It is Sabbath dark outside, but Teo has no way of knowing so in his underground studio. Nelly will have prepared a good, special meal for them this evening, as if she were a regular Jewish housewife, with wine and challah bread and chicken soup, but he does not think about returning home, not yet. He sits, depleted, looking around the studio as though he has only just seen it for the first time. He catches sight of himself in the mirrors, first on one wall and then the next. He has spent a lifetime looking at himself in mirrors, but now, instead of his turnout or musculature or the angle of his head, it is his face that he notices. It is pinched, sagging, timeworn. Colorless. Even his brilliant eyes, blue and green, cannot salvage it. His shoulders sag and he sits hunched and humpbacked, something he has never, ever allowed himself to do—in front of another living soul, or even alone.
So he was right. The girl has been damaged by a man. How badly, he cannot say. Nor is he sure he wants to know. Why should he get involved in the sad, stale story of a woman half his age? Why, he asks himself, is he preoccupied with her at all? What about her makes him care? Still, he wonders if he has pushed too hard; some souls can take it, learn from it, but others are merely crushed. He has had dancers of all persuasions, seen them flourish or fail under his withering criticism. But he understands that what is good for a professional dancer may not be good for a fragile creature who has never, he sees clearly now, banished her demons to find fulfillment.
How can he tell her, without telling her, that he, too, was nearly crushed by a man? That his life took a turn, veered off to a new and less promising track, though as far as that is concerned he realizes one can never say which was better unless one has lived them both—and that is impossible. He has found success, he reasons, is recognized in his field, lauded even. And yet, this was not the path he had started out on. If only he had listened to the warnings, had stayed away from that performance in Berlin. And if in Berlin, if only he had not danced quite the way he did. But he was there. And he danced, spectacularly. So the rest unfolded as it had.
An image of himself suddenly crosses his mind. He was fourteen at the time, the war still three long years into the future, and he stood gazing into a mirror that threw back a reflection of himself and Valentina Ahmalitova at her elegant home in Warsaw. Teodor was not nervous in the least. In spite of her social position as wife of a Belgian diplomat, and her reputation as a former prima ballerina with the Ballets Russes, Madame Valentina was warm with him from the start. “Oh,” she exclaimed as she scrutinized his face just after he stepped into her home, “my first lover also had one green eye and one blue. I’ve always found that absolutely fascinating, and a sign of greatness.” In fact, he was testing her as much as she was testing him. He wanted to know what she knew, what she could teach him. He danced a little for her, a small, flashy routine, and she asked Teodor to do a few specific steps for her. And then they talked. Or at least Teodor did. He was so full of dance, so crammed full with ideas and thoughts and so appreciative of the fact that Madame Valentina understood much more than his last teacher had. He talked and talked, told her everything that was in his head about dance, and when he had finished Madame Valentina told him to report to her every day after school, that she would continue his training at no charge—she did not need money, she said, gesturing to the tall, arched windows of the magnificent studio that overlooked an English garden in the courtyard—but that Teodor would have to remain fully devoted to his art, would have to be willing to work very, very hard. She said she would give him some instruction but that mainly she would help him move what was in his head out into his body. They began the next afternoon.
“I danced for Diaghilev,” she told him with pride. “I partnered Nijinsky.” Teodor knew just barely enough about these legends of ballet to be impressed, but it was not until Madame showed him photographs, then pushed and pulled his body to emulate the great Nijinsky, that true comprehension began to awaken in him. “The arms,” she exclaimed, “look at their extraordinary lightness, Teodor, how they are suspended in air. Do not lift them from your shoulders; the power of your arms comes from your back.” At this point Madame would lift her own arms, gazing off to a far wall, oblivious to Teodor. When her gaze returned to him it often seemed as though she did not recall they were in the midst of a lesson, did not, in fact, recognize him for a long and confusing minute.
Often she would disappear into the library, reemerging with large and heavy art books filled with glossy reproductions. “Look, Teodor,” she would say, “look at Michaelangelo. Look at Raphael. This beautiful flow of lines, this grace, they are not achieved by avoiding strain, they are attained by incorporating the pain and struggle.” She would turn her full attention to Teodor, staring, gravely serious, into his eyes. “Do not run away, embrace the suffering.”
“No!” she would shout as he stood poised to dance, “not at all like that. You do not dance from your legs,” she would say scornfully, as if he had suggested they perform a polka. “You dance from here.” She grabbed his pelvis tight with both hands so close to his penis that he blushed furiously. Noticing his embarrassment she cocked her head at him, squinting an eye. “Beautiful boy, you cannot be shy about using your body. This, Nijinsky understood only too well,” and she was silent again, lost in a private reverie.
