The title I chose was Fire and the theme is sad.
Fire
1943
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Music is fire. A fire that consumes leaving only the remnants of a soul behind, bared for all to see.
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Fifteen-year-old Clara Oppenheim sits at the piano. She is more tired than usual. The men in uniforms stare at her, like hawks waiting to reign in on their prey. She can’t look in their bloodshot eyes that show the visions of people she loved whom have died in the worst ways imaginable. One little move and she knows they will capture her and shoot her for trying to escape. Her breathing quickens, her hands tremble as she tries to put her fingers on the keys. They are forcing her to play Rustle of Spring because it reminds them of home. A piece composed by a Norwegian man who once was sympathetic towards people like herself. Jewish. But now, she stares at the music in front of her, despising every note. He betrayed her — betrayed everyone she knows. She does not want to play, but she will be killed if she does not. At this moment, she hates that God gave her the gift of being one of the most prodigious young musicians of her time. But she knows she is only there for amusement. She is only there to help pass the time away. So they can be reminded of their homes.
She must forget all of this. She closes her eyes and with deep, rhythmic breaths begins to play the first passages of the piece. Soon, her body detaches itself from her hands. Her mind is above the physical realm of the room that smells of death and blood. When the darkness of her mind’s eye fades, she sees the path that led to her Alpine home. The colors of blue and pink swirl about her as she takes in the smell of die alpenrose. Her father’s hand is grasping her own as they walk together, looking at the Alps from a distance. Her father is dressed in his traveling outfit, as is she. His eyes don’t seem so distant anymore. They are filled with the sunlight that shines down upon the both of them. It is as if he is a boy once again. She takes in the fresh air — so very different from the stifling air of the gloom that permeates through the streets of Berlin.
They are both silent as they tread the ground that used to be a part of her father’s life. There is no need for speech. No need for any of it. Only nature itself is communicating with them, telling their story. As she looks up, she sees the old mansion. He had taken her there before, but it hadn’t been in some time. Even then, in her fourteen years of age, the home atop the hillside seemed large and overbearing.
“Vater,” she says, “I’m afraid to go in..”
“Don’t be,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s the only way we can be safe.” She hears his voice that has trailed up an octave.
She knows it to be true, but even though she detests the gloom of her old home, she thinks of the friends whom she has left behind. She sighs. She will forget about it. It is for their safety and theirs alone.
Once they are nearer the mansion, everything seems more real to her. Nothing is overgrown and there is no significant wear. It is as if the house has been stuck in eternity, never-changing. She sees the curl of her father’s smile, the eyes that are bright like blue diamonds. But every step they take is a hesitation, one step closer to an uncertainty. Will they come for them? Clara thinks of the friends that have already been taken away from her. Some that have been reported as gassed. Her old school friend, Gregory Steinberg — gas in Auschwitz. Frau Peterman — shot to death for defying the Reich. Hannah Frank, who was prone to hallucinations of her family in Vienna and ultimately died of dehydration in one of the camps. What were their last thoughts? Were they thinking of their loved ones? Will she be one of them? Her father? These are things she cannot bear to think of, but knows that the possibility of it all is as real as the sun that is shining in the sky.
Clara’s mind awakens. She is back. Auschwitz. The searing pain of being away from home is all too real. She closes her eyes, the tears prickling in the back of her eyes. They were never safe to begin with. They took both her father and her. She doesn’t even know if her father is still alive. And if he is, is he thinking of her?
Clara wants to return to the safe place in her mind. Where there was love and warmth and kindness that emanated from the walls of their home in Alps. She even longs for the freedom that she once had when there was a glimmer of life in Berlin. When there was fire in the music she listened to during symphonies, in the warmth that the sun brought.
Now that the piece is finished, Clara turns to look at the group of men, writing down something on their notepads. They do not look up at her until they realize that the music has drifted away.
“May I be excused?”she asks, looking at Herr Bausch. He stands over her, peers down at her as if studying her hands. She feels his coldness seep into her veins. He is tall — almost giant size. One gulp. Her pulse quickens as she forces herself to look up into his blue eyes, cold as a winter morning in Berlin.
“I need to breathe. I am not feeling well.” She is faint. The only thought that is in her mind at that moment is water. She longs to feel fresh water trickle down her throat.
“Nein.” He shakes his head, his eyes still on her. “You play again. You will go after you play. Now.”
They force Clara to play Beethoven’s Tempest — her favorite piece. She begins allowing the swirling motion of the music to bring her somewhere else, away from Herr Bausch. From the maddening thoughts that are begging to make way. Her breathing levels out as she brings her body into the piano. She sees the colors in her mind’s eye. The red swirling with the orange, floating around. It’s like fire. Clara feels as if she is seeing inside the innermost part of her soul, expressing itself through color. She doesn’t let her mind go anywhere. She wants to remain with the colors.
Beethoven once said: “Music should strike fire from the heart of man, and bring tears from the eyes of woman.”
Clara thinks about this as she continues to play, continues to become lost in the storm of melody that buzzes in her mind. Her eyes begin to cloud as the fire within the music begins to envelop her. In the midst of it all, she sees the faces of those whom she lost.
Her hands stop playing. Everything is silent. There are no more cold eyes gazing up at her. She is back, in the Alps. There is the familiar scent of die alpenrose. The sun shines brightly in the distance.
Clara sees a figure in the distance, waving at her. She runs. It is strange she feels so free. She has not felt this energetic in months, years even. Clara leaps into the arms of her father who smells of pipes and cologne.
“Papa!”
“Clara, meine Tochter.” He is smiling. His eyes are young like when they first arrived in this part of Germany.
“Am I home? Am I finally home?”
He nods. “You are. Come with me. Let’s drink tea. I missed you.”
She smiled. “I missed you too, Papa.”
Hand in hand, they both walk up the trail which leads toward their home. Clara does not even bother to look back.
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