The Holocaust Opera (4 page)

* * * *

Increasingly, I spent less and less time at home. When I was there, I slept, and when I slept, I dreamed of the abused woman in the corner. I dreamed of the fleshy sac that had surrounded Jeremiah that night, and of the mysterious song that had pierced my heart like a lance.

When I wasn’t rehearsing with Jeremiah or playing with the band, I began to spend enormous amounts of time at the public library, digging, researching, determined to strike the correlation that I knew must exist. In time, I became so familiar with the holocaust and its innumerable inhumanities that I began to see myself as part of it. I began to imagine that I’d actually lived it in some incomprehensible way. Frequently, I would fall asleep during my studies, only to dream of the woman cowering in the corner. I’d come awake with a scream on my lips and the librarian would tell me to go home.

I was persistent, however, and would go back the next day, and the next, hopelessly obsessed with the holocaust and its myriad atrocities. So you can imagine my surprise when the revelation I’d been desperately seeking finally came in the form of a man rather than a textbook.

He was a small, bookish man who spoke in a quiet and dignified voice. I was searching the racks for more information when I bumped into him.

As it turned out, he was there for the same reason as I, researching the holocaust, and that common interest got us talking. It didn’t take him long to draw the Jeremiah Gideon story out of me.

“Jeremiah Gideon?” the man said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re working with
Jeremiah Gideon?”

“Yes,” I said, surprised at his reaction. “You know him?”

“Of course. I’m Dr. Max Friedman, from Julliard. Jeremiah was one of my students.”

“Oh, my God,” I said. “Wow.”

“You’re
working
with him?” he said again.

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“He’s writing a body of music and I’m helping him sort out some of the vocals.” I gave him a thin smile, running my hand through my hair, unsure as to why I’d stopped short of telling him I was actually the main vocalist for Jeremiah’s compositions.

“Really?” Dr. Friedman said, scrutinizing me now with intense interest. “Surely then, you must be aware of the richness of the young man’s gift?”

“Oh, yes,” I gushed. “I am, and I’m honored to be a part of his music.”

The professor looked quite uneasy. “He doesn’t usually take on prodigies,” he said, and there was no masking the silent question in his eyes.
Are you fucking him?

I looked away from his steady gaze, feeling both guilty and angry. I had no reason to be either of those things, of course. Jeremiah and I were in love and there was no reason to be ashamed of that. The truth was, lately I’d begun having doubts of my own. Was Jeremiah
truly
in love with me, I wondered? We were lovers, true, but at Jeremiah’s insistence we still kept separate residences, and I knew no more about him and his past than I had on day one. I must have been wearing my heart on my sleeve, for the professor’s face reddened and his demeanor turned pensive.

“Listen, Ms....”

“Templeton,” I said. “Roxanne Templeton.” I held my hand out and the professor took it rather hesitantly.

“Please be careful,” he told me. “I know this might sound strange, but Jeremiah’s gift is...well...very...special.”

“I’m aware of that,” I replied. “But why should I be...careful?”

“I’m afraid I’m not making myself clear,” Dr. Friedman said. “What I mean to say is; Jeremiah’s music has a...rare...depth. His compositions have a way of affecting people in a...well, in a physical way.”

“Good music is supposed to affect people in that way,” I replied, sounding like a naïve child.

I saw small beads of sweat break out on Dr. Friedman’s brow, and his mouth was working, struggling to articulate his thoughts. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the moisture away.

“Listen, Ms. Templeton, I’m going to be straightforward with you because I don’t see that I have any other choice. I believe there’s something hidden inside the complex architecture of Jeremiah’s compositions, something...lethal...perhaps something...evil.”

An involuntary expulsion of laughter escaped me. “Something
evil?”
I said. Was this some kind of power play? Surely, the good professor was joking.

