Excerpted from the recently discovered Diary of an Anonymous Lady, who was said to have been "die Geliebte" of the ever to be lamented composer, W.A. Mozart. The disturbing account which follows may prove difficult for some readers, especially those of the gentler sex, but "de mortuis nil nisi bonum" – – speak only good of the dead! As the Unknown Lady and the faithful servant have, alike, passed from this earth and joined the object of their rescue, I shall simply offer this melancholy excerpt (in itself a notable example of "disjecta membra") for your perusal.
Several times a year, always on the anniversary of Mozart's death, Elise and I took Johannes and Mai Brigitte to St. Marks to strew dried flowers upon the grassy spot beneath the ever growing willow bush Joseph Deiner had planted. Sometimes we'd meet Joseph there, but never did I see (or hear) of Constanze Mozart visiting-- no, not even once - the grave of her increasingly famous husband.
At first it made me angry, but in the end it only made me sad. How unhappy such long-tended bitterness must make her!
To nourish so much anger for so long seemed a waste of her prodigious strength. After all, she wasn't suffering in penury. Mozart was still supporting her, doing a better job in death than he ever did in life. I heard that after some negotiation, she managed to sell all his unpublished works and make herself a tidy little nest egg.
The year May Brigitte was to turn nine, a strange trial came upon me. Joseph Deiner visited the house at Leopoldstadt to tell me that the pit grave that held Mozart's bones were to be exhumed, the ground used for new tenants. Any bones remaining would be broken up, and the shards plowed back into the ground, a standard practice in crowded Viennese churchyards.
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I went with a carriage and a servant of the Countesses', as well as my reliable old friend, Joseph Deiner.
It was a scene that might have come straight from one of those gothic novels that have become so popular. Bats from the church tower flitted overhead. Torches flickered on every side as the bones taken out and organized.
Arm and leg bones were laid in one pile, hips in another, ribs in a third. The last pile consisted of skulls and jawbones.
After a substantial bribe to Herr Graber and his men, they were most obliging, laying the skulls out in a neat row. Next, I poured a dash of the brandy I'd brought on the ground. Then, standing silently, I meditated upon the line of yellowish skulls, now set out for inspection in the torchlight. They, exactly fifteen, stared back at me emptily.
After some time, the grave diggers began to shift their feet and cough nervously, but inspiration hadn't yet come.
"Lady," Herr Graber said, "we've work to do and if the priest catches you at whatever it is you're doing, there'll be hell to pay."
Quite literally, I thought.
"The bottle, Joseph," I ordered coolly. He brought out a bottle of wine of a kind which was most popular among working men. While the men, suddenly cheerful, passed it hand to hand, I went back to studying the skulls.
"How can you tell which one is his?" Joseph whispered.
"I'll know in a moment," I said. "Ask everyone to be quiet."
I proceeded to softly sing Susanna's sweet night aria from his "Figaro." It was a song Mozart had asked me to sing many times.
"Here everything invites to the pleasures of love.
Come, my dearest, and amid these sheltered trees
I will wreathe thy brow with roses."
It seemed the most natural thing in the world when one of the skulls, (the third one from the left, if I remember), spoke to me.
"Brava, Vogelchen."
Unhesitatingly, I stooped and picked it up. I was careful to be certain that it was linked with the correct jaw.
Yes, I thought, with an almost blinding excitement, I'd forgotten, but yes!
Two back molars were missing. They'd been pulled, during a miserable low point, several summers before his death.
Remembering the teeth, I felt foolish and chided myself thoroughly for not having remembered. The image came back, of Wolfgang sitting miserably at the Silver Serpent with a cloth wrapped around his swollen jaw, tossing down shots of cheap rum. He'd to get quite drunk before he'd let the surgeon pull them. It was more than a little unsettling to realize that my memory was growing hazy on any detail which concerned him.
Reverently wrapping my prize in a large linen handkerchief, I placed it in the wicker basket I'd brought.
Then, after pressing a few more coins into dusty hands, I went peacefully home, accompanied by an unusually silent and white faced Joseph.
It was about a week later, on my way to a tea party, when I met him on the street. He was, I swear, still pale.
"I've had nothing but terrible dreams since we were at St. Mark's," he complained. "How have you been bearing up, Fraulein Gottlieb?"
"Oh, I feel absolutely wonderful." Hoping to soothe him, I patted his shoulder and smiled. "Never better."
He had seen me through some odd scrapes and odder circumstances, but this was one of the few times when he favored me with the kind of wary scrutiny that is ordinarily directed toward lunatics. There was aversion and incomprehension, both well mingled in a base of fear.
"But, think, dear Joseph," I said, "we've saved him from the final indignity."
Because I cared about what he thought, I wondered if he needed more of an explanation.
"We've saved him, and I am eternally grateful for your help. Once again, Joseph Deiner, what, oh, what would I have done without you?"
"Well, I'm pleased if you are, Fraulein Gottlieb. But, by all the Saints, that was a horror. The end of us all it was, nothing but stinking bones, and a mighty sobering sight."
Instead of chatting as usual, he made an excuse and went quickly on his way. I suppose I could see how he felt, but, just as I'd said, the experience hadn't affected me in the same way.
For me, the night had been exhilarating. Mozart's skull, the earthly home of his genius, was now safe in my room, installed in a handsome box, set in a place of honor on a high shelf.
I still have it, you know. It's over there, in that painted case on the third shelf, by the vase with all the dried roses.
When my voice was still good, I used to sing to his skull everyday. I was always quite certain he enjoyed it.
Autumn 1940. Germany invades Britain. Newport is blitzed. Danny O’Shea’s house is bombed, his wife is killed. While taking his young son Adam to neutral Ireland, they witness an attack on a German convoy. The result is brutal.
Based on the memoirs of a Pearl Harbor survivor. Letters from two pen pals take the reader on a journey into the past, a past where nightmares came true, and when hatred reigned.
Several times a year, always on the anniversary of Mozart's death, Elise and I took Johannes and Mai Brigitte to St. Marks to strew dried flowers upon the grassy spot beneath the ever growing willow bush Joseph Deiner had planted. Sometimes we'd meet Joseph there, but never did I see (or hear) of Constanze Mozart visiting-- no, not even once - the grave of her increasingly famous husband.
