And After the Fire Read online

  Today, as would be considered customary before such a momentous change in her life, he also expected to receive an honorarium for his years of faithful service. Friedemann wished he could refuse Sara’s money. Alas, he could not. His debts beset him. When he died, God alone knew how his wife and his daughter, Friederica, would survive. The girl had hopelessly shamed her parents, scandalized their neighbors, and displeased the Lord by giving birth to a bastard son. The boy, Friedemann’s only grandchild, was almost three years old. What would become of him? For Friederica and the child, hell might well await, the righteous judgment of the Lord.

  Not here, Friedemann reminded himself. This was not the place to brood on the despair of his home life.

  Instead, the box. It included a beautifully prepared copy of his father’s Well-Tempered Clavier I. This would bring Sara pleasure. He allowed himself to imagine her reaction . . . her smile when she realized what it was, her gratitude toward him, her enthusiasm when she sat down to play it. Also included was a copy of Friedemann’s own concerto for flute, strings, and continuo. Her future husband would take the flute part, while Sara played continuo on the harpsichord.

  And finally, he’d included the score of a cantata that his father had composed for Exaudi. This cantata had been performed in Halle, under Friedemann’s direction, before the local Philistines made Friedemann’s professional position there untenable.

  On the face of it, the Exaudi cantata was acutely inappropriate for Sara’s library. The text’s condemnations of the Jews went far beyond his father’s settings of the Passion narrative. Murderous violence against Jews was all too frequent in German-speaking lands, hostilities enflamed even by pastors, especially at Easter. Not that this brutality had ever disturbed Friedemann earlier in his life. Knowing Sara, coming to love Sara . . . this had brought him a new perspective.

  He couldn’t leave the cantata to be found by his wife upon his death, sold to the highest bidder and possibly exploited. Nor could he see himself destroying both his father’s composing score and the original separate performing parts for the musicians, thereby expunging all trace of this music’s very existence—he wouldn’t do that to the work of the great master.

  Months ago he did do away with the performing parts by throwing them into the fireplace in his home. He had decided to save the composing score as the only remnant of the cantata, and today he would give the composing score to Sara. He trusted she would conceal and protect it because it was the work of Johann Sebastian Bach. He also trusted that—if not immediately, then by and by—she’d feel honored to be the cantata’s guardian. During their hour together today, he would explain his reasoning to her. He hadn’t yet formulated precisely what he would say. It was an awful task, to risk causing her pain, but this once, he must.

  He resumed the journey up the stairs, the servant keeping pace beside him. In a certain way of thinking, he concluded as he gripped the handrail while hoping to give the impression that he merely touched it lightly, this cantata was the greatest gift he could give Sara. The giving of this gift reflected his infinite respect and admiration for her: she was the one he had chosen to safeguard this baleful masterpiece by Johann Sebastian Bach. Who better to entrust with the responsibility than his Jewish protégée?

  He, Wilhelm Friedemann Bach, had never been disturbed by the fact that Sara Itzig was a Jew. They’d never even mentioned it, all these years. Whenever their lesson times were adjusted due to her family’s peculiar holiday celebrations, they’d tacitly ignored the reason. Her musical gifts ennobled her, and therefore ennobled him as her teacher, no matter what her background. The Lord surely would not forsake her.

  The top of the staircase was within sight. Six steps remained. The sunlight became oppressive. His head and shoulders swayed. Dizziness overcame him. He was losing his balance. He was about to fall backward down the stairs. He clutched at the handrail to stop himself from falling, but he didn’t have the strength.

  The servant grasped his arm and placed a strong hand upon his back. “Allow me, Herr Bach,” the servant said with utmost deference.

  Thus entwined, Friedemann’s walking stick safely stowed under the butler’s arm, they took the final steps. Together they crossed the landing to the antechamber. Friedemann regained his equilibrium. The antechamber was shadowed and cool, and Friedemann felt himself revive. They reached the entry to the music room.