The professor’s small eyes drilled into me, and there was not a trace of humor in them. “It’s something the mainstream hasn’t yet noticed,” he said, “and thank God for that. Jeremiah’s compositions are not yet widely known.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Ms. Templeton, when I listen to Jeremiah’s music, I sense something not quite right about them. Now, please listen very carefully to what I have to say. Your life may depend on it. I have managed to obtain a tape of several of his compositions and I’ve been studying them. Without reservation, I must tell you that they contain elements that defy logic.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, feeling a sudden and overpowering repulsion to this terrible little man. Was Friedman a jealous competitor of a gifted student?

“Tell me you aren’t affected emotionally by his music.” Friedman said.

“Well, of course I am.”

“There, see.”

“I still don’t know what you’re suggesting.”

“Tell me his music doesn’t run your emotions through a gamut.”

“I can’t deny it,” I said. “But—”

“Listen to me,” Friedman interrupted, and his voice had become sharp and hurtful. “I’m here trying to strike a correlation between Jeremiah’s music and the despair in the death camps. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that’s what you’re doing here as well.”

I nodded, realizing that he was absolutely right. Coincidence, I told myself, but was it really?

“Exactly,” Friedman said. “But I tell you, there’s something
wrong.
Jeremiah may not be in total control of his own compositions.”

“What are you talking about?” I said. “Of course he is—”

“No!” Friedman said. “You must listen! The mathematics is skewed; the compositions are tainted with something. Please believe what I’m telling you. I used to be able to listen to his compositions at length...” Dr. Friedman’s eyes glazed. “Now...I...cannot so much as bear even a single...passage before the despair overwhelms me...wanting to make me do things that are...against my better judgment...against my moral character. Each time I try, the despair nearly consumes me. I can’t talk about this anymore,” he said. “Please forgive me. Just thinking about this nearly does me in.” Dr. Friedman covered his ears with his hands, as if he was trying to block out unwanted sounds. The headaches and the dreams and the despair that I’d been experiencing over the past couple of months came rushing up on me, as palpable as a cold shower. My knees weakened and my gut churned with nausea. Friedman’s eyes were sick with anguish and they were wet with emotion as they rolled nearly helplessly in their sockets.

“What does it make you want to do?” I demanded. “Please, I need to know.” The professor did not answer me; instead, he turned abruptly and walked briskly, yet unsteadily, down the library aisle, leaving me sick and shaken and wondering.

* * * *

That had been my second tangible inkling that something was horribly amiss. Again, I did not mention it to Jeremiah. I believe I was afraid to, if you want the truth; afraid that the fragile glass house I had constructed around myself since arriving in New York would shatter into sharp and dangerous shards. The truth was—although I had not mentioned it to Dr. Friedman—Jeremiah’s compositions were affecting me in much the same way Friedman had described. As each rehearsal session closed, I would stagger home with blinding headaches and intense nausea, feeling empty, sick, and depressed. I would lay awake well into the morning hours, afraid to fall asleep, terrified of facing the naked lady in the corner with the shocked eyes, the lacerations, the imploring arms.

I should have ended it all then, but I didn’t, I couldn’t have even if I’d tried, because by then I was past the point of no return. I was falling down a spiral without end and I desperately needed to see what was at the bottom.

* * * *

The third inkling that my world was in the process of coming apart came a little more than a week later. Jeremiah and I were out for a stroll. We were walking past a series of dingy shop windows when I spotted animals in cages behind dirty glass. There were several mongrel puppies and a slate-gray kitten that could not have been more than four weeks old.

We stopped and peered in. It soon became apparent that the animals in this shop were sorely neglected. I took Jeremiah by the hand and started for the door. He stiffened and stopped.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

He was staring at the storefront. “There’s something wrong,” he said. “This used to be Pop Shaw’s music emporium. I haven’t been down this way for almost a year, but now there’s no sign it ever existed.” He stepped back, shading his eyes with his hand, looking up. The black-painted sign above the door had, PETS, lettered on its face in gold leaf. It appeared old and weather-worn. Dogs barked and whined, and cats meowed from within.

