And After the Fire Page 18

  Other newcomers joined them, and Bettina slipped away. When Sara next looked out at the garden, she saw that Bettina had indeed met several friends, and she sat with them upon a bench by the water. Amalia Beer and Alexander von Humboldt walked along the river. Alexander appeared to be pointing out to Amalia a bird hiding amid the rushes.

  This afternoon Amalia’s son Jacob would be performing for them. He was rehearsing in the concert salon, and the sound of his virtuoso scales and arpeggios reached Sara with hints of what was to come. Jacob Meyerbeer, as he called himself (having put together the surnames of his grandfathers), was the twenty-year-old prodigy in their midst. He’d been performing in public since he was eleven.

  “Hello, Tante.” It was Lea.

  “There you are, my darling.”

  Lea had moved back to Berlin with her family because of increasing tensions with the French in Hamburg.

  “I hope you don’t mind: I’ve brought Fanny to hear the music.”

  The girl, six years old, stood behind her mother. She gripped her mother’s gown. In her formal clothes, Fanny looked like Lea in miniature.

  “I’m always delighted to see Fanny.” Sara leaned down toward her. “Welcome to the party, Fanny.”

  The girl curtsied. “Thank you for including me,” she recited in a light, precise voice.

  “Fanny, you may play in the garden now,” Lea said. “But don’t go far. I’ll be watching you.”

  Fanny ran off with abandon, her hair and its ribbons tossing. From a distance, Sara could see the difference in the height of her shoulders. Fanny shared with her grandfather Moses Mendelssohn a deformity of the back, severe for the philosopher, slight for Fanny, and never mentioned.

  “How are your little ones?” Sara asked.

  Felix was two, and Rebecka was a newborn.

  “They are thriving. You must see them again soon. Tomorrow would be perfect.”

  “Thank you. I’ll visit you tomorrow. Meanwhile today, you should stroll by the water and enjoy the sunshine.”

  “You must come outside, too, not stay here to greet the stragglers.”

  “That’s my role as hostess: to greet the stragglers.”

  “I’ll return for you in ten minutes. Anyone who arrives after that doesn’t deserve to find you waiting.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sara watched Lea cross the lawn. Fanny ran to her and took her hand. Together they walked toward the river.

  “Count Ludwig Achim von Arnim,” announced the butler.

  Count von Arnim was dashing and handsome, a Romantic figure in the best sense. Sara approached him cordially, ignoring what Moritz had told her. Arnim was dressed in street clothes rather than the formal attire the others wore. Undoubtedly he’d come from pressing endeavors. Men nowadays . . . one couldn’t expect them to be devoted to the intricacies of dress. The world was changing, and the rules of society must change, too.

  “Welcome, my friend,” she said.

  He ignored her. He walked onto the veranda.

  “Greetings, everyone. Is Countess von Arnim here?” he said to the general group.

  Sara was confused. She followed him outside.

  “Has anyone seen my wife?”

  Studying him more closely, Sara saw that his cravat was askew, his skin reddened. He was an attractive man, but today dark circles ringed his eyes. He must be inebriated.

  “Count von Arnim,” she said, approaching him once more. “Some refreshment?”

  She motioned to the food, presented buffet-style. Most likely he’d missed his lunch. Drinking without food was always ill-advised. Recently she’d heard, as one did in society, that he was suffering from financial problems, that he was in debt and at the mercy of his bankers. After the pressures of the occupation, many noblemen were in similar positions. She must be kind to him.

  “Ah, Zelter,” Arnim called, spotting the director of the Sing-Akademie amid the crowd. “I must tell you, I heard a superb joke today: Why do Jews have big noses?”

  Zelter stared at his plate.

  “Because the air is free!” Arnim thundered forth.

  Zelter turned away as if he hadn’t heard.

  Sara knew about Arnim’s penchant for such supposed witticisms. Heretofore he’d kept this penchant in check during his frequent visits to her home. He’d always been a gentleman here. Sara thought back on the day that Arnim and Bettina had become engaged. They’d been sitting in close conversation, holding hands, on the same bench where Bettina sat now. When they’d returned to the terrace, Bettina whispered the news to Sara. Delighted, Sara called for champagne. Arnim made the announcement to the gathered guests, and everyone had toasted the new couple.

