The Ragged Edge of Night(68)
One of the boys calls out eagerly, “Mein Herr, are you going to teach us how to play?”
Anton chuckles. “God willing.” The boys and girls shuffle their feet; they murmur with excitement.
Where best to begin? He opens the nearest trunk and picks up the first instrument to hand. He holds it up so all the children may see. “This is a cornet. Pretty, isn’t it? It can play the highest notes of all the brass—that is, the kind of instruments you must buzz your lips to play.” He demonstrates, pressing his lips together and letting out a rasping vibration. The children laugh. “I’ll pass it around, so you all may get a feel for it. No one try to play it—not yet. None of us wants to go home with a headache.” More laughter.
The cornet begins to make its rounds. The children test its weight in their hands, imagine what they must look like holding it, capable and proud. Anton retrieves the next instrument from his trunk. “French horn. Look at the curves, and see how the keys are different from the keys on top of the cornet. This one sounds mellow and sweet.”
He names each instrument and explains its role, what purpose it will serve in their band. The baritone horn, the trombone with its long slide—he must assemble that one while the children watch. Clarinet and piccolo, oboe and flute, the bright cymbals that flash when he raises them. The children cringe with hands over ears, expecting him to crash them together, but Anton only laughs and passes a single cymbal around the room.
When he has shown them every instrument, he says, “Now you each may try the ones you like best, so we can learn what suits you. I don’t have enough instruments for everyone, so even when you’ve made your choice, most of you must share. I’ll have your teacher, Fr?ulein Weber, help me make a schedule. How does that sound? Stand up now, and arrange yourselves in order of height.” The children of St. Josefsheim used to like that method of sorting. Brother Nazarius seldom picked them in order, from tallest to shortest. Sometimes he would go the other way, and sometimes he would work from the middle out, so everyone had a chance to be first.
They begin only with mouthpieces. Anton pulls the metal cups from each brass instrument; the children take turns buzzing, and the room fills with a chorus of duck quacks. The students are nearly beside themselves with laughter, the sound is so ridiculous—but Anton notes how quickly they are learning. Soon enough, he fixes the mouthpieces back onto brass bodies. The children play—or try to play; the discordant honks and feeble squeals would be enough make them laugh all over again, but a serious air has fallen over the classroom. They are doing their earnest best to learn, every one of them. And this is like nothing they’ve ever done before. Rapt in the development of this new skill—what will be a new skill, with practice—they are committed, serious, as children seldom are. Those who are not playing encourage the others. They applaud each other’s first attempts at C and A and G. A sense of cooperation forms, trust and camaraderie forming fresh new buds. Someday, those buds will open, flowering into reliance and unity, the magical forces that bind a music group together.
Two hours of lessons fly by. While Christine Weber checks off names on her list, Anton sends half the children home with an instrument—all except those who will be his drummers. They must obtain their parents’ permission to learn percussion. Anton won’t surprise the parents of Unterboihingen with cymbals or his little snare drum. He would never be so cruel; the trumpets and piccolos will be torment enough.
“Next week,” he tells them, “each of you must be able to play all the notes I’ve shown you, so practice well, and be sure you meet up with your partners midweek to trade the instruments. Those of you who have the instruments first: it will be your responsibility to remind your friends how to play the correct notes. Drummers, you will practice on your knees until your parents agree to let you keep the drums.” He shows them how, tapping out a paradiddle until the whole classroom takes it up, even those who haven’t been assigned to percussion.
Anton strolls home in the blue twilight with Al and Paul at his side. Paul carries the cornet, which the boys will share; he can’t resist squawking out a few notes now and again, and every time he does it, a rabbit bolts from the road’s verge or a flock of partridges clatters into the air. Anton can scarcely recall feeling so satisfied. His heart brims over with a rich, warm sense of accomplishment—and the certainty that he has laid the foundation for something miraculous, something he will build. He had expected it would only bring him pain, to stand at the head of a classroom again. But he needn’t have feared. In a world steeped in sorrow, he has found a small portion of joy. It’s worth more than gold, in times like these.
When they reach their home, Elisabeth comes down the stairs to meet them. Anton pauses in the yard while the boys run ahead, clamoring to show their mother the cornet. She has seen it before, but never in their hands. Anton watches her descend from the cottage in a wash of pale moonlight. At first, he thinks, How lovely she looks, with that silver glow along her crown, sparkling in her dark hair. She is even prettier than Christine Weber. But as Elisabeth draws closer, he sees that her eyes are tight, her mouth thin and troubled. She barely pauses to admire the cornet. Then she lays a hand on Paul’s head, halting his chatter. “Go inside, boys. Supper is waiting.”
The boys clatter and bump up the stairs, jostling and laughing. Paul plays a final squeal on the instrument before he disappears inside.