The Savior by Eugene Drucker Page A

have been lined up for the spring, and I’m being considered by Schmidt’s management for next season.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful.” Her face radiated goodwill toward him. Marietta seemed incapable of jealousy of someone else’s success; she was too complete in herself. But he wanted to find something beyond friendliness in her face.
    â€œI’d like you to play the recitals with me.”
    She blushed with pleasure and looked down at her hands, which were resting on the keyboard. But her expression changed suddenly, and the color drained from her face.
    â€œThere’s going to be a problem,” she said.
    â€œAre you worried about the repertoire? I know there will be a lot, but you can take your time learning…”
    â€œThat’s not it.” Her eyes locked onto his almost fiercely. Suddenly he felt as if he had done something wrong. “Didn’t you know I was Jewish?”
    He hadn’t known. She was foreign, exotic, but he’d never asked about her religion. She could just as well have been a Gypsy, for all he cared. He told her it made no difference to him, but she was adamant: A public collaboration wouldn’t be a good idea. It would be risky for them both, she said—for him in his future career in Germany, and for her if or when she needed to get out.
    Considering the scene he’d just witnessed in the Goldener Adler, it was hard to argue with her. Gottfried was too ashamed to tell her about the rabble-rouser and his crew, even though they had shaken him up so much that he needed to talk to someone about it. He hadn’t stood up to them, and he didn’t want Marietta to know that.
    But surely the fact that most people in the café had been oblivious to the Nazi, and some even annoyed by him, was a good sign. He and the kind of people who listened to such talk were still the minority; Gottfried was convinced of that, even if they were gaining strength. In any case, lowlifes like the ones he’d just seen at the Goldener Adler had little to do with the concert world. People who loved great music couldn’t be taken in by the gross oversimplifications that appealed to the uneducated.
    â€œLook, there are still many Jewish artists performing in Germany. I admit, they’re usually playing with each other, they play less and less with Aryans, but there’s no law against it. At least not yet. Let me speak to a friend of mine who just started working at Schmidt’s. Let’s see what’s still possible.”
    â€œLet it go,” she said miserably. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
    He said, only half-believing it, that this situation with the anti-Semitism in Germany couldn’t last; there were enough people who didn’t feel that way, and many who were completely against the Nazis.
    â€œYou mean you think the Nazis will be voted out?” she asked with a bitter smile.
    He shrugged, as if to say there was no other way, feeling foolish because he knew there would be no more elections. Then he thought of something else. “Maybe if there’s enough pressure on them from other countries, they’ll ease up a little.”
    â€œYou’re more naïve than I thought,” she said, her voice lower than he had ever heard it. Her smile turned into a grimace.
    Everything between them until that moment had felt innocent; even his sexual attraction to her had felt as if it was elevated to an idealistic plane as pure and airy as her voice, and now she was speaking to him with tired contempt. What had he done? He’d wanted to offer her an opportunity that would advance her career, offer them both a way of working together continually, of sharing their love for music.
    He looked away from her, and when he turned back he saw that the grimace had frozen as she struggled to fight back tears. He reached out to touch her shoulder. She shook her head vehemently, as if the tiniest disturbance would upset the