceiling. Staff members, three men and one woman, sat at long tables, beneath high-intensity lights. Scott paused so that Dan and Susanna, and he himself, who never tired of scrutinizing such exacting work, could observe his colleagues: they were repairing the torn pages of books and documents with an ultrathin fabric that seemed to disappear when a touch of glue was applied to it.

  “Amazing,” Susanna Kessler whispered to him.

  “Yes, it is.” Her reaction pleased him, even though she was wasting his time.

  The conference room was Scandinavian-inspired, all sleek, pale wood. After they were seated, Susanna said, “Thank you for meeting with me today. I’m grateful. I’m also grateful to have the chance to go backstage at the MacLean Library. I’ve been to dozens of exhibitions here, and to see the areas that are closed to the public—well, this is a thrill for me.”

  “Glad to have you.” An icy rain lashed the windows. Despite her compliments, he wanted to keep his focus on business. “So . . .” he began.

  He stopped as Susanna took the manuscript out of a plastic bag, or more correctly two plastic bags placed crosswise to each other. He glanced at Dan in recog
nition of the absurdity of this (if by chance they were in fact dealing with a priceless Bach autograph), but Dan was watching Susanna.

  “Here it is,” she said. “Hidden by my uncle for sixty-five years.”

  Scott took the manuscript from her. He placed it on the table. To begin, he ran his fingers over it, feeling the paper. Opening the wrapper, he studied the score page by page. He lifted a sheet to inspect the watermark.

  What had sounded crazy when he spoke with Dan on the phone didn’t sound so crazy now. Good God, Scott thought when he reached the end—was Dan actually right?

  “I have to admit, when you first told me about this, I was skeptical.”

  “Good,” Dan said. “I wanted a fresh pair of eyes. Assuming for a moment, then, that it is authentic, what are your initial thoughts on when the music would have been notated?”

  “As an educated guess, pending more research, I’m thinking the 1720s. I’d need to make some comparisons to verify that.”

  “It would make sense, if this is in fact the missing Exaudi cantata from the third Leipzig cycle.”

  “Agreed.”

  Dan passed his transcription of the German libretto and his translation across the table to Scott, who read through them.

  “The poetry could be Neumeister, don’t you think?” Scott asked Dan.

  “That’s a strong possibility.”

  Susanna asked, “What does the text say?”

  Dan didn’t answer her.

  Was he trying to protect her? Scott wondered. She didn’t look like the sort of person who needed protection. Scott said, “The text of the opening aria says:

  “‘Wir das Joch nicht tragen können,

  Doch nicht auf der Halse wollen.

  All die mördrisch lügend Juden

  Hätten Christum glauben sollen.’”

  Dan said, “The first two lines are adapted from Acts 15:10, and the second two lines are adapted from John 8:44.”

  “As to what the text means,” Scott continued, “Dan has translated, with commentary, the first aria thusly:

  “‘We’—that means the followers of Jesus, as well as all human beings in general—‘are unable to bear the yoke’—understood to mean the yoke of the Law of Moses—‘certainly don’t want it on our necks.

  All the murderous lying Jews

  should have believed Christ.’”

  “The libretto goes on from there,” Dan said, “through two recitatives, two arias, and a hymn stanza. I’m sorry to say the polemical sentiments intensify throughout the piece.”

  “By polemical he means anti-Jewish,” Scott said to Susanna.

  “Granted,” Dan said.

  “The recitatives are especially offensive,” Scott said.

  This was a nasty piece of work, and talking about it in circles, trying to smooth everything over, wasn’t helpful. In fact, doing so was destructive. Scott believed in facing facts, even facts that were tough to accept.

  Scott continued, “‘Burn their synagogues . . . We are at fault for not striking them dead,’ lots more along those lines. Dan has helpfully discovered that these recitatives are direct quotes from a book by Martin Luther called On the Jews and Their Lies. This treatise was reprinted in various multivolume sets of Luther’s collected works that a writer of church cantata poetry could readily enough have consulted, and even Bach owned two of these collections.”

  Scott saw Susanna frown in disbelief.

  “So this work of art is anti-Semitic?” she said.

  “Yes,” Scott said.

  “And that’s the reason my uncle kept it hidden?”

  Scott understood that she wasn’t really expecting him to know the answer, but he said, “I assume so.”

  “Who did you say put this together?”

  “We don’t know, but one possibility is Erdmann Neumeister. He was a clergyman in Hamburg. A contemporary of Bach’s,” Dan said.

  Scott added, “Neumeister is known to have successfully incited anti-Jewish rioting in Hamburg in the 1730s through his sermons in church. Bach set several of his poems to music. Cantatas 18 and 61, among others.”

  “As far as we know right now, however, this could have been written by any of Bach’s librettists, who were typically anonymous.”

