Never Stop Playing

One day my father told me I was going to a private school for music. I loved the violin; it was my passion. I was young, only ten, but it meant the world to me. I was going to play and I was going to be the best. My father told me it was a strict school, a very strict school. They only allowed a person to take a violin. Only a violin. I could not take any clothes, no toys, no memories, only my violin.

The next day we boarded a train and I sat by the window, my father next to me, and my violin in my hand. We rode that train day and night, day and night, day and night, for three days. Three long days. The scenery never changed, it was always the same, just mountains after mountains. Every other moment there was a turn, a tunnel, a bridge, until the very end. It grew desolate, lonely and barren. Everything became sad, forlorn. It snowed and snowed and snowed. It was everywhere, it was sad snow, the snow that makes you believe there is no tomorrow and it will never stop snowing. It fell so lightly. It covered everything. To sweep off anything would be in vain, because not five minutes more everything would be covered once more. It was this kind of snow that was to welcome me, if you can call it that.

At last we arrived; the last day taking the longest. I had grown restless with excitement. Finally we got off the train. As I got up from my chair my father mentioned it would be impressive if I was playing Beethoven for the teachers that would be waiting for us on the platform. He had my best interests in mind, my father. I took out my violin and started playing the best I could. I played Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, my favorite. I played my heart out as I stepped off that train. Once off the train, everything seemed so wrong, this wasn’t a school, there were no teachers. Everyone was in black, ordering others around, yelling, screaming; this wasn’t right. I began to put my violin down as three men in black with serious faces walked towards us; I was so scared. My father grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, “Never stop playing, never stop playing.”

And so I played and I played. I played while they took my father away and after I could no longer see him. It was my one last hope, the only thing I knew in this strange place. They took all the men and all the children. I was one of the last; but I still played.

Just as I was nearing the end, I felt a cold pressure on my neck. It hurt but I couldn’t stop playing. I didn’t want to know what would happen if I stopped playing. I realized this cold, sharp pressure was a pistol. A pistol was pointed at me; this man was going to kill me. I still played, I couldn’t stop. I wasn’t frozen with fear. I was more afraid to stop than to do anything else. And so I kept playing. Then the man with the gun yelled, I couldn’t understand him because I was so confused. This isn’t a school, these aren’t teachers; I could not tell what was happening. I don’t think I wanted to know what was happening. He yelled again and this time I understood he wanted me to stop or he would shoot. He said he would kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me? Why? I haven’t done anything. I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. My father’s voice resonated in my ears. Never stop playing; never stop playing.” I was frozen with the bow in my hand and the music just kept coming. At that moment it was the only thing I knew.

Then there was another man, he was yelling too. I could understand this one. He told the man with the gun not to shoot. To not kill me. To NOT kill me. He said, “You idiot, this is Beethoven. Beethoven was a great German.” And so the man lowered his gun, and I kept playing. I simply could not stop. The second man was dressed different, but looked too much the same. He had shinier shoes. He had more medals. He had a better uniform. He did not carry a pistol. He was an officer, a powerful officer. That man took me with him; I didn’t get on the train my father got on. That was all I wanted; I just wanted to be with my father. I wanted to play for him, and never stop playing.

That man took me with him to his office. I spent the next three years at Auschwitz with that man. He was an SS officer, and I was his personal musician. I played for him when he wanted me to. I played anything he asked. I never stopped playing. I never stopped playing.

I don’t know what happened to my father; I’ve never heard anything. I’m sure he died, but I will always remember him walking away. And I never stopped playing my violin.

Dana Schubauer