The Mastersinger from Minsk by Morley Torgov

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?”
    â€œBefore 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.”
    â€œMaybe 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.”
    â€œFor instance?”
    â€œHe’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.”
    â€œPessimism is not the exclusive territory of Jews, Helena,” I said.
    â€œOf 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?”
    â€œYes. 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.”
    â€œAh, 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.”
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œOn 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