The months passed, and though Madame Valentina could still be provoked to outbursts, she clearly enjoyed Teodor’s progress. He could tell she thought he danced well, very well, and she kept him for longer and longer hours in the studio. She worked on his hands, his face, his neck. Hours and hours on his toes, his heels. “Nijinsky did not press his weight on his big toe, he used his entire foot to grip the floor.” She called Teodor a Petersburg dancer, her highest compliment, as he perfected long, high, suspended leaps and fiery pirouettes.
On a spring Sunday, nearly a year after she had begun teaching him, Madame asked Teodor to bring his parents for tea. In the studio, alone with Madame, Teodor felt only the awed respect of pupil with teacher, but in society he knew she was an aristocrat, descended from a long line of White Russian nobility with connections to the royal family, and married to an international dignitary. He in turn took it upon himself to ensure his parents would appear in their finest clothing and behave with the best of manners. He badgered them for days, his instructions insufferable, until finally his father threatened to cancel the entire appointment.
That Sunday, little Margot deposited at Mrs. Zabrinski’s, the Levins arrived precisely at the appointed hour. The butler greeted them and ushered them into the receiving room, a small, circular chamber of singularly sedate elegance. Madame entered immediately.
“My dear famille Levin, how good of you to come.” She spoke to them in her usual mix of French, Russian and Polish, which Teodor understood completely but which confused his parents terribly. “Please join me for tea and biscuits.”
Oskar and Rosa, cowed by her formidable presence and the resplendent room, nodded.
When they were comfortably seated and had been served by the maid, Madame placed her teacup on the low table in front of them and leaned back in her chair.
“Mr. Levin, Mrs. Levin, you must already know about your son’s enormous talent, and I hope you are proud of him. Teodor has a rare gift and I am grateful for the chance to help him realize it.”
Rosa gazed at Teodor and smiled. Oskar thanked Madame for her time and trouble. “And please allow us to present you with this token of our gratitude for all you have done.”
Rosa started, late to Oskar’s cue. She fished a parcel from her handbag and placed it on the low table in front of Madame. “We have heard from Teodor that you and your husband are collectors of clocks, and we hope this small addition will suit you.”
“Simplement magnifique,” Madame exclaimed when she had disengaged the gold satin bow and wrapping paper from the clock. “Bertrand will also be thrilled.”
A silence fell on the small group. Madame looked from Rosa to Oskar to Teodor, then back to the clock. “Ah, my dears, such a lovely gift in such ugly times. I have begun to worry so about what is facing us in Europe.” She stood and moved to the courtyard doors and spoke to the silent garden beyond. “I have clear memories of the revolution in my country. Precisely twenty years ago it was when my family lost everything we had not managed to spirit out of Russia or hide. My parents never recovered from the shock, and both died far too young from worry.” She turned to face the room. “What are you doing to prepare yourselves?” she asked. “What are you doing so as not to be caught unawares?”
Teodor and Rosa turned to Oskar, who was staring at Madame. No one stirred and no one spoke.
“You are Jews,” Madame said, “and surely you are aware of what is happening in Germany right now. I can vouch for the Poles, they like the Jews even less than the Germans. So what are you doing to protect yourselves?”
Oskar cleared his throat but did not speak.
“I see,” said Madame, as her gaze dropped to the floor.
She returned to her armchair and sat facing the Levin family.
“Then let me help you start. Get Teodor out of Poland. A dear friend from my Ballets Russes days is now teaching at the school of the Royal Danish Ballet. I would like to recommend Teodor for study there, both because he has the potential to become a star dancer and because the Danes treat their Jews far better than the Poles or the Germans, or most other Europeans. It will take a bit of wrangling, since the ballet school is open only to Danes, but my friend is quite resourceful and will surely manage to arrange matters. Teodor will be safe there, and free to develop his talent.” She stopped talking and watched the small family before her. “And I am willing to undertake the entire cost of his education.”
“Oh Madame, what an amazing, generous offer—”
“Yes, as my wife says, amazing and generous. But we cannot possibly accept such a large gift. We are already indebted to you for everything you have given Teodor but could not think of imposing …”
“Mr. Levin, I have no children. I lead a comfortable life. And I am an artist, a dancer who looks at your son and recognizes greatness. I do not wish to offend you by offering help, but you may well need your resources to reestablish yourselves abroad one day soon, and a ballet education might seem frightfully frivolous to you then. Teodor is fifteen, the only time life allows for taking chances and exploring the limits of what we can do. He will work hard, harder and more focused than he has ever done. He will learn about music and movement and he will learn even more about what he can and cannot accomplish in life. I beg you to give him this chance.”