  “What is that smell?” Arnim asked the crowd.

  “The garden is in bloom,” Sara said.

  Without looking at her, he said, “I do not refer to the sweet fragrance of nature. I mean the other smell. The stench. The foetor Judaicus.”

  And then he laughed. His laughter was cutting, bitter, and cruel.

  Foetor Judaicus, the stench of Jews. An ancient slur.

  Conversation on the terrace ceased. Sara’s guests looked to her for guidance. She knew her duty: to coddle Arnim back to his proper self. “Even if you dined earlier, my dear Count, you must dine again with me.” She went to the sideboard to prepare a plate for him. “I recall you have a fondness for apricot preserves.”

  “I’m here to fetch my wife. Where is she?”

  “Arnim, how are things at your estate in the country?” Count Gustav von Brinkmann was with him now, steering him to the side of the terrace, out of the way. Count von Brinkmann had been serving as Swedish ambassador to London, and he was visiting Berlin only for a short time. How Sara had missed him. “Are you preparing for the planting?”

  No doubt the planting was over by now. Brinkmann was grasping at a way to distract their inebriated friend. Brinkmann—how she loved him.

  “I haven’t been in the country. I’ve been in the city. Clemens Brentano and I have been busy.” Clemens Brentano, Bettina’s brother, was a poet.

  “Good, good,” Brinkmann said. “A man needs solid work to focus his mind. I’ve been in England, so I haven’t heard—what have you two been doing?”

  “We’ve created a dining and study club,” Arnim said, his expression turning sly. “A Christlich-deutsche Tischgesellschaft. With strict rules.” He looked around, eyes narrowed, as if measuring those who might challenge him. “No women, no French, no Jews. We Germans must have some standards.”

  The gentlemen formed an isolating circle around him, a conspicuous warning to him, in the confines of their refined society. Sara felt as if she were witnessing the fulfillment of a stage direction in a play: The gentlemen stand in a circle around him.

  “Countess von Arnim!” he called, spotting her.

  Bettina was hurrying across the lawn. She reached him.

  “Bettina—I smell the stench of the Jewish banker, snatching up everything that’s good and right in Prussia.”

  His financial troubles must be worse than the rumors said. Why hadn’t he come to her for help? Samuel had left her financially well protected. She would have assisted Arnim, if only she’d known. She’d helped others through the challenges of the occupation.

  “Arnim,” said Brinkmann, placing a cautioning hand upon his shoulder. “You’re not yourself today.”

  “Let’s stop all the politeness and recognize what we’ve known for years. The Jews are destroying Prussia. They’re stealing the very best of our nation.”

  Her nephew Moritz pushed himself through the circle of gentlemen. “How dare you visit my aunt’s house and insult her with your disgraceful attire and your aggressive words?”

  “Ah, the foetor becomes stronger as you come closer, young man. Now I know the source of it.”

  “For these insults to my family, I demand satisfaction.”

  “The Jewboy imagines that he will defend his honor?”

  “Yes, I do, sir.”

>   All understood that Moritz had challenged Arnim to a duel. Traditionally in Prussia, duels were the prerogative of the nobility, not of Jews.

  The afternoon was spinning dangerously away from Sara.

  “I say that a Jew has no honor to defend,” Arnim said.

  Bettina said, “Dearest, please, silence now.” She pulled at his arm. “Let us depart.”

  The desperation in Bettina’s voice. Sara’s heart went out to her.

  “Don’t bother me, woman.” After calling for her, now he was shaking her off.

  “That’s quite enough,” said Alexander von Humboldt. He’d settled in Paris but visited Berlin regularly. He was Sara’s friend, her savior. Amalia was beside him. “Let me see you to a coach, Arnim, since you’re unwell today. I will return shortly, Frau Levy. Please don’t begin the music until then. And do me the honor of reserving a seat for me, beside you.”

  Sara understood: this was his way of saying to everyone present (and those many who were not present, but would hear of it later), I am with you.

