And After the Fire Page 8

  “Let’s move to the next step,” he said, concealing his uneasiness. “We’ll look up the opening measures, to make absolutely sure this music doesn’t appear elsewhere among Bach’s works with a different text.” He pulled another book from the shelves, the Melodic Index to the Works of Johann Sebastian Bach, compiled by May deForest McAll. “This book organizes the opening melodic ideas of all Bach pieces by their shape.”

  “Their shape?”

  “It puts the opening musical gestures of the pieces into a kind of alphabetical order, so you can search for them by means of the music itself. You see here,” he explained an example at random, “two notes moving up the scale followed by two notes moving down, and so forth.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  He checked the opening phrase of the cantata and went to the required section of the book.

  “This melody isn’t listed,” he said.

  “What does that tell us?”

  He didn’t answer her. He faced a shocking conclusion: the manuscript might well be authentic. It probably was authentic. And both its music and its libretto were unknown. A wholly new discovery.

  Stop: a genuine, previously unknown Bach autograph could not possibly be brought into his office on a Friday afternoon by a young woman who’d been cleaning out the home of her deceased uncle in Buffalo, New York. The chances of such a thing happening were nil.

  And yet, evidently it had happened. The manuscript bore no library number or stamp. Who had written the messages on the wrapper, ordering that it be kept private? Where had it been hidden, in the many years since its creation?

  Dan considered Bach’s Calov Bible, lost for centuries and then found in an attic in Michigan. One day in 1934, a Lutheran minister in town for a conference stopped by the home of his cousin, and the cousin said, “I’ve got a big old multivolume German Bible in the attic, maybe you could take a look at it and tell us what to do with it.” The Bible turned out to have Bach’s signature on its various title pages and to be filled with Bach’s handwritten comments.

  Dan’s heart was racing. He felt as if he’d gulped down five cups of coffee. This could be the most significant discovery of his career. Or if he was wrong, he’d make an everlasting fool of himself.

  He turned to Susanna. “Tell me again,” he said, suspicion entering his voice. He needed to keep her at an objective distance. “Where and how did you find this?”

  “I was cleaning out . . .”

  Dan listened to her story without interrupting. She showed him the note from her uncle. He read it. He studied her uncle’s hand-drawn map. From the bookcase he pulled out an atlas of Germany. He matched the handwritten map to the atlas’s map of the area in and around Weimar. He returned the note to her.

  “From your uncle’s letter, it appears that the manuscript was stolen. Looted after the war. Sorry to be blunt about it.”

  “My uncle possessed it for over sixty years. The people who owned it were probably murdered in the Holocaust.”

  Dan heard her defensiveness. She didn’t want her uncle spoken of as a thief. “I keep up with the databases on materials stolen during the war,” he said, “and I’ve never seen a reference to anything like this. As far as I know, it’s never been reported stolen.”

  “I looked at those websites, too. I do realize that my uncle wouldn’t have been able to know for certain, what happened to the family. If I can find any family members who survived, I’ll give this back to them. But let’s put the ownership question aside for now. I came to you because I’m trying to find out what this is. I need to know if it’s authentic and also why my uncle was concerned about it.”

  She sat up straighter, appearing to Dan even more self-possessed and confident, and making him more conscious of her short skirt and black tights. He didn’t intend to notice such things, especially with Julie staring out of the photos on his desk. He couldn’t help himself. It was instinct. Judging from the conversations he overheard in the locker room at the gym, he was no different from most other heterosexual men in this regard.

  “What do you think we’ve got here?” she asked.

  She wasn’t an expert, Dan knew. “Let me start at the beginning. It seems that Bach may have written as many as five cantata cycles.”

  “Which are?”

  “An annual liturgical series in which music is set for the appropriate church services in the year. The purpose of a sacred cantata was to provide musical and poetic reflection on the biblical readings of the service. For unknown reasons, only three of Bach’s five cantata cycles survive, and even those aren’t complete.”

  He heard himself taking on an excessively professional tone, to ward off his increasing recognition of the attractiveness of her legs.

  “There are various theories about what happened to the many cantatas that disappeared. In those days, there was no photocopying or scanning,” he said, stating the obvious to provide some perspective. “For nearly all of Bach’s cantatas, the only record of them that existed in his day was the composing score, plus the separate individual orchestral and vocal parts that were copied out by Bach’s students from the composing score, for the performers to use in the rehearsals and church services. When Bach died, all these materials were divided among his wife and several of his sons. From there they were sold, and some were lost, discarded in error, never seen again.”

  “Are you saying that this is a completely unknown piece of music by Bach?”

  “Yes. Possibly.” He made himself sound circumspect. “My opinion is subject to the corroboration of other experts. I don’t know enough to make a definitive evaluation on my own.”

  “So this manuscript could be quite important?”

  “If genuine, it would be tremendously important. And it could be worth millions of dollars. The smallest Bach discovery creates a sensation, and this would be major.”

  “What’s the next step?”

  “A thorough investigation. Because there will be an uproar when—if—this becomes public, every aspect of the manuscript needs to be explored. I’ll need to gather as much information as I can, to develop a context. First I should tease out the full text of the libretto. That could take a few hours.”

