The Holocaust Opera (7 page)

“What does this have to do with the music, Jeremiah?”

“Magic,” Jeremiah said. “Everything was based on magic. I don’t know how it works, but I do know that it’s real. The entire philosophy of the Third Reich was founded on an occult order using ancient, esoteric knowledge and practices. Everything that defined the Nazi party had its roots in the supernatural. From the Order of the SS to the Swastika, every element was motivated by esoteric teachings inspired by the occult writings of Aleister Crowley, Nostradamus, Helena Blavatsky, Eliphas Levi, and John Dee to name just a few, along with the magical elements that they believed to be contained within the music of Richard Wagner and Wolfgang Mozart.”

“Jesus, Jeremiah,” I said stunned. “How do you know all this?”

“After I found them dead like that, and realized what they had been through, what my father had done, and what I was now being compelled to do, I felt that I had no choice. It was pure survival.”

“You still haven’t explained the connection to the music.”

“From the time Josef Mengele was old enough to listen to and appreciate music, he was totally enamored by Wagner. He came to believe, as did Hitler, that there was a secret and magical message hidden inside Wagner’s complex musical structures and that the message was a road map for world domination.

“Although Mengele didn’t pursue music as a career, he took it up as a hobby and eventually he became a pretty fair musician. He studied Wagner and eventually became somewhat of a scholar on the man and his musical genius. He came to believe that he understood his message better than anyone who had come before him. He knew that notes of certain sequences when played just so, could affect listeners in odd ways. We all know that, to a certain degree, music does affect mood. It’s part of why we listen to and create it. It’s why certain songs make us want to dance, or make love, or uplift us, or even depress us. Mengele somehow understood all of that on a more intellectual, perhaps even on a more visceral level than most, and though he himself was only a fair musician, he was in a unique position to manipulate the creativity of others to suit his own designs.”

“Like he’s doing with you now?”

Jeremiah dropped his eyes to the floor and nodded. “He used human beings as guinea pigs. He would strap headphones to their ears and play different selections from Wagner’s operas, operettas, and symphonies. He would play them in different sequences, backward and forward. In his experimentations, he discovered that certain note sequences would cause people to react in odd ways. Sometimes, he would play the same passages over and over again, turning the volume up each time until the patient was either deaf or mad or both. He discovered that certain harmonics could actually kill people. Some would affect patients on such a deeply emotional level that they would commit suicide.

“Although most of Mengele’s experiments were done using Wagner’s compositions, eventually he came to believe that he could compose something magical himself. He believed, as did Hitler, Hess, and the others who made up the Third Reich’s elite, that magic powers had been bestowed upon them by some sort of divine intervention, thus destiny was on their side and they could not fail.

“His intention was to create something exotic, a body of music that would draw the listener in and captivate him with its beauty and complexity, but contain a secret key, a magic message that would have the power to cause madness and chaos. He didn’t even know that it was possible until he met my father. You see, Mengele was not a great composer, and as much as he believed that providence was on his side, he was on the road to failure.

“After taking up his post at Auschwitz, he began recruiting musicians, desperately trying to find just the right ones to accomplish what he believed could be accomplished. Some of the most brilliant minds in Europe were being wasted in the gas chambers—and that included musicians and composers—and Mengele decided to do something about it. With his vision and intellect and the genius pool he had to choose from, he could not fail.”

“Jeremiah,” I said. “There is nothing in the history books about this. Yes, Mengele was an evil genius, everybody knows that, but he was a medical doctor. He worked with genetics, not music, he was fascinated with twins. He tried manipulating their genes by doing all kinds of horrendous and barbaric things to them. He would exchange their blood and inject colored dyes into their eyes. His interest, like Hitler’s, was in breeding a pure Arian race.”

“That was his day job,” Jeremiah said. “His real passion was secret, known only to a select few of his inner circle; and he had Hitler’s support. Their intention was to stun the world with a new kind of power.”

“Jesus,” I said. “That’s what he’s up to now, isn’t it? He’s never given up the dream.”

“That’s right,” Jeremiah said. “He was cut off in mid-stream, now he’s come back and he wants to play some more.”

“He’s using you to get his wish. You can’t let him.”

Jeremiah made a sound that might have been a laugh.

“Come on, Jeremiah, just say no.”

“You don’t understand, Roxanne. It’s not that easy.”

“Well,
make
me understand then. Jesus, what happens if they play those songs on the radio?”

“I don’t know.”

“They caused Friedman to kill himself, for Christ’s sake! I think you
do
know.”

“You’re
still alive,” Jeremiah said, as if this in itself was some sort of victory.

I pulled my shirt down and showed Jeremiah the extent of damage the kitten had done to me. I showed him my lacerated arms. “That’s right,” I said, “but for how long? Even now, I feel something in those songs working in me, altering me, wanting to make me do things that are against my nature. Christ, Jeremiah, I’ve been having nightmares, seeing ghosts. When is this going to end?”

Jeremiah stared at me.

“Why, Jeremiah? Why did you go along? Tell me how this nightmare began. I need to understand so that I can help you to end it once and for all.”

“It’s all in there,” Jeremiah said bitterly, pointing at the papers in my hand. “It’s their confession. You can read it for yourself. That’s how I found out.”

I let the papers fall from my hand. They cascaded onto the floor at Jeremiah’s feet.
“Goddam it,
Jeremiah!
I don’t
want
to read it! I want
you
to tell me. I think you owe me that much. Don’t you? Come on, we’re running out of time.”