  “I want to hear our young Berliner perform,” Humboldt continued. “Now there’s a Prussian spirit to be proud of, our Jacob Meyerbeer.”

  Humboldt took one of Arnim’s arms, and Brinkmann took the other. Bettina followed, head down.

  “Let go of me,” Arnim said, trying to break loose.

  They grasped him more tightly. They led him away.

  “He’ll regret this,” Moritz said. “I will fight him.”

  “Hush, Moritz,” said Amalia, as if scolding a child.

  And then: silence.

  Sara was at a loss. Glancing around, she saw Lea and Fanny standing at the side of the veranda. She wouldn’t allow these events to cause them distress.

  Gathering her composure, she said to the group, “We have a special guest with us today. My grandniece, Fanny Mendelssohn. As we gather in the music room for the recital, let us leave places for her and her mother in the front row, so that Fanny may be inspired by our brilliant Meyerbeer.”

  Sara opened the French doors into the music room. Jacob leapt from his chair, apparently so absorbed in rehearsing that he hadn’t heard the commotion or been aware of the passage of time. How like his mother he was, with his thick dark hair and large dark eyes.

  Amalia went to him, touching his shoulder and speaking to him in reassurance.

  Sara said, “Everyone, please take your seats.”

  Jacob went outside so he could make a proper entrance after he’d been introduced.

  The guests sat down. Sara stood by the fortepiano and reviewed the brief remarks she’d prepared.

  No, she was too shaken to read them. She’d ask Humboldt to read them for her. She couldn’t trust herself: she wouldn’t allow her guests, especially Lea and Fanny, to see her upset.

  While she waited for the gentlemen to return, alternate scenarios pushed into her mind, words she might have said to Arnim, things she might have done, to make everything turn out differently. Anger and pain warred within her, first telling her to lash out, then telling her to weep.

  She would allow herself to do neither. The rules of society held her like a vise. She took control of herself. She had a job to do: to keep this grand occasion of her salon flowing smoothly.

  In a few hours, these sordid events would no doubt be discussed at evening meals across the city. Friends and family members who weren’t here today would learn what had happened and visit Sara tomorrow with the sole purpose of inquiring about it. Amalia would want to review all the details, everything she’d missed while strolling along the river with Humboldt. This would be the cause célèbre of the summer. Of the year.

  As Sara saw to it that everyone was comfortable, she made her resolution: she would not allow her life, and her future, to be defined by this incident.

  She would practice and perform her music, nurture her honorary children and grandchildren, and strive to be someone her friends could trust and rely upon.

  And she would never speak of this day again.

  Already she knew that Arnim’s mockery of her family heritage, and his savage and brutal laughter, would smolder within her forever.

  Chapter 20

  As Rob and Susanna walked out of the lobby of the glass office tower and onto East Forty-fifth Street between Madison and Park, the wind whipped around them. Rob didn’t notice.

  “I’m thrilled,” he said.

  At the meeting they’d just attended, an old friend of Rob’s had proposed that the Barstow Family Foundation donate a new building, complete with a theater as well as rehearsal, production, and administrative facilities, to Rob’s beloved Gilbert and Sullivan troupe. This would require the foundation to go into principal to make a lump-sum donation of $25 million to get the process started.

  “What fun!”

  “No,” Susanna said.

  She confronted a line of black cars with waiting drivers. The cars shielded billionaires from the world they’d created.

  “Let’s set up a meeting with the architect.”

  “No.”

  “It’s cultural, it’s educational, it’s everything we do.”

  “No.”

  Oscar, Rob’s driver, was in one of the black cars lined up before them. Susanna texted him.

  “I do so love Gilbert and Sullivan,” Rob said with a wistful sigh.

  “That’s not relevant.”

  Oscar emerged from a car halfway down the block.

  “What an opportunity. I’m grateful. Honored. The Barstow Foundation can guarantee Gilbert and Sullivan in New York City for generations to come.”

  “Rob—”

  “Did he mention a costume shop? I don’t think he did. He’s not as alert to production issues as I am. Put the costume shop on the list for the architects.”