Oskar shook his head slowly from side to side, thinking. Teodor sat in prudent, hopeful silence. Rosa interjected. “Perhaps we could talk about it at home?” she asked, looking first to her husband, then to Madame.
“Of course, dear. Discuss between yourselves. But I must be in touch with my friend in Copenhagen soon if we wish to enroll Teodor for the upcoming school year.”
“Thank you, Madame, thank you so much,” Rosa said excitedly. “We’ll talk it over tonight.” She glanced at their gift clock on the table. It had cost them the equivalent of their maid’s yearly wages, and she was now especially glad she had pushed Oskar to such extravagance. With a last look around she thanked Madame again and the family took its leave.
Months later, on the night before Teodor’s departure, Rosa threw a grand party. Two brothers—a flautist and a violinist—were hired to accompany a neighbor, Mrs. Oestriker, on the piano. Oskar spent most of the day stringing colored lights across the salon, crisscrossing the wires and checking to see that all the bulbs lit up when plugged in. Rosa had devoted a week to baking her finest pastries, had spent a small fortune on exotic ingredients: coconut, butterscotch, white chocolate, dark rum. She pulled silver trays from every corner of the house and set Maria, the maid, to polishing them all, even twice and thrice, until their shine dazzled. On Saturday evening the trays were heavy with sweetmeats and Maria stood at attention in her starched uniform while Rosa and Oskar greeted the guests by the front door, she in an evening gown, a small string of pearls and diamonds around her neck and a tiny red rose tucked behind one ear, he in his most elegant suit, his shoes burnished to a black-mirrored glow. Rosa sparkled and laughed, she listened and chatted, and only once during the party did Teodor catch her glancing in his direction, a look of wistful resignation spread across her face like moonlight.
Madame Valentina stopped briefly at the party, en route to a diplomatic ball. She did not remove her stole, but chatted amiably with the hosts in the foyer. Before leaving she asked Teodor to step outside with her.
“There are still so many things to teach you, my young friend,” she said with a sigh. “And I fear I do not even know what they are. The Danes will teach you what they know to do well, the charming arm poses, the excellent stage manners, the fine passés and the superb pantomime. But this I must remind you: dance, always, with intelligence, by making your body interesting to look at whenever you are being watched. I’m not talking about a particular gesture or the angle of a line, the details we’ve spent so much time on. I’m talking about the whole of you, your body as a whole. Whatever anyone does to your style, remember to dance with intelligence, with your body and your mind and your soul. I know you can do this, Teodor. I know you will.” She cradled his face in her gloved hands and descended to the car. She did not look up at Teodor as the chauffeur closed the door behind her and drove off.
The next morning before dawn, Rosa was a wreck. She had gathered her hair too hastily into an untidy chignon, and now wisps slipped away and fell across her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face looked lined and tired as Teodor had rarely seen it. She busied herself with breakfast, and with sandwiches and fruit for the trip; she could barely stand to look at Teodor, for fear of bursting into tears. When it came time for them to leave she hugged Teodor hard, then pushed him away, speechless and sobbing, and he left the house with his father in silence.
But Teodor was fifteen years old and off on his first big adventure. He could not be morose for long, too excited about the journey and what lay ahead. He had only ever been to the Tatry Mountains and to the countryside, never as far north as the Baltic Sea, in fact had never crossed the border from Poland into another country, where people spoke a language he had never heard and could scarcely imagine. He tried puckering his mouth and creating the sounds of Danish, but had no idea where to begin.
They sat in the first-class section of the train, far from the Poles guzzling beer with their breakfasts. On the way out of town, on a bridge over the Vistula, Teodor caught a quick glimpse of the riverbank where his mother would take him to play, but he let it fall back with the rest of Warsaw. Soon they were roaring across flat, open fields of potatoes, wheat and mustard. They passed shimmering rivers and peasants on horseback. They skirted grazing cows and huge bales of hay and sagging castles, stopping in tiny towns with walls and ramparts from another age. Oskar told Teodor of a great kingdom that had once had its capital here, but Teodor’s mind skittered with the scenery and soon Oskar fell silent.
