“But,” she stopped and swallowed, “every once in a while something happens that forces people like me to pay attention. Every once in a while someone does or says something so wrong, so raw, so evil, so…I don’t know…hellish, maybe, that even people like me will take a stand.”
The room was utterly quiet. It seemed as if the mob of men sitting and standing cheek by jowl were all holding their collective breath, hanging on Marla’s every word. Franz even found himself not breathing, until he noticed and let his air out.
“I’m talking about what’s been happening in Berlin,” Marla continued.
If it was possible, attention in the room got even sharper.
“I’m not a wordsmith. I’m not a philosopher, or preacher, or poet, or playwright. But I can recognize good words when I see them, and I found some in an up-timer song. So I give you tonight—tonight and every night—‘Do You Hear the People Sing?’”
Marla bowed her head for a moment, then raised it again. She took a deep breath, then nodded without looking around. Franz gave the nod to the others, and they began the low unison tones that gave Marla the foundation for the beginning.
“Do you hear the people sing?”
* * *
Franz was awe-struck. He knew just how good a musician, how fine a singer, his wife was. And he had heard her rise above even her usual superlative level of performance before. But tonight, tonight she had elevated to another plane entirely; or perhaps a different world. He could hear the passion in her voice, he could hear the joy that she was pouring out like a very fountain, but tonight there was a keenness, a honed edge to her. She stood still as she sang, unlike her normal flowing movements; hands outstretched, no movement other than the rise and fall of her chest and diaphragm.
At the end of it, when Marla had finished pouring forth her soul like a fountain of liquid diamond, it was as if the voice of heaven had stopped; the world seemed darker and poorer for it. She stood there, breast heaving as she gulped air in, hand shaking as she tucked a loosened lock of hair back behind her ear again.
There was one thought on the minds of every man facing her. Franz could see it in their eyes. But only one had the courage to say it. There was a stir as men moved—or were moved—out of the way to allow Gunther Achterhof to reach the front. He nodded to Marla, which Franz knew was equivalent to a genuflection from a lesser man, and said in a quiet voice, “Wieder, bitte—again, please.”
Marla nodded in return.
The room was quiet as she regained her breath, waiting with a hard singleness of purpose. After some moments, she looked over to Franz and lifted a hand. He looked to their friends, gave the nod, and began again.
The second time through was not as intense as the first time. It couldn’t help but be lesser. No singer could give at that most extreme level for very long. Oh, Franz could tell that Marla still felt the passion for the song, and she still gave it a superlative performance, but the unique edge was missing. She was just Marla with the angelic voice now, rather than being the Sword of Music, or of God. But that was still enough.
Men throughout the room mouthed the words, trying to commit them to memory. These were words that would change men’s lives. Franz knew it, and they could sense it.
The song came to an end a second time. There was a brief moment of silence, until Logau began rapping his walking stick on his table top in a slow regular beat that matched the pulse of the song. Hands and feet quickly followed suit, until the building rocked from the regular percussive slam of sound.
Marla faced the men. Franz could see her shoulders beginning to shake, so he handed off his violin to one of the Amsel brothers and went to guide her to a stool. Gronow leapt up from his and shoved it forward with alacrity. Franz looked up and caught Gunther’s gaze. He drew his hand across his throat sharply.
Gunther got the point as if they had discussed having a special signal. He gave a piercing whistle, then yelled, “Out! The evening’s over. Remember it, but go home now.”
CoC men coalesced from all over the room, forming a barrier between Marla and her friends and the rest of the crowd. The tavern emptied; amidst shoving and protesting, granted, but it emptied.
Franz waved Gunther over, and handed him a piece of paper from his pocket.
“She said you would want this.”
Gunther took it with upraised eyebrows.
“Words,” Franz explained.
Gunther unfolded it enough to see the first verse of lyrics to the song, and flashed a tight smile to them all. “She is so right. Thank you, my friend.” He shook Franz’s hand. “My friends.” He swept his gaze around the rest of the group. “Frau Marla.” He nodded again to her. “This will mean quite a lot to the people.”