  She was playing the harpsichord. It was one of the fugues he had composed for her. She performed it to perfection, elucidating every subtlety.

  Taking his walking stick, he shook off the servant’s support. He would never enter her music room on the arm of a servant. He took a long breath and summoned up his remaining strength to face her. He stood with his shoulders back and made his walking stick into an affectation, rather than the necessity it was.

  The servant knocked on the door. The music ceased.

  “Entrez.” Her voice, exquisite to him, bid him forward. The servant opened the door.

  She stood beside the harpsichord, waiting for him. She wore a low-cut gauzy dress, suitable for summer, a silken shawl draped around her shoulders. Her hair was pulled back and swept up. Some might label her features less than perfect, in fact might label her features Jewish, but she would always be his gorgeous, precious beloved.

  He stepped into the room as the servant closed the door behind him. He stopped approximately eight paces from her, as he’d planned, and said the words he’d prepared. “My dear student, I have brought my wedding gift to you, a Cantilena nuptiarum that I have written to celebrate your past and your future.”

  Sara listened to him with a smile at the edges of her lips. She understood the game of courtesy that he played.

  “Do not open the box until later, for it contains other compositions in addition to my wedding gift. I wish you to discover and study these compositions one by one, with your fiancé. My gift is for him, also. Indeed, the box includes one of my own compositions, a concerto for flute, strings, and keyboard continuo, for you and your future husband to play together.”

  Friedemann could not bring himself to tell her about the Exaudi cantata now. He didn’t want to upset her. He’d tell her toward the end of their visit.

  With a touching formality, she replied, “Thank you, my esteemed teacher. I shall always be grateful for your generosity, your insight, and the sense of discipline that you have instilled in me. Each time I perform for my family and friends, and each time I practice, I shall think of you and hope that I meet the high standards you have set for me.”

  She walked forward and accepted the presentation box. And then, utterly and completely unexpectedly, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  As if nothing noteworthy had occurred, she turned away and said, “Monsieur Bach, sit down, please, for coffee.”

  He followed her instruction, even as he continued to feel her kiss.

  The silver coffee service was already arrayed on the table, the same thin-legged table where they’d taken refreshment twice each week for so many years, years that nonetheless felt like the merest instant of time. The long windows were open to the cooling breeze. For once, the governess was nowhere to be seen. He pulled out a chair. Keeping one hand on the chair and one on his walking stick, he sat down with care, praying his knees wouldn’t lock in pain. He leaned the stick against the wall.

  She placed his presentation box on the desk in the corner, and she joined him. She poured the coffee into the dainty cups. They looked at each other, she still with a smile at the edges of her lips, as if secrets were passing between them. How gracious she’d become. She displayed the height of good manners. Of deferential courtesy. She was twenty-two, and she conducted herself with the refinement of her position.

  Today he did not feel at ease amid such courtesies. What little nothings could they discuss? Every topic was simultaneously fraught and frivolous. Finally he said, “Even when you are married, you must practice every day. Every single day.”

  “I will,”
she responded. “I promise. Would you like some cake?”

  I will. I promise. Would you like some cake? Each word was burdened. This was the last time she’d pour him coffee, the last time she’d offer him cake.

  Samuel Salomon Levy. Friedemann assumed the marriage had been arranged, as marriages typically were among the wealthy. Samuel Salomon Levy seemed like a nice enough young man, although not nearly good enough for her. A few weeks ago, during one of Friedemann’s visits, Samuel Salomon Levy had joined Sara to play a flute and harpsichord sonata by Johann Joachim Quantz. A pleasant diversion, Quantz, but not suitable for Sara’s prodigious gifts.

  Friedemann ate the cake she served him, although his mouth was dry. He had to do something, after all, to fill the charged emptiness around them. When she asked to refill his coffee cup, he could not refuse. He tried to impress onto his memory every detail of this room. Every detail of her face.

  “When Monsieur Levy and I return from our wedding tour, we will perform for you the concerto you have given us today.”

  “I shall look forward to it.” He was jarred by a horrifying vision of her burning in hell, her skin melting from her face until only the bones remained.