From the moment they alighted from the train, Teodor felt he was in a new country, and in fact he was; despite its geographical location in the north of Poland, Danzig was a German city with German laws and customs. Teodor, however, knew nothing of the laws or customs, he knew only that the air was different here, saturated with sea smells: salt, fish, a soupy thickness that never descended on landlocked Warsaw. The roofs were different here, ornate and frivolous, and there were flowerpots in every window of every building. After a meal of fish and potatoes, they strolled the waterfront, pausing to admire the great stone gates of the city and an enormous medieval loading crane. Teodor persuaded his father to buy a necklace of Baltic amber for Rosa, and before retiring they enjoyed a hot chocolate topped with a cone of whipped cream in the lobby of their hotel. Neither father nor son slept well, whether from the strange sounds—ships’ bells and sailors’ yells—or fear of what lay ahead, or just sheer excitement.
They rose early, ate a small breakfast in the dining room, and packed in silence. Both felt keenly the absence of Rosa, who always maintained a happy chatter that was their comfort and pleasure. The day passed slowly. Finally, mid-afternoon, still well in advance of departure, Oskar hired a taxi to bring them to the port.
From far off they glimpsed the SS Frederik VIII, a vessel Teodor had imagined as a simple fishing boat with perhaps a few other passengers but which was in fact long and sleek and as tall as their apartment building in Warsaw. Who, he wondered now, were all these people traveling, like him, from Danzig to Copenhagen? He looked to his father’s face to see if he, too, was in awe. “I’ve booked you a second-class room with a young man from Stettin. He’s continuing on to America.”
“America?”
“Your ship sails from Copenhagen to America, Teodor. But don’t worry, they’ll make sure you get off in Denmark.” He laughed, watching Teodor’s wide-eyed astonishment.
By the time they reached the great ship, loading was well under way and the scene was of controlled chaos. There were people and parcels scattered everywhere, boys selling newspapers and cigars, sailors carrying kit bags. Families seemed to be traveling with entire households, and several times in line to board arguments broke out between irate porters and departing passengers with regard to the sheer bulk of belongings set to enter the ship. Teodor and Oskar did not speak; they stood, nearly shoulder to shoulder, quiet and self-contained, each observing the scene and thinking private, very different thoughts.
Oskar fished an envelope from his breast pocket.
“There’s money here for you, and your ticket and identification papers, as well as a letter from the Danish folks inviting you to the school there.” He brought a handkerchief from another pocket and daubed at the beads of sweat on his brow. Teodor wondered whether he, too, would lose his hair young, grow stout, and sweat when it was not hot. Adulthood did not seem all that wonderful.
“There’s also a letter from me in there, just a few bits of things I was thinking. I did not quite know how to say them so I wrote them down for you. I hope my handwriting is legible.” He had begun to sniffle, and now applied the handkerchief to his nose. “Anyway, good luck my boy. We’re expecting great things from you, but do not stay away from home too long. Remember your home is always here, in Poland.”
“Yes, Father, I’ll remember,” Teodor said, shifting weight from foot to foot. Oskar hugged Teodor tightly, crying lightly now. Teodor longed to bolt for the gangplank but he held on to his father. He did not wish to see his face.
Oskar pushed him away. “Go on, get on the ship. And write us as soon as you get settled with the Sonnenfeld family. They sound like good people, I’m sure you will do fine with them.”
Teodor lifted his heavy suitcase and struggled with it up the gangplank. He found a spot and moved to the railing to wave good-bye to his father. At eight o’clock the ship sailed, and Teodor waved until he could no longer distinguish his father from the hotel behind him.
Benno, his cabin mate from Stettin, was a Communist. Teodor had only a vague idea what that meant, but did not wish to seem stupid in the eyes of this young man fully six years his senior. “I’m an artist,” he told Teodor, “and I’m going to America for freedom. It’s the only place you can be a Communist and an artist and be free, and probably rich, at least after a few years. And anyway, it’s no good being a Jew in Europe anymore, they don’t let us breathe. In the USA I’ll be able to breathe.”
He talked endlessly about himself and asked nothing about Teodor, even why he was sailing to Copenhagen and not, like him and most everyone else on this ship, to the New World. At dinner, however, they were seated with a wealthy Jewish couple from Stettin, in whose circles Benno clearly did not move, and so, outclassed, he grew silent. The couple’s daughter looked to be about Teodor’s age. He guessed, by her carefully braided and ribboned hair, her fussy clothing and her pout, that she was terribly spoiled.
“You’ll see,” Mr. Steinberg was telling the table, “Herr Hitler will not stop with Germany, Germany is only his starting point for European conquest. He has grand plans.” He pointed his fork at Teodor. “And wherever Hitler goes he’ll make trouble for Jews, you wait and see.” Mrs. Steinberg gently lowered her husband’s outstretched arm and everyone continued eating.