  “Rob—enough.” She grabbed his arm to gain his attention. “Can you honestly say that providing a place for rich people to put on Gilbert and Sullivan productions is the best fulfillment of the foundation’s mission?”

  He gazed at her in bewilderment. “Gilbert and Sullivan operettas aren’t just for rich people. All types of people enjoy Gilbert and Sullivan.”

  “If you want to support musical theater, why don’t we expand the foundation’s involvement in existing public school programs? As you well know, many public schools offer no music or drama at all.”

  “I’ve been involved with this Gilbert and Sullivan troupe for fifty years. I’ve been offered a remarkable opportunity to assure its future.”

  “And I hope you’re involved with it for fifty more years. With your own, personal funds. It’s not the mission of the Barstow Family Foundation to build a Gilbert and Sullivan center.”

  “Flexibility is key in running a family foundation.”

  “Flexibility within limits. The foundation is a kind of public trust.”

  “You think I’m treating the foundation as a piggy bank for indulging my personal whims?”

  “I wouldn’t put it so starkly.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “You’ll need the support of the board.” The foundation board was composed of Rob, his mother, his wife, their four children (the youngest was nearing forty), and the children’s spouses, along with two nonfamily financial advisers. The family members were divided almost equally between participating in Gilbert and Sullivan productions and rolling their eyes at any mention of Gilbert and Sullivan. Susanna didn’t know the views of the financial advisers. “Approval won’t be easy,” she said with what she hoped sounded like conviction.

  “I wouldn’t be so certain of that,” Rob said.

  “If they do approve it, I’ll resign.”

  What had she said? The words had leapt from her without forethought.

  “Obviously you have to do what you believe is right,” Rob said.

  “Yes.”

  In silence, they walked toward Oscar. When they reached him, Oscar evaluated them astutely. “Hello, my friends,” he said. “We’re in a wind tunnel. Let’s
get out of it.” Oscar wore a gray suit that accentuated his lithe body. His tightly curled gray hair was turning white. He spoke with a clipped accent. “I’ve kept the car heated for you.”

  “Thank you, Oscar,” Rob said. “You take the car, Susanna.”

  She had two meetings uptown.

  “I’ll walk back to the office,” he said.

  “No problem to drop you off, sir,” Oscar said.

  “Ms. Kessler and I have had a disagreement. Not certain I want to continue it in the backseat of my car.”

  “Whatever the disagreement is, no sense you catching cold over it. Ms. Kessler’s just doing her job, I’m sure, Mr. Barstow.”

  “No doubt you’re right, Oscar.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Barstow. Much appreciated.”

  “Even so, I’ll walk.”

  “As you wish. Allow me, Ms. Kessler.” Oscar opened the car door for her.

  “Thank you, Oscar.” Susanna slid onto the soft leather. The car smelled of Cornelia’s perfume, Chanel No. 5. Was Rob really going to walk? “Plenty of room for you, Rob. We can put business aside for ten minutes.”

  “Farewell,” Rob said in his best melodramatic Gilbert and Sullivan fashion, waving goodbye with a sweep of his arm as if he were the Pirate King.

  They watched him head up the block.

  “Sounds like you two had a tough discussion,” Oscar said.

  “I couldn’t go along with something he wants.”

  “That’s called doing your duty.”

  “I hope so, Oscar.”

  “He’ll recover.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Part of your job is to protect him from himself. I’ve done the same over the years.”

  “Thank you for saying.”

  “There’re some M and Ms in the covered candy tray. Mrs. Barstow always says, M and Ms after a tough meeting.”

  “She’s insightful, isn’t she? I’m sure she’s had a lot of experience with tough discussions.” Cornelia Barstow sat on many nonprofit boards.

  “I’ve observed that she has special expertise in protecting Mr. Barstow from himself. Well then, on to our next stop.”

  Oscar eased the car into Midtown traffic, and they headed uptown. The skyscrapers reflected the clouds, as if she and Oscar were traveling through a cloud forest. She didn’t want any M&Ms. She felt the impact of what she’d said, and it cut her with anxiety. She’d stood up for what was right, but that would be small consolation if she did, in fact, lose her job.