  “Are you quite well, Monsieur Bach?”

  The vision was too strong, too terrifying, for him to respond.

  “Are you composing in your mind?”

  He shook his head sharply, breaking the image. “Yes. Precisely.” He forced himself to smile. “How well you know me.”

  “I like to think that I know you,” she said with an expression of such gentle indulgence that he wanted to reach across the table and take her hands.

  Of course he didn’t. To approach her in this way would be inappropriate. An unforgiveable breach.

  He must tell her about the Exaudi cantata in the box. He inhaled, to prepare himself to begin. I have brought you a hateful work that was composed by my father. I give this work to you, to guard. Because I trust you. Because I love you.

  He could not bring himself to speak.

  Too soon, the ormolu clock chimed the hour. The time had come for him to depart.

  Did she know that they would never see each other again?

  He rose. “The clock tells me that I must be leaving.”

  “No, no, Monsieur Bach. Please, sit down.”

  But she, too, rose. “I’ll play for you.” She rubbed her hands together to warm her fingers. “I’ve prepared a piece especially. I’ve been practicing all afternoon.”

  “Not today, Mademoiselle. I have another appointment.”

  He did not have another appointment.

  “Monsieur Levy will be here soon. He’d like to see you.”

  “Most kind. Please do give him my regrets. He is—” What precisely was Samuel Salomon Levy? “He is an honorable man. I’m certain you will be happy with him.”

  Her cheeks reddened. “Do you think so?” She treated him to a shy smile.

  Could it be that she loved Monsieur Levy? Friedemann loved Sara enough to hope that she did. “I know you will be happy with him. And share with him a long and fruitful marriage.”

  Please, don’t go forward with this, he told her within himself. Don’t imprison yourself with marriage and a dozen children. Do not choose family over music. Over me. I beg you.

  He said, “I comprehended the unity of your spirits the moment I heard the two of you perform together.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Bach. Thank you so very much.” She gazed at him with a vulnerability that caught him by surprise. “Your opinion means more to me than, well, than anyone’s.”

  He sensed she needed to be consoled. He wanted to press his hands upon her shoulders to reassure her as she faced her future. But he didn’t dare. Instead he replied, “Your kind and generous words have touched my heart.”

  “I’ll call for the carriage to take you to your next appointment.”

  She must have intuited his physical weakness.

  “No need, the walk will do me good.” He was going home—he was too weak even for the tavern—and he wouldn’t allow her coachman to see where he lived. Sara might question the coachman afterward and learn details of his private life that he’d steadfastly concealed from her. And if Friederica came outside to show the coach to the eager, curious child, whose behavior betrayed no awareness of the curse of its birth . . . the shame was too dreadful to contemplate. “I’m not so elderly that I must trouble your coachman!” he said with a good humor that sounded, to him at least, sincere.

  “As you wish.” From the desk, she retrieved a leather pouch. She took his hand. She turned his hand palm upward. She placed the pouch upon his palm. “For you, my teacher, in gratitude for all you have given me, these many years.”

  He didn’t need to open the pouch to know what was within. The weight alone told him. Far more than the honorarium for his years of loyal service and the generous fee he’d expected for the compositions. She folded his fingers around the pouch and pressed their hands together. He could not speak, for the pressure in his throat.

  “Goodbye, my dearest,” he finally managed, disengaging their hands and bowing to her.

  With that, he retrieved his walking stick and left her, closing the door behind him.

  Sara stared at the door. She fought an urge to follow him, to pull him back and resume their traditional places: she at the harpsichord, he standing behind her, Madame Goldberg watching from her chair at the window.

  The urge, Sara knew, was a reflection of this moment in her life, one part of her wanting to return to her youth, to the blissful, unencumbered hours of practicing the harpsichord and playing for her teacher, the other part looking forward to marriage and to a home of her own, and the responsibilities these required. She was determined to go forward. To every thing there is a season, as she knew from the Bible.