It was a long moment before Jeremiah began talking. I could see his mind working behind those sad eyes of his, forming thoughts. I could also see that this would be very difficult for him, reliving a terrible nightmare that he hadn’t started, that he hadn’t actually lived, and yet, that was, in some twisted way, his alone now to either resolve or die trying.

“They herded them into cattle cars,” Jeremiah began. As he talked, his voice became nearly hypnotic, and I was transported back to that terrible and shameful time in the history of the human race.

“They came by the tens of thousands. The journey took days. The temperature was below freezing. There was no food, or water, no bathroom facilities. They were the latest victims of the Nazi campaign to exterminate the Jewish race. They were treated worse than animals. My parents and grandparents were among them. They were from Hungary, the last Jewish community to be rounded up for extermination.”

Then

Fifty-one-year-old Abraham Gideon and his wife Miriam were among the detainees on the train that day. Abraham and Miriam’s twenty-three-year-old son, Aaron, and his wife, Eva, were there as well. They had been captured by the Nazis and thrown into cattle cars. They endured a torturous four-day journey in freezing weather through snow-clogged mountain passages and dark forests to Auschwitz, Poland, the final stop in a nightmarish journey that could only have one outcome.

On the journey, Miriam became ill and could barely stand on her own. They had all heard the stories, of course, and most of the adults had a reasonably good idea of what their ultimate fates would be. But, for the moment, at least, Abraham and Aaron were mostly concerned for Miriam. Would there be doctors there to tend the sick? Or would Miriam have to endure her illness without treatment? Their worst nightmares could not have prepared them for what they found at Auschwitz.

As the train shuddered to a halt inside the Auschwitz compound, the prisoners finally got a glimpse of the terrible place that, for most of them, would be life’s final destination. The cattle car doors were violently thrown open by Nazi SS soldiers wielding machine guns. “
Raus, raus!”
(“Out, out!”) they screamed at the frightened and confused passengers who staggered out through the doors under a rain of cudgel blows and past the snapping jaws of the camp’s attack dogs. In the distance, five smokestacks belched thick columns of smoke into the frigid winter sky. The air was thick with the smell of fear and the stench of burning flesh. Orders were being screamed. Dogs barked. Children wept.

Males and females were separated immediately, each forming their own line. Most were unaware that this was the last time they would see their loved ones alive.

Into the midst of all the chaos strolled an officer who seemed very much out of place. His uniform was immaculately tailored. His handsome face was set with a kind smile. He was cheerfully whistling one of his favorite opera tunes by Wagner. He carried a riding crop in his white-gloved hand, but rather than striking the prisoners with it as he passed along their ranks, he used it to indicate which direction he wished them to go in,
links oder rechts
, left or right. The detainees were unaware that this charming and handsome officer was selecting which new arrivals were fit to work and which ones should be sent immediately to the gas chambers and crematorium. Life to the left, death to the right.

As the officer strode down the ranks, perusing the new arrivals, making his grim choices, inconceivably, on the sidelines, an orchestra made up of rag-tag prisoners played waltzes.

This gave the whole thing a surreal atmosphere. It also gave young Aaron Gideon an idea. He and his father, Abraham, had been separated almost immediately from their wives and they were desperate to be reunited.

As the officer strode within earshot, Aaron decided to make a bold move and said, “I am a musician.”

The officer stopped, looking the young man up and down. “Oh?” he said.

“Yes, and so is my father; and my wife is a singer.”

“And who is your father?”

“I am,” said the older man beside Aaron. “My wife became ill on the train, and I wish to make sure that she is taken care of.”

“What is her name?” the officer, whose nametag said Mengele, asked.

“Miriam. Miriam Gideon.”

Mengele had an aid write the name in a large notebook. “We will see that she is taken care of.” He smiled.

“Thank you, kind sir,” Abraham said.

“So, you say you are musicians?”

“Yes,” replied Aaron.

“There are many musicians in camp, as you can see,” Mengele said, gesturing toward his orchestra of rag-tag prisoners.

“We are better than them,” Aaron replied.

“Really,” Mengele said, unable to contain another small smile. “What are your names?”

“Abraham and Aaron Gideon,” said the older man.

“What sort of musicians are you?”

“Classically trained,” Abraham said proudly. “And my son is a composer.”

“A composer,” Mengele said, gazing with interest at Aaron. “A creative composer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you follow form, or do you improvise?”

“Both, sir.”

“Very interesting. You say your wife is a singer?”

“Yes, sir. She is.”

“A fine singer?”

“Yes, very fine.”

“Her name, please?”

“Eva.”

“Eva. Very well then. I will consider what you have told me, and if I decide to hear more musicians, I will call for you.”

Days later, when the two Gideon men were nearly frantic with worry over the fate of their wives, soldiers came and called them from their work detail, which consisted of feeding dead bodies into the crematorium. They were brought before Mengele for an audition. Besides Mengele, there were three SS officers, two enlisted soldiers, and a woman in the room. The woman, a striking beauty, was introduced simply as Brawne. She sat behind a desk taking notes and was quite attentive to Mengele.

Abraham was a violinist and Aaron, a pianist. They used instruments that were provided for them. Nervous, tired, and hungry, but resolved to do the very best they could under the circumstances, both men performed requested selections. They played well together and Mengele and his entourage seemed impressed.

“Wagner!” Mengele said, jumping up from his seat behind the desk. “I wish to hear something from Wagner.
Der Ring des Nibelungen.
(
The Nibelung’s Ring
) Can you play any selections from
Der Ring des Nibelungen
? What about
Die Walkure
(
The Valkyrie
), or
Gotterdammerung
(
Twilight of the Gods
)? If you can play something from these selections, then perhaps I will be able to do something for you.” Mengele raised an eyebrow.