you’re still here.”
“You offered to change the plane ticket, so, yes. I’m still here. But you—are you sure it’s okay that you’re here? With the wedding and all.”
“It’s hours away—I’m fine.” He looked at the virtual home office scattered around her: laptop, files, cell phone, and a legal pad with notes scrawled on it. “Already deep in research, I see.”
“Up to our necks in research is what we’ve been for more than two years,” Sera said and dropped a folder down on the coffee table in front of him. “And like I said last night, we’ve hit a dead end.”
He set his coffee cup down on the table and picked up the folder, flipping through the stack of papers inside. “What’s this?”
Sera exhaled. “That is a file with the last known records of our girl. Everything we can find on her stops after October 1944. Records weren’t always kept if someone was sent to the gas chambers or was one of those randomly executed by SS guards. It’s horrible. And we’re not sure what happened to her.”
“Orchestra records . . . photographs . . .” He held up severalprintouts of black-and-white photos, turning the snapshots from horizontal to vertical to view each image.
“Yes. The ones on the top are from her early years. Whatever I could find. And in the back of the folder are these.” Sera took another sip of her coffee. “You’ll understand what we’re looking at when you see them.”
She sat and watched him. William’s face was stoic as he sorted through the stack of photos. He looked at each for a moment, photos of a young Adele with her barrel-rolled blond hair and bright, youthful smile. There were group photos of the Vienna Philharmonic, shots of her with her violin, even shots of her while playing onstage. Sera had found one or two pictures of Adele’s family, one of her with a group of schoolgirls at the university she attended in Vienna, even a candid of her as she’d been lost in the magic of playing her violin in a practice studio.
And then William froze. His hand brought a photo up closer to his eyes and Sera watched, knowing which photo he’d found.
“This isn’t real . . . is it?”
The photo was of a performance of the orchestra within Auschwitz, with Adele just one of the group of those playing while a gaggle of SS officers smiled on.
“Yes.” Sera nodded and pointed to a female sitting off to the side of the photo. “That’s her.”
“I had no idea that there was anything like this in the concentration camps.”
“Most people don’t. I didn’t for quite a while,” Sera admitted. “I heard mention of it while in an art history survey course, that there were musicians, even artists who hid the art they created. When the camps were liberated, the armies that came in found art that had been left behind. Paintings . . . sketches . . . poems even, scratched into barrack walls. And they had musicians who played in orchestras right there in the camps. I didn’t know much about it until I went back to research the painting. That’s whenI found all of this. And in the past two years we’ve learned what she must have gone through.”
“How did you find out about her?”
Sera figured he’d ask. She tossed a photocopy of the painting on top of the stack of photos. “We found her by the serial number,” she said, pointing to the numbers scrawled on her forearm. “The tattoo.”
“And you’re sure she is this Adele Von Bron.”
“Quite sure.”
He held another photo up to her. “When was this one taken?”
Sera took it from him and looked over the image. “Well, this image is unique. We’re not sure why, but there are some photographs that were taken inside the camps. This one was actually taken by an SS officer. It’s a photo of what we believe was one of her last performances, from late September 1944. She’s there in the first row, first chair from the left.”
William looked shocked by the explanation. “They had concerts in the
“You offered to change the plane ticket, so, yes. I’m still here. But you—are you sure it’s okay that you’re here? With the wedding and all.”
“It’s hours away—I’m fine.” He looked at the virtual home office scattered around her: laptop, files, cell phone, and a legal pad with notes scrawled on it. “Already deep in research, I see.”
“Up to our necks in research is what we’ve been for more than two years,” Sera said and dropped a folder down on the coffee table in front of him. “And like I said last night, we’ve hit a dead end.”
He set his coffee cup down on the table and picked up the folder, flipping through the stack of papers inside. “What’s this?”
Sera exhaled. “That is a file with the last known records of our girl. Everything we can find on her stops after October 1944. Records weren’t always kept if someone was sent to the gas chambers or was one of those randomly executed by SS guards. It’s horrible. And we’re not sure what happened to her.”
“Orchestra records . . . photographs . . .” He held up severalprintouts of black-and-white photos, turning the snapshots from horizontal to vertical to view each image.
“Yes. The ones on the top are from her early years. Whatever I could find. And in the back of the folder are these.” Sera took another sip of her coffee. “You’ll understand what we’re looking at when you see them.”
She sat and watched him. William’s face was stoic as he sorted through the stack of photos. He looked at each for a moment, photos of a young Adele with her barrel-rolled blond hair and bright, youthful smile. There were group photos of the Vienna Philharmonic, shots of her with her violin, even shots of her while playing onstage. Sera had found one or two pictures of Adele’s family, one of her with a group of schoolgirls at the university she attended in Vienna, even a candid of her as she’d been lost in the magic of playing her violin in a practice studio.
And then William froze. His hand brought a photo up closer to his eyes and Sera watched, knowing which photo he’d found.
“This isn’t real . . . is it?”
The photo was of a performance of the orchestra within Auschwitz, with Adele just one of the group of those playing while a gaggle of SS officers smiled on.
“Yes.” Sera nodded and pointed to a female sitting off to the side of the photo. “That’s her.”
“I had no idea that there was anything like this in the concentration camps.”
“Most people don’t. I didn’t for quite a while,” Sera admitted. “I heard mention of it while in an art history survey course, that there were musicians, even artists who hid the art they created. When the camps were liberated, the armies that came in found art that had been left behind. Paintings . . . sketches . . . poems even, scratched into barrack walls. And they had musicians who played in orchestras right there in the camps. I didn’t know much about it until I went back to research the painting. That’s whenI found all of this. And in the past two years we’ve learned what she must have gone through.”
“How did you find out about her?”
Sera figured he’d ask. She tossed a photocopy of the painting on top of the stack of photos. “We found her by the serial number,” she said, pointing to the numbers scrawled on her forearm. “The tattoo.”
“And you’re sure she is this Adele Von Bron.”
“Quite sure.”
He held another photo up to her. “When was this one taken?”
Sera took it from him and looked over the image. “Well, this image is unique. We’re not sure why, but there are some photographs that were taken inside the camps. This one was actually taken by an SS officer. It’s a photo of what we believe was one of her last performances, from late September 1944. She’s there in the first row, first chair from the left.”
William looked shocked by the explanation. “They had concerts in the
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