“Why are you traveling alone, dear?” Mrs. Steinberg asked Teodor.
Teodor placed his fork on his plate and quickly swallowed the food in his mouth. “I’m going to study ballet in Copenhagen,” he told them simply.
Mr. Steinberg nearly exploded. “Ballet!” he shouted, drawing the attention of several tables nearby, and a stern reprimand from Mrs. Steinberg. “The world in an economic downturn, Hitler making trouble for everyone, especially Jews, and you are going to learn to turn pirouettes? And your parents are allowing this?”
Teodor had no idea how to defend himself. His love of ballet, his adoring mother and his talent had created just one path in life, one clearly marked path he had never had cause to question. But he did not need to provide Mr. Steinberg with an answer; his daughter was pleased to oblige. “Father, listen to you! If a person is not a doctor or a businessman you think he is loafing about wasting his time. What about art, and creativity? What about beauty?”
“Ach, Liebchen, that’s for women. Men need to set the world on its course!”
“Or muck it up, more likely,” Mrs. Steinberg said with a smile at Teodor. He was grateful for the intervention, but perplexed nonetheless, and the meal passed uncomfortably for him. Later, in the cabin, as they lay in their bunks, he asked Benno for his opinion.
“The guy’s an old fart, if you ask me, lots of wind.”
“But what he was saying, you know, about art. I’ve never really thought about it, I’ve always just danced …”
“Well,” Benno said slowly, “you must admit that dancing isn’t like art, not really. You do it and it’s gone, it’s all over. When I paint something it’s my statement, and it’s there forever. Unless of course I destroy it. But no matter what you do, your dance is over the minute you’ve danced it.”
Teodor thought about this for a while, but when he was ready to answer, or perhaps ask another question that lay a bit further on in his line of reasoning, he realized that Benno was breathing the soft and steady breaths of sleep. Filled with energy and feeling quite disquieted, he stood up from his berth and let himself out of the cabin. There were few people milling about, and Teodor climbed two flights up and went out to the starboard deck, where a strong cool wind caught him and tossed him about, and from there he climbed another level higher, to a secluded observation deck at the rear of the boat, pointing back in the darkness at Poland. He tried to imagine his new life, but too many images flew about in his brain; too many languages and faces already, a huge, noisy confusion. He stood at the railing, gazing first down at the wake of the great ship, then up at the stars. Out here, things were simpler, and his mind let go of the images, and quieted. Here there were only wind and stars and water. And a barre, he suddenly realized: he was holding a cold, white, metallic barre, and so he slipped off his shoes and began to stretch and bend, to lift and pose. And, after a few minutes and a glance about to make sure he was alone, he let go of the barre and danced, really danced, the deck his stage and the wind his music and the stars his audience. He flew from corner to corner, in great leaps and turns, higher and longer than he had ever soared. He grew warmer, and it seemed to him the stars shone more brightly the longer he danced. He had broken a sweat by the time he stopped, but had no clue how long he had been dancing. After bowing a grand révérence, first to the wind and then to the stars, he slid down the stairs and returned to his cabin.
He sat up abruptly in the morning. Benno was still sleeping, but Teodor leapt from his berth; the ship was quiet, which meant they had docked for a short stop in Trelleborg, and Teodor wished to catch this first glimpse of a new country, a new land. Up on deck, however, what he could see of Sweden proved to be a disappointment. Ships and low houses under a thin sun. Nothing shimmered as he had hoped it would. He was idly watching two brawny Swedish dockworkers unload crates of potatoes when he remembered his father’s letter, and walked quickly back to his cabin.
It consisted of one short page on lined paper, snippets of practical advice his father wished to impart to him. Teodor lit the lamp over his bed and, to Benno’s snores, read: “Follow the customs of your hosts, even if they are strange or primitive in your opinion.” “Be flexible where you can, but do nothing contrary to the principles upon which you have been raised.” There was no listing of those principles, and Teodor wondered what they were. “Be polite with strangers but not overly friendly.” And in a smaller handwriting, at the bottom of the page: “Let no person touch you untowardly. Your body is your private kingdom and let no person violate that right.” In fact, “person” had replaced the word “man,” which had been heavily scribbled over but which was easily discernible by flipping over the page and glancing at the indentations of the pen. Benno stirred and muttered something. Teodor folded his father’s letter neatly and tucked it inside the envelope.