the door. I cowered in my seat and watched them leave.
Commandant Jager returned to his seat and waited for his next victim. The room was silent except for the dog’s heavy panting. Trommler shoved the next girl from her seat and she sat down at the piano, her face a dangerous plum colour. The commandant sat through Brahm’s Scherzo in E flat minor and let her play a Chopin prelude through to the end, though she played it dully. She returned to her seat trembling with relief and Rivka took her place. She played Beethoven and Wagner, Chopin and Brahms and she played sublimely, but that only made my heart hammer harder in my chest. The commandant lifted his hand from the scruff of his dog’s neck to applaud, but then thought better of it and returned to scratching the dog’s head.
I walked to the piano, sick to my stomach. What if halfway through my Bach prelude my memory failed? What if the commandant detested Bach?
“Who’s this one?” the commandant asked. He hadn’t asked about the others.
“A10573, Herr Captain.”
“Her name?”
Lagerführerin Holzman looked confused. It wasn’t her job to know our names.
The commandant stared at me.
“Take your scarf off.” He looked at the others. “All of you. Scarves off!”
That’s when I saw him: a boy of sixteen or seventeen. It was difficult to tell his age. I’d become accustomed to boys with sagging mouths and bent backs who looked like old men. He looked nothing like the boys behind the electrified fences. His hair was the colour of honey and his eyes the colour of the sky. He was tanned and tall – at least a head taller than me – though I couldn’t be sure because his head was buried in a book and he sat slouched in a chair. He was the second lovely thing I’d seen that day and I wanted to strangle him. How dare he read while we played for our lives.
“You’re a Jew?” The commandant’s voice echoed across the room.
I turned from the boy to answer the commandant’s question. “Yes.”
“Where from?”
“Debrecen, Hungary.” I looked across at the boy who was stifling a yawn.
“And your position? Who did you play for? The Budapest Philharmonic?”
I shook my head.
“The ballet?”
I shook it again. The commandant frowned and turned to Lagerführerin Holzman.
“So, what’s she here for, her looks?”
“
Nein
,” I answered in my best German. “I’m here because I play piano. I’m here because I’m good.” I wasn’t going to win the audition, no matter how well I played. I was no match for Rivka Hermann but I wanted the chance to compete. I wanted to play on the commandant’s Bösendorfer grand. I wanted the boy to put down his book. “I was promised a place at the Budapest Conservatorium. I was awarded the Budapest Medallion for most promising pianist under sixteen. I was the one voted most likely to …”
“You have five minutes,” he cut me off. “Impress me.”
I climbed onto the stool and slipped my bare feet onto the pedals. I didn’t know the commandant’s favourite composer but I knew this place, this piano. I knew what the commandant wanted. He wanted what we all wanted – to be transported. I didn’t know where he wanted to go, but I knew where I wanted to be, so I played the music that would take me home. I played Clara Schumann’s “Die gute Nacht” and when he instructed me to continue I played a Bach sinfonia for Mother and Chopin’s Waltz in A minor for Father. I played Liszt’s
Hungarian Rhapsody No. 6
for Piri and Ravel’s
Gaspard de la Nuit
for Erika. I wasn’t in the camps and I wasn’t playing for an extra crust of bread. I was back in my world; Hanna at the piano, in control of the harmony and the happy ending.
I looked up. The boy’s nose was still buried in his book.
“Continue,” the commandant said and I lowered my head. I was deciding between the
Blue Danube
and Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 11 when something in the piano’s gleaming black lid caught my eye. I hadn’t
Commandant Jager returned to his seat and waited for his next victim. The room was silent except for the dog’s heavy panting. Trommler shoved the next girl from her seat and she sat down at the piano, her face a dangerous plum colour. The commandant sat through Brahm’s Scherzo in E flat minor and let her play a Chopin prelude through to the end, though she played it dully. She returned to her seat trembling with relief and Rivka took her place. She played Beethoven and Wagner, Chopin and Brahms and she played sublimely, but that only made my heart hammer harder in my chest. The commandant lifted his hand from the scruff of his dog’s neck to applaud, but then thought better of it and returned to scratching the dog’s head.
I walked to the piano, sick to my stomach. What if halfway through my Bach prelude my memory failed? What if the commandant detested Bach?
“Who’s this one?” the commandant asked. He hadn’t asked about the others.
“A10573, Herr Captain.”
“Her name?”
Lagerführerin Holzman looked confused. It wasn’t her job to know our names.
The commandant stared at me.
“Take your scarf off.” He looked at the others. “All of you. Scarves off!”
That’s when I saw him: a boy of sixteen or seventeen. It was difficult to tell his age. I’d become accustomed to boys with sagging mouths and bent backs who looked like old men. He looked nothing like the boys behind the electrified fences. His hair was the colour of honey and his eyes the colour of the sky. He was tanned and tall – at least a head taller than me – though I couldn’t be sure because his head was buried in a book and he sat slouched in a chair. He was the second lovely thing I’d seen that day and I wanted to strangle him. How dare he read while we played for our lives.
“You’re a Jew?” The commandant’s voice echoed across the room.
I turned from the boy to answer the commandant’s question. “Yes.”
“Where from?”
“Debrecen, Hungary.” I looked across at the boy who was stifling a yawn.
“And your position? Who did you play for? The Budapest Philharmonic?”
I shook my head.
“The ballet?”
I shook it again. The commandant frowned and turned to Lagerführerin Holzman.
“So, what’s she here for, her looks?”
“
Nein
,” I answered in my best German. “I’m here because I play piano. I’m here because I’m good.” I wasn’t going to win the audition, no matter how well I played. I was no match for Rivka Hermann but I wanted the chance to compete. I wanted to play on the commandant’s Bösendorfer grand. I wanted the boy to put down his book. “I was promised a place at the Budapest Conservatorium. I was awarded the Budapest Medallion for most promising pianist under sixteen. I was the one voted most likely to …”
“You have five minutes,” he cut me off. “Impress me.”
I climbed onto the stool and slipped my bare feet onto the pedals. I didn’t know the commandant’s favourite composer but I knew this place, this piano. I knew what the commandant wanted. He wanted what we all wanted – to be transported. I didn’t know where he wanted to go, but I knew where I wanted to be, so I played the music that would take me home. I played Clara Schumann’s “Die gute Nacht” and when he instructed me to continue I played a Bach sinfonia for Mother and Chopin’s Waltz in A minor for Father. I played Liszt’s
Hungarian Rhapsody No. 6
for Piri and Ravel’s
Gaspard de la Nuit
for Erika. I wasn’t in the camps and I wasn’t playing for an extra crust of bread. I was back in my world; Hanna at the piano, in control of the harmony and the happy ending.
I looked up. The boy’s nose was still buried in his book.
“Continue,” the commandant said and I lowered my head. I was deciding between the
Blue Danube
and Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 11 when something in the piano’s gleaming black lid caught my eye. I hadn’t
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