A Change of Heart

Chris could hear the eerie rattling of the window that overlooked the impressive estate, the harsh wind howling in the darkness outside. The dining room was large and mostly bare, lit only by a single chandelier swinging ever so slightly from the arched ceiling.

Grasping the mug of steaming black tea, Chris raised his eyes to take in the cold, rigid man in uniform standing before him.

“Let me introduce myself,” spoke the figure, seemingly undisturbed by the noise outside. “I am Samuel Fischer. Colonel Fischer, if you will.” He reached out a hand, the swastika emblazoned on his sleeve clearly visible even in the dim light.

Chris took his hand, the eyes of his Korean heritage briefly meeting the stern blue of the Austrian Colonel’s. He worked to keep his voice steady. “I’m Chris Lee. Thank you for your hospitality, Colonel.”

Nodding, Colonel Fischer bent down and opened the folder on the table. “Well, Mr. Lee, I’m glad you’re here. Music offers respite during wartime, does it not?”

“It does, sir,” he replied evenly, though his hands tightened around the mug. “And please call me Chris.”

“It’s truly a tragedy that so many great ones have been removed for—well, political differences, Chris.” The Colonel’s steely eyes checked the young pianist’s reaction.

“They do not see the vision, sir,” Chris replied as he had been instructed. The pianist had practiced the phrase until it flowed naturally, convincingly. The Colonel would never question his allegiance to the Führer. What he said next, however, was honest to his core: “I will do my part to honor the history of Vienna as the birthplace of the world’s greatest music.”

The Colonel appeared pleased with this answer. “Sleeping quarters and a practice room have been prepared for you. The piano there is one I’ve had since my youth.” A pained look crossed the man’s face like a shadow. “It’s been tended to through the years though, and I believe you’ll find it adequate.” At this, Colonel Fischer handed him an envelope. “The maestro sent over your concert schedule.” 

Chris took the envelope with a nod and slid it carefully into the luggage at his feet. “I’ll take a look, sir. Thank you. And may I know when the courier will come? I was hoping to send a letter to my family, to inform them of my arrival.”

“Your home is Hungary, is it not?”

“It is,” Chris answered, knowing that his post would have to be addressed to his family. In turn, they would send on the correspondence to his teacher, Béla Bartók, in the States. The great composer had given him his love of music and Austria. He had also been among those who had moved to escape imprisonment by the Reich. Chris worked to quell his rising anger.

“The courier comes every weekday morning at 10 o’clock,” the Colonel interrupted his thoughts. “Letters are collected from the table by the front door.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Turning to leave, Colonel Fischer added, “Your work here is exceedingly important.”

Chris looked after him, eyes falling on the swastika with distaste. He forced a quick smile. The Colonel had no idea the importance of his task.

*****

Chris shut the heavy mahogany door behind him with a soft click.

Dim golden light from the lamp illuminated the room with a gentle, welcoming glow, and thick curtains hung at the single window.

Chris sat on the quilted bed, drew out the schedule from his bag, and spread it in his lap.

June 17

8:00 P.M. ------------ Performance at the Wiener Musikverein

June 19

9:45 A.M. ------------ Performance at the Wiener Musikverein

June 20

12:00 P.M. ---------- Private luncheon concert

June 21

4:00 P.M. ------------ Performance at the Wiener Musikverein

June 22

4:00 P.M. ----------- Performance with string quartet for officials at the Konzerthaus

5:00 P.M. ----------- Performance with orchestra

Three public performances, Chris thought. Good. I’ll let them know. He stuffed the schedule into his pocket and reached for his luggage. Just then something fell from his pocket, hitting the floor with a clunk. A leaf-shaped bookmark of rose gold glinted faintly in the lamplight.

His breath caught. There was text on the back, written in English.

To Chris. For good luck. – Mr. Bartók.

Chris took a small notebook and pen out of his bag. He flipped to the first page and wrote:

 

1938

Vienna, Austria

Dear Mr. Bartók,

I hope New York is to your liking. Today, I arrived in Vienna. I was assigned to the home of Colonel Samuel Fischer. The plan is going well so far.

I found your favorite bookmark just now, in my pocket. Thanks for leaving it with me. Don’t worry, sir, I’ll hold on to it until we meet again.

It is hard to believe that it has been nine years since I sat next to you for my first lesson. At five, I could barely reach the keys. But now, as the skies turn dark with smoke and fear, I play for my life and so many others. I am grateful that your good luck goes with me.

Chris L.

After locking his door, Chris prepared his letter to mail and buried his notebook under the mattress. Only then was he able to give in to his exhaustion.

*****

The first task the following day was to make a phone call.

In the quiet of the muggy June morning, Chris headed for town, intent on finding the public telephone booth he had spotted on his way to the Colonel’s home the night before.

As the door of the booth swung open, Chris wrinkled his nose at the stench of tobacco. His stomach lurched dangerously, rolling the hearty breakfast he’d been served at Colonel Fischer’s table.

