Free Heart of Lies by M. L. Malcolm
Authors: M. L. Malcolm
of their fun-loving ways, Bavarians hated change. For the most part they were as immoveable as the mountains that surrounded them.
Martha and her father lived on the northern outskirts of Munich, near the university and just south of the village of Schwabing. This little hamlet had grown through the years into a bustling artist’s colony. The cultural menagerie of Schwabing attracted an eclectic mix of painters, sculptors, composers, writers, and mere admirers of the arts. Some, who came to soak up the creative energies of the place, like Vasili Kandinsky, Franz Marc, and Bertolt Brecht, exploded like comets into international view. Most remained obscure.
The older townspeople of Munich regarded the Bohemian community to the north as something of a mildly bothersome, occasionally entertaining nuisance. The students and younger residents of the city found Schwabing an essential part of life. To Martha, Schwabing was a haven that made her continued existence in Munich possible. An ironic smile briefly touched her lips as the taxi passed a sign giving motorists directions to the main street that cut through the heart of Schwabing. The street’s name: Leopoldstrasse. Leopold Road. If only it could lead her to Leo.
Martha and her father said little during the short ride to the house. He wanted to ask her about her trip, what she had seen, and what she thought of Paris, but her reticence made it clear that she did not feel like talking. Once inside their small but comfortable home, he broke the silence.
“Well, Harry will be happy that you are home. He has been moping around like a lonely puppy. You should call him up. Perhaps he will come over and read the latest popular poetry from Berlin. Or bring his violin. You can sing, with that pretty voice of yours. Harry loves to hear you sing, and I would not mind a private concert, myself.” He pantomimed the playing of a fiddle as he moved around the room in a rough parody of a waltz. This was so out of character for him that Martha had to laugh in spite of how she felt.
“Maybe I will call him,” she said as her laughter subsided. Funny,she’d not thought about Harry for three days. Leo had swept him completely from her mind.
Henrich Jacobson, known to all of his friends and relatives as “Harry,” was originally from Leipzig. He’d come to the university at Munich to study engineering, and everyone agreed that Harry would be a brilliant engineer. Everyone also agreed that it was a shame. It was a shame to be so very talented at something that was so irresistibly practical, when Harry’s first love was, and always would be, music. But no one, at least no true German, could ignore a gift like the kind that God had given Harry—the ability to divine the complexities necessary to hold a bridge together, or simplify the intricacies of raising a skyscraper—just to indulge oneself in the tranquility of a sonata for the violin. Music was not a “real” career, unless one was extraordinarily gifted; and, although Harry was good on the violin, indeed, very good , he could not wield a bow with the same virtuosity with which he could wield his mechanical pencil.
Harry himself realized this. So he resolutely pursued his degree in engineering, winning prize after prize in student competitions, all the while entertaining himself and his closest friends with his musical gift. He kept his fantasy of playing with a symphony orchestra tucked away in a solitary corner of his imagination.
Harry had another fantasy as well. He wanted to marry Martha Levy. At first he’d worshiped her from afar, the way one would admire a rare object of art. He saw her regularly on the campus, for even before she enrolled as a student, she often came to hear special lectures or to have lunch with her father. Sometimes he could sense her presence before he could actually see her; he would feel a glow in his stomach, and a quickness to his heartbeat, and then there she would be, honey-spunauburn hair
Martha and her father lived on the northern outskirts of Munich, near the university and just south of the village of Schwabing. This little hamlet had grown through the years into a bustling artist’s colony. The cultural menagerie of Schwabing attracted an eclectic mix of painters, sculptors, composers, writers, and mere admirers of the arts. Some, who came to soak up the creative energies of the place, like Vasili Kandinsky, Franz Marc, and Bertolt Brecht, exploded like comets into international view. Most remained obscure.
The older townspeople of Munich regarded the Bohemian community to the north as something of a mildly bothersome, occasionally entertaining nuisance. The students and younger residents of the city found Schwabing an essential part of life. To Martha, Schwabing was a haven that made her continued existence in Munich possible. An ironic smile briefly touched her lips as the taxi passed a sign giving motorists directions to the main street that cut through the heart of Schwabing. The street’s name: Leopoldstrasse. Leopold Road. If only it could lead her to Leo.
Martha and her father said little during the short ride to the house. He wanted to ask her about her trip, what she had seen, and what she thought of Paris, but her reticence made it clear that she did not feel like talking. Once inside their small but comfortable home, he broke the silence.
“Well, Harry will be happy that you are home. He has been moping around like a lonely puppy. You should call him up. Perhaps he will come over and read the latest popular poetry from Berlin. Or bring his violin. You can sing, with that pretty voice of yours. Harry loves to hear you sing, and I would not mind a private concert, myself.” He pantomimed the playing of a fiddle as he moved around the room in a rough parody of a waltz. This was so out of character for him that Martha had to laugh in spite of how she felt.
“Maybe I will call him,” she said as her laughter subsided. Funny,she’d not thought about Harry for three days. Leo had swept him completely from her mind.
Henrich Jacobson, known to all of his friends and relatives as “Harry,” was originally from Leipzig. He’d come to the university at Munich to study engineering, and everyone agreed that Harry would be a brilliant engineer. Everyone also agreed that it was a shame. It was a shame to be so very talented at something that was so irresistibly practical, when Harry’s first love was, and always would be, music. But no one, at least no true German, could ignore a gift like the kind that God had given Harry—the ability to divine the complexities necessary to hold a bridge together, or simplify the intricacies of raising a skyscraper—just to indulge oneself in the tranquility of a sonata for the violin. Music was not a “real” career, unless one was extraordinarily gifted; and, although Harry was good on the violin, indeed, very good , he could not wield a bow with the same virtuosity with which he could wield his mechanical pencil.
Harry himself realized this. So he resolutely pursued his degree in engineering, winning prize after prize in student competitions, all the while entertaining himself and his closest friends with his musical gift. He kept his fantasy of playing with a symphony orchestra tucked away in a solitary corner of his imagination.
Harry had another fantasy as well. He wanted to marry Martha Levy. At first he’d worshiped her from afar, the way one would admire a rare object of art. He saw her regularly on the campus, for even before she enrolled as a student, she often came to hear special lectures or to have lunch with her father. Sometimes he could sense her presence before he could actually see her; he would feel a glow in his stomach, and a quickness to his heartbeat, and then there she would be, honey-spunauburn hair