  “I’ll wait. I have work I can do.”

  “Why don’t I take photos with my phone to save time?”

  “No photos. At least for now.”

  He debated whether to challenge her on this. The lack of a reproduction of the manuscript for study purposes would make the entire research process more difficult, but he could understand that she would be concerned about the possibility of digital images being spread around the world in an instant.

  “Okay. With your permission, I’d like to consult with a friend who’s the curator of music manuscripts at the MacLean Library in New York. Scott Schiffman. He’s an expert in authenticating and dating music manuscripts through handwriting analysis. A composer’s musical handwriting changes over the course of a lifetime. The way the bass clefs and the treble clefs are written, the way the beams are placed on the notes—this is Scott’s expertise. Among much else. He’s an expert in the history of ink, for example. I’d like him to see the manuscript so we can get his opinion.”

  That was a huge understatement. Anxiety was setting in as the full import of what this might be—of what it was—hit him.

  “May I contact Scott?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “We—you—should go to Weimar, follow your uncle’s map, and try to find the house he visited. If the house is still there. At least determine the address. Visit the municipal archives and learn the family’s name, so you can trace survivors. And we Bach scholars would want to know if anything else significant is still to be found at the house; again, if it exists.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “In the meantime I could contact a friend at the university in Leipzig and send him a copy of the map. He could do some research to try to find the family.”

  “I’d like to keep
this to ourselves for now. Scott Schiffman at the MacLean Library is fine, but no one else.”

  “In early July, I’ll be attending a conference in Leipzig, not too far from Weimar. If you’re not able to visit Weimar before then, I could go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where are you storing the manuscript?”

  “In a bank vault.”

  “Not good.” This was really not good, but he kept his voice measured. “It should be kept in a temperature-controlled environment. Scott can help with that. The MacLean Library would be perfect. You should take it there today. They have terrific facilities. I can phone Scott to alert him that you’ll be arriving later.”

  “I’m going to keep it in the bank vault for now.”

  “I don’t like you traveling around with this and dropping it off at a bank. In fact, doing so is unconscionably reckless.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “I’ll keep your opinion in mind.”

  What could he say to that? He had no standing to challenge her. He didn’t want to offend her. They’d only met once before. She could easily decide to take the manuscript to another scholar, or opt to sell it. And once she understood what it was, and the reason her uncle was rightly concerned about it, she might even, God forbid, think nothing of destroying it. Nonetheless he had a responsibility to be honest with her.

  “I need to explain something else.” He hesitated. He didn’t know where to begin. The cantata that lay on the desk between them reflected the bleak history of Europe. In the Middle Ages, Jews were expelled from England and burned at the stake in France. The Spanish Inquisition murdered tens of thousands. Pogroms were a fact of life in many parts of Europe, even into the twentieth century. The absurd so-called blood libel had recurred all over Europe, also into the twentieth century, accusing Jews of murdering Christian children to use their blood in religious ceremonies, resulting in further anti-Jewish violence. The Holocaust hadn’t come out of nowhere.

  Abruptly two thousand years of history became personal for him. His great-grandparents had emigrated from Germany to the United States. One of his grandmothers had been born in Germany. He had relatives who fought on the German side during the war. And Dan felt more generally implicated because of his religion. He and his family were part of the Christian biblical heritage represented by this manuscript. He shared a collective responsibility. He felt ashamed. Surely this cantata text was not the message that Jesus himself had taught?

  She was waiting for him to continue.

  But he couldn’t. All of it was too close.

  “With any discovery of this magnitude,” he said, avoiding the issue, “the press will descend in droves. We have to be prepared. Make certain we’re one hundred percent correct. After I’ve copied out the libretto and am able to do research on its origins, we’ll have a firmer idea of what we’re dealing with.”

  The sun had moved, and the light was dappling into the office through the trees outside the window. In the golden light, her eyes were a shade of blue that he’d never seen before, dark and deep.

  “Thank you.”

  Where had she come from, this delicate and graceful woman, her body full beneath her sweater?

  He wasn’t prepared to tell her outright that the text of this cantata, powerfully supported by its musical setting, explicitly proclaimed a stark and murderous contempt for Jews. For her.

  Chapter 9

  PALAIS ITZIG, BURGSTRASSE

  BERLIN, PRUSSIA

  June 1783

  With the head of his walking stick, Wilhelm Friedemann Bach knocked on the palace door. Under his arm he carried an elegant presentation box tied with a white satin ribbon. The box was more expensive than he could afford, but only perfection was suitable for his beloved Sara.

  When Sara opened the box, she’d find his gift: a song he’d written for her. A Cantilena nuptiarum, “Presented in Honor of the Marriage of Sara Itzig to Samuel Salomon Levy,” as the calligrapher had inscribed upon the wrapper. The calligrapher was also more expensive than he could afford. Sara would recognize the music, which he’d originally composed as a solo keyboard piece and used in her lessons. For her marriage, he’d arranged the work for voice and harpsichord. He himself had written the poetry. This was not a typical wedding piece, intended to be performed once and put aside. No, indeed. For Sara, he had created a profound reflection on earthly struggle.

