Later, back at the Eugénie Palace, after seeing to it that Madam Vronsky was comfortably settled in her room, I followed Helena to her suite where, once the door was closed behind us, without so much as a split second’s hesitation she said “He’s Jewish, you know.”
“Who? Who’s Jewish?”
“Don’t be cute, Hermann. Schramm. Who else would I be talking about?”
“What makes you so sure, Helena? Did he say so?”
“Of course not. Don’t ask me how I know. I know. Trust me, Hermann. Henryk Schramm is a Jew.”
Chapter Eleven
As Helena described them to me, the telltale signs that convinced her Henryk Schramm was Jewish were subtle. Producing a flask of brandy that was a routine part of her accoutrements whenever she was on tour, she filled two small glasses, offered one to me, took a sip from the other, and began: “He has a way of using his hands when he talks. Not animated, mind you, Hermann, but expressive. If he’s making a point he uses his index fingers, moving them from side to side as though he’s saying maybe yes, maybe no.” Helena seemed to be smiling to herself. “Rather charming, really, when I come to think of it.”
Dryly, I said, “I’m sure, Helena. What else?”
“Before he takes a first bite of a slice of bread he sprinkles a pinch of salt on it. It’s a habit of his; I noticed he did so several times.”
“Maybe he’s simply superstitious. I believe that particular habit is common among Eastern Europeans.”
Helena shook her head. “This man is not a superstitious type, Hermann. But he is a pessimist. So many of his views of things are stitched together by a dark thread of pessimism.”
“For instance?”
“He’s quite convinced that German culture will fall victim eventually to all the industrial activity that’s consuming our people, that we’ll become a nation of crass materialists. As for himself, he predicts that, as wonderful as Wagner’s new opera is, it will fail and that he, Schramm, will therefore suffer an early end to his career as a singer.”
“Pessimism is not the exclusive territory of Jews, Helena,” I said.
“Of course not,” she agreed, “but they seem to visit that territory more than most tourists, at least in my experience. One other thing, Hermann: did you observe something when he said goodbye to Olga and me?”
“Yes. He kissed your hands. Nothing unusual about that. Even I occasionally stoop to such endearing gestures … that is, when I’m too weary to try something more energetic.”
“Ah, it’s not what he did,” Helena said, “but what he said. A thoroughgoing German would look into my eyes and whisper auf Wiedersehen at such a moment. He looked into my eyes and whispered ‘Be well.’ Those were his parting words.”
“And you’re saying that’s typical of those people?”
Helena said, sounding sure of herself, “I’ve lived much of my life with ‘those people.’ I am one of ‘those people.’ Remember? I know what I’m talking about, Hermann. My father changed his name from Gershon Bekarsky to Gerhardt Becker after my mother persuaded him he was better off with a new name. But one thing a new name can’t do … it can’t change old habits. So yes, pessimism remained in his bones. And yes, he used his hands a great deal whenever he was involved in some deep discussion. Loved salting his bread. Never said goodbye to anyone without adding ‘Be well.’ I repeat, Hermann, although Schramm never said a word to me during our conversations tonight about being Jewish, he is, he definitely is.”
Without asking permission, I reached for Helena’s flask and helped myself to a second brandy. “That’s not like you,” Helena said, watching as I downed it in a single draft. “You seem to be trying to drown out something.”
“On the contrary,” I said. “In wine there’s truth, but in brandy there’s clarity. Not answers, but at least questions begin to make sense … one question, at any rate.”
Helena teasingly brought the brandy flask to the lip of my glass. “If you’re wondering about making love tonight, Hermann, perhaps a third?”
Gently I pushed the flask aside. “Listen to me, Helena. Given Richard Wagner’s renowned hatred of Jews, why would he engage a Jew to sing the leading male role in one of his operas? It stands to reason Wagner hasn’t the slightest suspicion about Schramm. But there’s an even more intriguing question, isn’t there? Why would a Jewish tenor take the trouble to conceal his background and, of all things, want to sing in an opera composed by one of the most virulent anti-Semites on the face of the earth?”
Once again Helena took up the flask, this time with a serious expression. “Maybe you should have a third drink after all — ”
“No, no, thank you. Enough is enough. You must be exhausted after such a full evening, Helena. And as for me, I have an early appointment tomorrow morning. Between you and me, it’s not going to be very pleasant. I’ve summoned another tenor for questioning at the Constabulary. Name’s Wolfgang Grilling. It’s in connection with the murder of Wagner’s designer Sandor Lantos.”
“Do you think Schramm has a point … I mean about some enemy of Wagner setting out to — ” Helena cut herself short. “That’s simply too preposterous.”
“Not at all,” I said. “Crime and preposterousness are blood brothers. Sometimes they are even blood sisters.” I rose from my chair, moved to where Helena was seated, kissed her on the forehead, and whispered “Goodnight, my sweet. Be well.”
“You’re leaving me up in the air like this?” she asked, full of indignation.
“Yes, Helena,” I replied, “but with a word of advice. Whatever you decide to throw at the door as I’m closing it behind me … make sure it’s not too expensive.”
Chapter Twelve
Before attending Helena Becker’s recital I had dispatched one of my young constables, Emil Gruber, to the residence of the tenor Wolfgang Grilling bearing a summons to appear at my office at ten o’clock the following morning. I gave, as the reason for our meeting, my need to obtain as much background as possible into the character and work of Sandor Lantos from people who were in contact with him either socially or professionally, all in the hope of forming a picture of Lantos’s killer. I made a point of stating my reason innocuously, even humbly (“… your insights and experience would be of incalculable assistance, Herr Grilling …”), avoiding even the slightest hint that, for the moment, I considered him the prime suspect. Knowing that most artists and entertainers are not what are known as “morning people,” I planned to make this session as comfortable and informal as I could despite the fact that my office, like all offices in the Constabulary, can only be described as a formidable collection of unrelieved squares and rectangles. I would deliberately sit next to Grilling, rather than sitting in my usual place behind my desk; I would keep the conversation at the level of a chat rather than an interrogation. I even went so far as to order a pot of coffee to be delivered from the commissary, a demand so rare that the steward who took the order, when he thought I wasn’t looking, shook his head as though questioning my sanity.
Ten o’clock arrived, but not Wolfgang Grilling. Very well, I told myself, allowances must be made. God knows, I should have grown accustomed to a certain amount of tardiness among musicians; Helena Becker, for example, was notoriously late for every appointment she and I made, and I had come to regard this habit as part of her charm — the profound and totally insincere apology accompanied by a sweet smile and the brush of her lips on my cheek. On the other hand, word was that if an artist were late for an appointment with Richard Wagner the fires of hell flamed up through the floor while lightning flashed through the ceiling. Face it, I said to myself, I am not Richard Wagner. Grilling will therefore make his entrance a quarter of an hour late and offer a profound and totally insincere apology. (No kiss of course.) I helped myself to a cup of coffee from the steaming pot (which did arrive on schedule) and sat back awaiting Herr Grilling.