Der Totentanz

Jakob carefully wiped down the keys on his clarinet. “It was not bad,” he said.

“No, but it wasn't our best,” sighed Oskar from over his tuba case.

“Why do we always have to play in the rain?” whined Aron. “My flute is soaked again, not to mention my feet.”

“Ach, you complain too much!” shouted Oskar. “If it's sunny, it's too hot. If it's snowing, your elbow hurts. You should be glad to be able to have breath to toot your whistle, let alone moan so much.”

Jakob shook his head as he swabbed out the bell of his instrument. Aron and Oskar always fought like an old married couple after the day's performance. At least they never came to blows anymore, not like in the first days.

“At least I did not come in late on the repeat during the Beethoven,” squeaked Aron.

“I was not late!” Oskar thundered. “You were rushing!”

His instrument safely stowed in its worn case, Jakob watched his friends as they bickered. The other members of the band ignored the two as they put their instruments away with special care and gently placed their sheet music in their folders. Jakob noted the dignity and weariness of his colleagues, some who had been with this ragtag group as long as he, others still a little overwhelmed by the grueling schedule of daily performances under such harsh conditions.

A choking noise from behind Jakob snapped his attention from the argument. He turned to see the newest member of their group – a young man, maybe even a boy – huddled in a corner, cradling his violin while he failed to stifle his violent sobs. Jakob watched the boy in silence for a moment before kneeling down by him.

“What is the matter, my young friend?” he asked gently. “They always fight like that. You learn to ignore it.”

The boy took a shuddering breath and looked up at him. “I don't know if I can do that again.”

Jakob tried to smile, but shrugged instead. “Today was your first time, was it not?”

The boy pressed his lips together. “All those people,” he shook his head. “I've never played for anyone except my family before.”

Jakob closed his eyes to compose his thoughts before answering. “There was quite a crowd today, even for us,” Jakob said slowly. “Soon, you will learn to focus on the music and not so much on the people walking past. Not always, but you get used to it.”

“Do you really?” Aron interrupted. “How can you get used to this? Tell me, Jakob, how is a human being ever supposed to get used to this?”

“Aron's right,” Oskar said. “Jakob, I have known you ever since we both came here. I remember how you did not sleep for four weeks straight. How you sobbed, just like this boy, every night. We all did.”

“And now we don't,” Jakob stated. “We get up for rehearsal, eat our gruel, play for our bread, and sleep as best we can. We are used to it, Oskar. This is how we live now.”

“You call this living?” Aron cried. “We are closer to death than most, except those that shuffle past us. We are only spared because we can saw a fiddle or toot a horn. We provide a service. One that is no better than hauling rocks or shoveling ashes. If we hadn't been needed to provide 'entertainment' we would have been gassed on arrival, or worked to death. If the Germans did not believe themselves to be so cultured, we would have been shuffling to the ovens a long time ago, like all our families!”

“Ovens!” the boy shrieked. “Is that where all those people are going?”

Oskar looked at the boy. “Yes, ovens,” he spat. “The Germans decided it was too much work to bury us long ago.”

“Where do you think all the ash comes from?” sneered Aron. “You breathe in the dead even as you snore.”

“Enough!” Jakob roared. “What good does it do to frighten the boy more? Is this hell not enough for you?”

The group stood quietly, shaken by Jakob's sudden outburst. One of the trumpets started to weep.

Jakob closed his eyes again. “We must play, and not just to live,” he whispered. “We must give our audience the best we can.”

“Why should we play for the Germans?' The boy suddenly snarled. “Are we no better than they are if we just play their Wagner and Strauss, make their lives so pretty, with the marches and waltzes?”

“Do you think those beasts are our audience?” Jakob said. “No, my young friend, we do not play for them! We play for our families.”

The boy snorted. “My family is probably dead, burned in those ovens of yours.”

“Do you not see? Jakob whispered again. “Those people, those poor souls who shuffle past us, as we play those marches and waltzes, they are your family.”

Jakob turned to the entire band. “We play for our families,” he repeated louder. “Those people, our people, are our family, and we give them the last moments of beauty they will have before they die. It may not be much, because God knows what they have already been through, so I will play for them. I will continue to live for them – we will all continue to live for them – so that we will play for all of them. Even if the Nazis kill every last Jew on the face of the earth, we will play for them all!”

A terrible silence roared through the room. Quietly, the men moved back to their instruments and cases, sobered and subdued.

Aron shuffled his feet. “Jakob, you did something that has never happened before,” he muttered.

“And what is that, my friend?” Jakob sighed.

“You made Oskar finally agree with me,” he looked up, smiled slyly.

Even Jakob was surprised by the sound of his laughter.



Word count: 992