  The wedding would take place at the end of the following week. The girl he loved had grown into a vivacious young woman of twenty-two. He, by contrast, had grown into a grizzled, bitter, weak, ill, decrepit man of seventy-three.

  Predictably, Sara was marrying into her own class. Friedemann had met the man. Samuel Salomon Levy was a banker and a member of a banking family. Jews were skilled at banking, you could count on that. In addition the man played the flute, and rather well, Friedemann had to admit.

  Friedemann knocked on the door again. These servants, they were so slow. He didn’t appreciate wasting precious minutes at the door, stranded with the clatter of horses and carriages on the cobblestoned street, when he could be basking in Sara’s presence.

  Most likely, this was the last time Friedemann would see her. He’d declined her invitation to the nuptial celebration. He could not bear to see her married. Afterward, she would leave Berlin on a wedding journey of several months, visiting family far and wide and enjoying a stay at a spa. He, on the other hand, was dying. He doubted he’d be here when she returned.

  In recent months, as he’d grown weaker, he’d been thinking a good deal about the Lord. His meditations had given him a notion that he had a good chance of going to heaven. Sara, alas, was not a baptized Jew, so, according to Martin Luther, she was going to hell. Herr Luther was most knowledgeable about matters of heaven and hell, and Friedemann did consider himself devout. He was proud that years ago he’d managed to express his profound Lutheran devotion by reworking into Latin two movements from his father’s superb Reformation cantata on Luther’s hymn Ein feste Burg and giving them an even greater musical grandeur through the addition of trumpets and drums. This grandeur constituted a considerable expense for his employers at the church in Halle, but it was worth every thaler. (The ignorant burghers of Halle had disagreed.)

  Friedemann hated to think of Sara condemned to hell because she was a Jew. But who was he to question the ways of the Lord? The Bible was clear on this issue. Like all good Lutherans, Friedemann knew his Gospels. Whoever believes in Him, he will not be condemned; but whoever does not believe, he is already condemned, for he does not believe in the name of the only begotten Son of God, said the Gospel of John.

  Friedemann hoped that in the end she would receive from Christ the Crown of Life. Nowadays some of her brethren were converting. He found consolation in this hope for her. In fact, he’d included a reference to Christ’s Crown of Life in his wedding poem, although he felt certain that she wouldn’t know the New Testament allusion, to Revelation 2:10.

  At last a uniformed butler opened the door. Friedemann recognized him from previous visits. The man, slight of frame, was attired in brocades much more expensive than Friedemann’s. The man’s skin was olive-toned. Friedemann wondered if the butler were a Jew. He suspected so. Gossip at the tavern held that Jews were as rich as Croesus. The truth, however, seemed to be that some Jews were much less wealthy than others. Some Jews worked as servants to survive.

  In his bleakest moments, Friedemann confronted the fact that when all was said and done, he, too, was a lackey.

  “Guten Tag, Herr Bach.”

  Friedemann listened for any hint of a Yiddish accent, but heard none. The Itzig family spoke French, but their servants spoke German. At least to him. Friedemann wondered if he was meant to take the German as an insult. Well, he didn’t have time for such games. He swept past the butler and through the doorway.

  And then he confronted the steep pathway, framed by marble columns, that led to his darling. This path had become more and more difficult through the years he’d visite
d the palais to teach his cherished student. Now he dreaded it.

  To begin, he clutched the railing to maintain his balance as he labored up the five steps into the entry vestibule. He paused, gathering his strength. He shuffled across the central gallery, with its murals of woodland scenes and its slippery marble floor. Friedemann paused again at the base of the marble stairway, which rose in a gentle curve. Sunlight filtered through the skylight and filled the stairwell with an evanescent mist. He tried to impress the scene upon his memory.

  “May I carry your box, Herr Bach?”

  “No, thank you, that won’t be necessary.” He wouldn’t allow a servant to carry Sara’s gift. Friedemann wished, however, that the butler would have the discernment to ask to carry his walking stick, to allow him to hold the handrail unencumbered.

  “Might I take your walking stick?”

  “Thank you,” Friedemann said graciously, as if he were doing the servant a favor.

  He began the slow journey upward. Large paintings, family portraits, hung in the stairwell. Grim-faced Jews, rendered larger than life, stared down at him. He’d come to hate these portraits. None of the ancestors resembled Sara. Because of the sun pouring through the skylight, the stairwell was hot. Friedemann felt beads of moisture forming at the back of his neck. His legs hurt. His heart raced. He was panting. He stopped to gulp in air and quite literally catch his breath. The butler stopped with him.

  To occupy his mind with higher concerns while he steadied himself, Friedemann mentally reviewed the other musical compositions in the box. Sara would remunerate him handsomely for these, and he would make himself appear to accept her generosity only reluctantly. They had played this game of politesse on many occasions. Sara collected the works of the Bach family, almost exclusively instrumental music. They hadn’t needed to discuss the reasons for her preference for instrumental rather than Christian sacred vocal music.