Picking up the receiver, Chris dialed the number he’d memorized.

“Hullo?” came a female voice.

“This is… Middle C.”

“Ah.” A pause. “What’s your favorite Chopin piece?”

“Scherzo No.2 in B-flat minor, Op.31.”

“Why do you like it?”

“It’s an emotional piece, like a story full of uncertainty—yet resolved in the end.”

“An exciting piece indeed, Middle C,” said the voice. “You have a report?”

“June 19th at 7:30 PM, Vienna State Opera. June 21st at 4:00 PM, Musikvirein. And June 22nd at 5:00 PM, the Konzerthaus. It would be nice if... my friend could come.”

“I’ll pass on your message.”

*****

The top floorboard creaked softly as Chris crept onto the upper landing. Glancing down, Chris resolved to avoid that spot in the future.

He could make out two muffled voices coming from behind the door at the end of the hallway—the Colonel’s study.

He edged his way to the door. Putting his ear to the keyhole, Chris caught a raspy, unfamiliar voice: “It was a good plan for us to meet here at your home, Colonel, as I’m often traveling to Mauthausen. You would find the new camp impressive. Mauthausen will be a show of power—to all of Austria. The resistance will see, with their own eyes, the foolishness of continuing their pathetic fight.”

“Is there a plan for prisoners there?” the Colonel’s voice answered.

“There are too many prisoners at Dachau. We’ll take 300 to the new Mauthausen site and put them to work right away in the quarry there.”

“And… Can I be of any assistance, Commander?”

“You, my comrade, will be in charge of the successful transfer of prisoners to the new location. Take whatever resources you need, but make it happen by the last day of June.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll show myself out.”

Boots shuffled on the wooden floor, and Chris sprang to his feet in alarm. Slipping away, he hurried down the stairs towards his own room.

*****

Chris closed his door quickly, heart pounding. He rummaged under the mattress and pulled out his notebook, hurrying to write down every detail of the conversation he’d just heard. After ripping out the page, Christ folded it neatly into an envelope, then slid it into the music folder he would carry to his first guest performance the next evening.

*****

Light spilled into the backstage as Chris opened the door. Dusty music stands and chairs and milling musicians appeared, momentarily illuminated. The door closed heavily behind him, leaving him in the darkness with his anxiety. His knees felt as if they might buckle, and sweat collected at his brow. Chris made his way to the curtains, glimpsing the bright stage beyond. There was terror in the realization that he was about to perform on this stage of greats. But beneath this fear was a still darker one. What if he was caught?

“Evening, Mr. Lee,” an elderly man approached him in a crisp suit and bowtie. “I see our guest pianist is but a youth!”

“G’evening, Maestro,” Chris nodded respectfully.

“The concert will begin in forty-five minutes. An assistant has been assigned to you for your appearances. He should check in with you shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Chris made his way to the corner of the cluttered backstage and settled into a chair. Taking out his music folder, he thumbed through the papers.

“Pardon? Mr. Lee?” The question was whispered in his ear. Chris jumped. Only then did he notice the small, shadowy figure—the assistant, no doubt—standing beside him.

“What’s your favorite Chopin piece?” the young male asked in a low voice.

“Scherzo No.2 in B-flat minor, Op.31.”

“Why do you like it?”

“It’s an emotional piece, like a story full of uncertainty—yet resolved in the end.”

“An exciting piece indeed, Middle C,” the assistant replied.

Chris shot the musicians nearby a furtive look, then withdrew a small envelope from his folder.

“The, um, thank-you note for the maestro. Please see that it is delivered to the right person. It’s… quite important, you see.”

“Of course.”

 

*****

Onstage, the auditorium lights dimmed, and a spotlight fell on the piano. It was time. Chris straightened his tie. Vienna! Home to the greatest classical music in the world. His stomach fluttered with excitement. He drew a deep breath, stepped around the curtain, and walked onto the stage to his waiting audience. Bowing, he sat down at the piano.

His fingers touched the first notes of Chopin’s Scherzo No.2 in B-flat minor. Chris became lost in the story the piece seemed to tell, a story he felt reflected in his own mission in Vienna:

The uncertain beginning—almost hesitant—grows into boldness, followed by dreamlike passages that turn majestic and hopeful. In the end, beauty prevails over evil.

His mind wandered as his hands played the music etched in his memory.

Should I be doing this?

Yes, I should.

Do I need to risk my life for this?

Yes, I must.

Will this cruel war ever end?

Someday, there will be peace again.

As his reverie ended, the audience burst into cheers, sound reverberating through the large hall. Chris stood up and faced the crowd, his eyes falling on the Colonel, who was on his feet.

*****

The next morning, Chris received a summons to the Colonel’s study. Had his “note” to the maestro been intercepted? He stood uneasily outside the door, then knocked.

“You may enter,” came the voice of the Colonel. The man was seated at the window and nodded for Chris to join him there.