I tugged on his hand again, frowning. Finally, his feet came unglued from the sidewalk as he somewhat hesitantly followed me into the shop.

An elderly man with iron-gray hair, a bushy mustache, and sagging, sallow skin greeted us with a yellow-toothed grin. His eyes were piercing and inquisitive, but cruel somehow. He might have been handsome as a younger man, but now he looked drained and defeated. A cigarette smoldered between nicotine-stained, white-gloved fingers. The shop was dingy and cluttered and smelled of animal excrement and cigarette smoke. The man was impeccably dressed, however, and the white gloves were an oddly eccentric touch.

“May I help you?” the gentleman asked. His voice’s timbre was smoothly melodic, his accent thickly German. I saw Jeremiah stiffen at the sound of it.

“Yes,” I replied. “I was wondering about that kitten in the window.”

“Ah, yes,” the man said. He went over, opened the cage, and with his white-gloved hands he took the small gray bundle of fur out. Holding the animal dangerously close to the business end of his smoldering cigarette, he began stroking it roughly. The kitten mewed in irritation and began to writhe. The man squeezed his hand around the animal until it stilled. I wanted to snatch the kitten from him. He was repulsive and cruel. I had this sudden and horrific vision of him snapping the kitten’s little neck with those mime-white hands of his. “None too soon,” the man went on, handing me the animal. It curled up to me immediately and began purring and I felt relief that it was still breathing.

Jeremiah was glancing curiously around the shop. “What do you mean none too soon?” he asked.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the man. The cruelty fled from his sallow face, replaced by the yellow-toothed grin. He stiffened and came to attention like some gross parody of a soldier. He thrust out his hand, clicking his heels together. “Wilhelm Schroeder,” he said. “Welcome to my zoo. Here, they call me the executioner.” I took an involuntary step back as Jeremiah stared. Schroeder continued to showcase his yellow teeth.

“Executioner?” I repeated. He nodded, still grinning, still holding out his white-gloved hand and I had an almost overwhelming urge to turn and flee from the shop. Instead, I took hold of his hand and shook it. I did not know what else to do. My parents taught me to be polite. I didn’t like the feel of his skin through the thin material of the glove. It was too cold, too clammy. It did not feel even remotely human. I pulled my hand back quickly and when I thought he wasn’t looking I wiped it on my jeans with revulsion.

“You see,” he went on in that smooth, nearly hypnotic voice of his. “Most all of the pets here are strays brought in by concerned citizens. The little one you’re holding is scheduled for the needle tomorrow.” His cruel eyes seemed to shrink and all but disappear into the folds of loose skin beneath his bushy brows. He leered forward, the yellow smile now a frozen rictus on his sallow visage.

“The
needle?”
I said, sheltering the kitten beneath my arms and backing slowly away. I could feel my eyes widening in horror.

“I can only afford to keep them for so long, you understand, and if nobody claims them...or adopts them, well...” His voice trailed off, even as the unspoken thought lingered there between us.

“You inject them with something?”

“Oh, no, Miss...ah, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” I replied, “but it’s Templeton.”

“Miss Templeton. Ah, yes. You see, Miss Templeton, injections would be much too costly. I simply stick a long, sharp-pointed needle into their brain through the openings in their ears. It is quick and perhaps painless, and much less expensive than poison.”

I did back away then, totally and unequivocally horrified, suddenly quite afraid of this terrible man. I was reminded of something in that moment: the books I had been reading on the death camps and of one man in particular, a monster really, a Dr. Josef Mengele, also known as The Angel of Death. I remembered reading that he liked experimenting with human subjects; he would kill them in exactly the same way that Schroeder had just described. In a way, this little shop that disguised itself as a humane society was no more than a death camp for animals. Wilhelm Schroeder was its grinning executioner.