  “As to the wrapper,” Scott said, “apart from the lines that appear to be written by Bach himself, the person who wrote, ‘Sollte nicht catalogisiert werden, Berlin, den 9. Juni 1783,’ clearly owned the manuscript in the late eighteenth century, because of the date. ‘Im Privat-Kabinett halten’ . . . that handwriting is from the early-to-mid-nineteenth century.”

  “How can you possibly know such a thing?” Susanna said.

  “Based on years of reading all sorts of scrawl like this.”

  “But how exactly?”

  Was she doubting him? “I have clues I look for. I took a special course on old German scripts at Moravian College to learn how to do it. You could take the course, too, if you’re interested.”

  “I’ll take a rain check on the course, but it’s kind of terrific, that you can do that.”

  “It is terrific, I agree with you.” His job was fantastic, no sense being modest about it.

  “What are your thoughts about the ink?” said Dan, forever serious.

  “Iron-gall ink. The level of Tintenfrass is about what I’d expect, given the estimated age.”

  “Tintenfrass?” Susanna asked.

  “It’s a German word for corrosion. I use it for fun. I like the way it sounds.”

  “What does it mean in this context?”

  “Iron-gall ink eventually eats into paper. That’s why it appears to bleed through to the other side of the page. It’s also why the lines are thick and blurry. When the words were first written, they were clear and sharp. The German word for the effect is Tintenfrass.”

  “Don’t you actually have to do scientific proofs to tell us whether this manuscript is authentic or forged, and to confirm the dates and analyze the ink and the paper? Like on TV shows? Radiocarbon dating? Investigations with X-rays?”

  “We don’t do those types of tests here. When we need such tests, we send items to bigger labs, like the one at the Metropolitan Museum. In this case, however, the tests wouldn’t be necessary or relevant. Say we did a test and confirmed that the paper is old. Well, we do already know the paper is old, that’s obvious by looking at it, and the unusual watermark fits with papers Bach used. But unused old paper with this very watermark might have been sitting in a box in a closet somewhere until a forger got his hands on it—although this is rather unlikely, I admit. X-ray fluorescence spectrometry might show that the ink is identical to inks used by Bach, which would be great, or it might not show identical chemical content for the ink, which in turn would only tell us that Bach might have used more inks than the ones discovered thus far.”

  As Scott listened to himself he thought, Am I turning into a complete and total bore to outsiders? Yes, he was. No help for it, however. This was his world, his arena of battle. If she wanted to understand, she had to be willing to listen. If she didn’t want to understand, fine. He continued:

  “This manuscript shows the characteristic physical signs of Bach autographs. These signs, however, don’t in themselves prove that this manuscript was notated by Bach. If the cantata were written with a ballpoint pen on photocopying paper, we’d know for certain that it wasn’t prepared by Bach, because those items didn’t exist in Bach’s day. But to prove that it was notated by Bach, and that the music was composed by him, to prove the positive instead of the negative, the context is crucial.”

  “Thank you for explaining,” Susanna said. “That was helpful.”

  She sounded sincere. Scott went on, “We have to trace the provenance. As you can read about in the trusty Christoph Wolff biography of Bach, the autograph scores and some particular performing parts from the third Leipzig cantata cycle went primarily to Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach.”

  “With the exception of some pieces for certain liturgica
l occasions, which Wilhelm Friedemann, the eldest brother, was allowed to take. Exaudi being one of those occasions,” Dan said. “I looked into this in some detail. For the Ascension cantata rendered during the previous week, we do know that Wilhelm Friedemann had both the score and the performing parts, although so far we have no specific proof that Friedemann would have had this particular Exaudi cantata. What we do know for certain,” Dan turned to Susanna, “is that Carl Philipp Emanuel took good care of his father’s works, and Wilhelm Friedemann was a notoriously bad caretaker.”

  “According to scholarly wisdom,” Scott said, “Friedemann suffered from alcoholism, manic depression, stress-anxiety from the pressure of being his father’s eldest son—you have to feel for the guy. He couldn’t hold on to a job. Therefore, logic dictates that this cantata, if authentic, should more likely have been among those materials that went to Carl Philipp Emanuel, and that he, as we’d expect, took good care of it.”

  “Logic dictates, but that’s not proof,” Dan added.

  This conversation was turning into a pissing contest, Scott thought, the kind he’d literally had with his brother during their youthful summers in Maine. That’s what came of showing off for a girl. Correction, woman. The good part was that Scott and Dan could keep up with each other. Scott always enjoyed their repartee.

  “I don’t suppose,” Scott said, “that you entered the melody into the theme-finder websites, to see if someone other than Bach might have written it?”

  “I had to leave something for you to do,” Dan said.

  “Happy to oblige.” The theme-finder databases were notoriously incomplete, but nonetheless, Scott would check them later. “Speaking of good caretaking,” he said to Susanna, “I heard a rumor that you’re storing this manuscript in a safe deposit box at your local bank.”