“Your performance, young man,” the Colonel began, “it was absolutely exquisite.” Chris relaxed at the compliment. “That piece…the Scherzo, it reminds me of my mother.”

“You enjoyed Chopin as a child, sir?”

“Indeed. I grew up modestly—a small cottage in the Austrian countryside.” The stern man seemed to soften at the memory. “In the summer evenings, my mother would play the piano for us. Chopin, mostly. My brother and I would lie on the floor and listen until we grew sleepy.”

“That sounds very peaceful.”

“It was forty years ago. Peaceful, yes, but another lifetime…”

“Where is your family now, sir?”

At the question, Colonel Fischer turned to face the window and released an audible sigh.

“When Austria was annexed by the Reich, my mother resisted—my brother too. It was my father who reported them, and they are still imprisoned in Dachau.” He drummed his fingers on the windowsill. “I no longer had a home,” he continued, “so I followed my father into the military.”

As Chris listened to the man’s words, he was reminded of Chopin’s Scherzo No.2, the same piece the Colonel had remembered from childhood. It grew to a roar in his mind as he watched this man, at war within. Did the Colonel hear it too? Did he feel the unresolved chaos in the music? Was it possible that this powerful man regretted his decision to serve the Führer?

*****

The low voices Chris had been trying hard to follow erupted suddenly from behind the door of the Colonel’s study.

“What are you saying?” came Colonel Fischer’s furious voice. “Moving my family to the new camp? To work in the quarry?”

“They are yet resistant to the cause,” spoke the Commander in a cool tone. “We’ll return them to Austria—to the new camp in Mauthausen—and perhaps they will have a change of heart.”

“Sir,” Colonel Fischer said, his voice breaking. “My mother is old and my brother can’t use his left arm! It would make more sense to release them!”

“Enemies are enemies, even if their names are Fischer. Do not speak to me about this again.”

At this, Chris scrambled to his feet, a shoe bumping against the door in his hurry. The voices in the room abruptly stopped.

“What was that?”

The door swung open with a whoosh.

A gray-haired Commander stood in the entrance, accusing eyes staring down at Chris. His lip curled into a sneer.

“Look what I found, Colonel. A little spy outside your study.” The Commander grabbed Chris by the collar and hoisted him into the room.

The Colonel flinched, horror flashing momentarily in his eyes. Just as quickly, he recovered an unconcerned expression. “Ah, Chris,” he said smoothly, “I was just about to call you. Will you go make some tea for Commander Zawodny?”

“He’s a spy!” snapped the Commander, turning to face Colonel Fischer. “He was eavesdropping.”

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong, sir,” the Colonel answered. “He’s no spy. Chris is a guest of the Reich, a talented pianist and devoted member of the Hitler Youth. He’s always eager for information and anxious to be of service to the cause.”

“I’ve never seen this face among the boys.”

“He’s visiting from Hungary.”

Commander Zawodny glared at Chris in distrust. “I’ll let him go this time, Colonel, only because he is here at the invitation of the Führer. But he must leave your house and return to his home. See him to the train at once.”

“Yes, sir, if that is what you think best.”

“Heil Hitler!” boomed the Commander, who had stepped so close that Chris could feel his breath.

“Heil Hitler!” Chris returned a rote salute.

*****

At the station, Chris was reminded of the noise and unpleasant smells of the train. His return trip would be even more brutal, he knew. He’d have hours upon hours to reflect on his failure, to imagine the disappointment of his teacher across the ocean. While the Colonel had attempted to protect him, the mission had come to an abrupt, disastrous end—definitely not the resolution he loved in his favorite Chopin Scherzo.

“Mr. Chris Lee,” the Colonel spoke over the sound of the train.

Chris froze in place, knowing he was one order away from being arrested.

“You’re disappointed to leave Vienna?”

Chris nodded in defeat. “This was my dream. I’m… not ready to leave,” he admitted, feeling hot tears suddenly prick his eyes.

“You have years to share your music,” the Colonel consoled. “And your mission—it is not yet over.”

Chris turned, stunned.

“I will give you the information you need on the Mauthausen concentration camp. Take it to the Allies.”

“Wh-what? How do you—?”

“Surely you didn’t think your letters would go unread or your eavesdropping unnoticed? Listen carefully. These are the details I’ve drawn up for the transfer of prisoners from Dachau.” Chris took the small paper from the Colonel. “With this information, the Allies will be able to intervene, to free the prisoners and throw the camp opening into chaos.”

“But you would be blamed for it,” Chris pointed out. “It… may cost your life.”

Here the Colonel paused. “Indeed, it will.”

They stood in silence until the train pulled up to the station.

“Goodbye, sir,” Chris shouted, looking back one last time as he clambered onto the train car. “Thank you.”

“You brought music into my home and awakened my resolve to free my family—and all of Austria,” returned the Colonel. “My thanks are to you.”

The train whistled and started to move. “Your work is exceedingly important, Chris.”

Chris smiled. “As is yours, Colonel.”