Elsie turned her chair toward Josef to avoid her. “Josef,” Elsie began. Her voice shook, so she cleared her throat to steady it. “I need to speak to you about—”
“Look, look!” He cut her off and pointed to the stage. “We have a surprise. Do you like music? Wagner, Hotter, Clemens Krauss?”
Elsie’s fingers had gone numb. She undid the mousquetaire buttons of her gloves and pulled at the champagne-soaked fingers. “Ja, but I’ve never been to an opera.”
He furrowed his brow and tsked. “I should send you some recordings then.”
Elsie didn’t own a record player but hadn’t the composure to explain that to him now. She took off her gloves and felt instantly naked, the air over her palms intrusive. She laced her fingers together in an effort to buttress herself.
“Josef,” she tried again.
“And now!” announced the bandleader. “A short musical performance for your dinner entertainment.” He lowered the microphone, set a small footstool before it, and took a seat with his violin.
Josef tapped his index finger against his lips. “Later,” he whispered.
A murmur of curiosity rippled through the crowd, then fell silent as a stout SS-Gefolge woman with a shock of white hair down the center of her crown led a boy, no more than six or seven years old, up the platform steps. He wore a simple white linen shirt with matching gloves, black trousers, and a bow tie. He might’ve looked like any boy dressed for Christmas Eve if his hair hadn’t been cropped to his scalp, the color of his skin so sallow that he seemed featureless, a walking apparition. The woman instructed him to step onto the stool, and he did so with lowered head. Then, he looked up with eyes as big and brilliant as springwater.
The leader played a long, high note on the violin. The boy, with fists at his side, took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and sang. His countertenor voice rang out through the corridors. Everyone quieted their conversations and turned. Pure and smooth as new butter, it took Elsie’s breath away. She’d heard the Christmas hymn her whole life, sang it herself, but never before had “Silent Night” sounded like this.
“All is calm, all is bright …”
The violin fell away, but his voice remained.
“Only the Chancellor steadfast in fight, watches o’er Germany by day and by night …”
Before he’d finished, the dinner service began. Waiters clinked china plates on varnished trays and poured jewel-toned wine into waiting goblets. Conversations resumed. A woman laughed too loud.
“Always caring for us … always caring for us …”
Elsie closed her eyes.
“Wine?” asked the waiter from behind.
“Silent night, holy night …” The boy’s voice never faltered or strayed from its perfect pitch.
A lump rose in Elsie’s throat, brimming emotions she’d tried to suppress earlier.
“He has an excellent voice,” said Josef.
Elsie nodded and blinked dewy eyes. “Where is he from?”
“He sang to the arriving detainees at the Dachau camp,” explained Josef. “Sturmscharführer Wicker heard him and had him sing at a handful of his dinner parties. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. He has a unique voice, mesmerizing if you aren’t careful to remember from where it comes.”
“Ja, unique.” Elsie collected herself.
“Brings us greatness, favor, and health. Oh give the Germans all power.” The boy finished.
The violinist came to the microphone. “I quote our führer: ‘All nature is a gigantic struggle between strength and weakness, an eternal victory of the strong over the weak.’ ” He clicked his heels together and raised his bow in party fashion. “Guten appetit.”
The bubbling crowd broke into a cacophony of clanking silverware and chatter. The violinist began a new song to which the boy sang, but Elsie could barely make it out above the dinner crowd.
“Is he a Jew?” she asked Josef.
“His mother was a Jewess singer. His father, a Polish composer. Music is in his blood.” Josef pulled a brötchen roll apart and spread butter on either half.
“My nephew, Julius, sings. Hazel says he’s rather good.”
“We should have him sing for us some time.” He laid one half on Elsie’s plate. “Tonight is this boy’s last performance. He’s going back to the camp tomorrow. With everything going on in the Ardennes …” He crunched his bread and swallowed hard. “I apologize. That is no subject for Weihnachten.”
She’d first heard about the camps years before when the Grüns, a merchant family that sold the best soaps and shampoos in the area, vanished in the middle of the night. Elsie had visited their store at least once a month. Their son, Isaac, was two years her senior and the handsomest boy in town. He winked at her once when she bought honey milk soap. Secretly, she’d imagined him while lying in her warm bathtub, the steam rising like a fragrant veil around her. The memory shamed her now. Though Jewish, they were well liked in the community. Then one day, their store was boarded up and marked “Juden,” and they were gone.
A week later, while waiting in line at the meat shop, she overheard the shoemaker’s wife whispering to the butcher that the Grüns had been sent to the Dachau camp where they were sprayed with lye water like cattle and didn’t need shampoo because their heads were shaved. The image sent Elsie running out the door. When Mutti asked for the lamb, Elsie said the butcher hadn’t any, though there were clearly half a dozen in his pen. She never told her parents or anyone about what she heard nor did she ask about the Grüns. No one spoke of them. And while the shoemaker’s wife was not prone to gossip like the other town wives, Elsie chose not to believe her. Now, however, she could not deny the shaved head of the little boy.
Josef sniffed his wine, then sipped. “I have something else I’d like to discuss.” He reached into his uniform jacket and pulled out a small box. “When I saw it, I knew it was a sign.” He opened the lid, revealing a gold engagement ring studded with rubies and diamonds. “I think we’d be very happy together.” Without waiting for an answer, he slid it on her finger.
The waiters interrupted, setting large platters between the candelabras. The snout of a roasted piglet faced Elsie; its eyeballs were cooked blank; its crispy ears perked and listening. Bowls of creamy potatoes flanked the swine with white sausages at the rear, a ghostly tail. Though it was the most food she’d seen in all her life, Elsie’s stomach turned with distaste.
“Will you be my wife?”
A ringing commenced in Elsie’s ears. Josef was nearly twice her age, a friend of her father’s, beloved as a kind uncle or older brother perhaps, but not as a husband. The sideways stares of the Nazi guests seemed to press in on her like a wooden-toothed nutcracker. Josef waited with casual confidence. Had he always seen her this way? Was she so naive that she’d missed the indications?
The gemstones winked blood red in the candlelight.
Elsie dropped her hands to her lap. “It’s too much,” she said.
Josef forked the pig belly, piling stringy meat onto his plate. He took Elsie’s plate and did the same. “I know. I shouldn’t have asked tonight with so much going on, but I couldn’t help myself.” He laughed and kissed her cheek. “A superb Christmas feast!”
Elsie focused on the food before her and not the ring on her hand. But the pork was so lardy she needn’t chew; the jelly rind slid down her throat; the potatoes were gray and mushy; the sausage mealy and under cooked. She washed it all down with red wine and tasted again her First Communion host. Acid crept up her throat. Bread. She took a bite of the buttered brötchen, the taste and smell familiar and comforting.
She didn’t speak the entire meal. At the end of the main course, the boy’s musical performance also concluded. The orchestra, having had their break, returned to the stage in preparation for dessert and dancing. Elsie watched over the seated crowd as the SS guard marched her caged songbird to the back of the hall and through a service door.