  Sara turned to check the time—Samuel would arrive at any moment—and she saw the presentation box with its white satin ribbons upon the desk. Impetuously, she decided not to wait for Samuel. She went to the desk and untied the ribbons. She opened the box.

  The composition in honor of her marriage was first. The title read, Herz, mein Herz, sei ruhig. “Heart, my heart, be at peace.”

  When she was with Samuel, her heart was, indeed, at peace. Her teacher’s understanding moved her. She leafed through the composition, hearing it in her mind. She knew this music. She’d played a solo keyboard version of it in her lessons. For her wedding, Monsieur Bach had transformed it into a vocal piece. He’d combined her past and her future into one gift. The poem was uncredited, so perhaps her teacher himself had written it. It was a melancholy meditation on the travails of life from beginning to end. Odd fare, for a wedding.

  She wasn’t surprised that her teacher would do something so unconventional. Wilhelm Friedemann Bach was a brilliant and extraordinary man. He’d tried to hide from her his difficult circumstances, but more than once, secretly, she’d sent servants to follow him home and to question the local shopkeepers, as well as the tavern owners. She knew how things stood with Monsieur Bach. She also knew his pride. She tried to help him, but she would never allow her help to embarrass him.

  Heart, my heart, be at peace. She reviewed the practicalities of performance. The song could be presented at the supper after the marriage ceremony. Perhaps she herself should play the keyboard accompaniment. No, she mustn’t add another element of strain to the questions of dress, food, and table arrangements. Instead, two of her siblings could perform the piece. She would discuss this idea with Samuel.

  Sara and Samuel considered themselves fortunate: their marriage had been arranged, in the tradition of their community, but they’d grown to love each other. They enjoyed many mutual interests, as their parents had known when they made the choice. Like Sara, Samuel had been well educated by tutors. Together they’d vowed never to convert to Christianity. They embraced the beliefs of the Haskalah movement, championed by the philosopher Moses Mendelssohn, who urged Jews to adapt to the customs of the coun
tries in which they’d settled while keeping the faith of their forebears. Sara and Samuel practiced charity, supporting the Freischule, the Free School, which provided education for the poor. They shared a passion for the music of Bach, Haydn, and Mozart. Because Samuel was a talented musician himself, he understood the joy and fulfillment that music brought to Sara.

  She allowed herself to daydream, imagining the children they would have together. She had no desire for the fifteen siblings of her own family, with their constant squabbling. Five or six would be the perfect number. She saw her children gathered around her, pulling on her dress. She visualized them in this very room. The eldest, a girl, about ten, played the harpsichord for Sara’s parents, while Sara held the youngest, a baby boy, against her shoulder and gently rubbed his back to soothe him. The in-betweens, as she thought of them, played on the floor with their toy soldiers or with their dolls. Soon this will be my life. How she yearned for it.

  Putting aside the wedding composition, she returned to the box and came upon a timeworn manuscript of The Well-Tempered Clavier I—this was marvelous and rare. Virtually everywhere in Berlin except in this house, Johann Sebastian Bach’s musical style was considered passé. Sara’s parents, however, had intense admiration for his work, and Sara and her siblings had grown up with it. Sara especially felt drawn to this music, to the complex harmonies and to the intricacies of the counterpoint.

  Next, she found her teacher’s promised concerto for flute, strings, and keyboard continuo. She and Samuel would begin work on it immediately, and she’d recruit several of her brothers to take up the string parts.

  At the bottom of the box, Sara found a composition in its original wrapper. She read the title. Dominica Exaudi: Concerto Wir das Joch nicht tragen können. She saw Johann Sebastian Bach’s signature. She leafed through the piece. His handwriting wasn’t easily legible, but from what she could parse out . . .

  Disappointment and revulsion grew within her. She knew Bach’s church cantatas were Christian works, and that on religious beliefs and practices Christians didn’t agree with Jews, but she couldn’t have imagined that Bach’s cantatas could be hateful toward Jews and show contempt for Jews—not the work of the revered master.