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So it was done. The entire way back to Küstrin, he could have either vomited or yelled in joy, and both would have felt true. As it was, Friedrich remained expressionless while his valet chatted with the lackeys. For all three of them, it had been the first trip to Berlin since they had been ordered to become a part of their imprisoned prince's household. Presumably, they were ever so relieved. While Friedrich was still nominally a prisoner, an end was in sight, and they could be certain they would thrive instead of being condemned to serve a disgraced lord forever.
It was done. His father the King had finally gotten all he wanted. Both of his oldest children utterly submissive. It was done, Wilhelmine was married to the insignificant nobleman from the provinces their father had chosen for her, and he, Friedrich, had been allowed to attend the tail end of her wedding festivities as his first experience of freedom in over a year, just as the King had promised. They had all stared in disbelief at him, but then, he was a ghost, wasn't he? As good as one. Returned from the underworld of Küstrin, dressed in grey, because public submission or not, his father had yet to deem him worthy of wearing uniform again.
"Remember," Grumbkow, the minister of war, one of his father's closest advisors had told Friedrich before Friedrich had been allowed to enter the ball room, "remember my advice, your Highness."
He wasn't likely to forget. "Showing such preference for your noble mother instead of your father as you did in the past will not do her any favors in the future, your Grace. What's more, you should show interest in your brothers. Whereas the Princess Royal, no matter how much you feel bound to her, would benefit in your father's eyes from a certain distance which your Highness has to create between the two of you. At least for a while."
It was done. Friedrich hated Grumbkow no less than he had done before his doomed attempt to escape his father, but once he'd decided to live, he'd also decided to use whatever tools were necessary to not only end his imprisonment but never, ever, be this powerless again. He would take Grumbkow's advice, he'd flatter his father as the creature had demanded, he would be what the King wanted him to do be, and when his father finally deigned to shout the Almighty into submission instead of his family, well, then Grumbkow would find out just how much Friedrich valued him. In Küstrin, perhaps.
Right now, it was a fantasy. A more pleasant one than the memory of Wilhelmine and her stricken face as he'd greeted her as coldly and formally as he'd managed. Friedrich had believed it would be hard, almost impossible not to rush into her arms as he saw her again, but actually, it was surprisingly easy. He just had to look at the man next to her, the future Margrave of Bayreuth, a bland handsome nothingness which even bore Friedrich's own first name.
She shouldn't have given in. Shouldn't have married the Bayreuth princeling. Friedrich had told her not to do it, not even if they blackmailed her by promising he, Friedrich, would be set free if she did. And now it was done, she was married, would spent the rest of her life several countries way in the south of Germany where he'd be lucky if he saw her every fifth year, if that. At least there was the tiny hope he would see her again, unlike...
No. He pushed the thought of Katte into the back of his mind where he'd built a wall against anything that could be used by others against him. Dead was dead was dead was dead. He had to learn to see it as an advantage. People you cared about were hostages given to fortune. And fortune was a bitch. But if you only loved the dead and those who were taken from you and banished to the back of beyond, there was nothing life could do to you anymore.
He would be free. That was a certainty now, he had seen it in his father's satisfied gaze as Friedrich had knelt in front of him, had not spoken to Wilhelmine in private once but only in public, had greeted his mother with impeccable politeness but not with more attention than he'd shown towards the King himself. Undoubtedly, the old man would make him wait a bit longer, to be sure the transformation had taken hold, but there was an end in sight, that was what was important, what he had to think about, nothing else.
Undoubtedly, it would be marriage for him next, now that their father had gotten his will with Wilhelmine, who shouldn't , shouldn't, shouldn't have married, never should have, no matter what they'd promised her. Well, no matter. Whichever silly creature they'd inflict on Friedrich, he'd take her, he knew that, because love wasn't an issue, it never would be again, and one princess-shaped key to the lock of his imprisonment was as good as another.
It was done.
Being made to serve in the Prussian army was almost inevitable if you were as tall as Michael Gabriel Fredersdorf was. Besides, he was the youngest of eight siblings, and one of his older brothers had already been given permission to succeed their father as town musician in their hometown of Gartz. Since he loved music and had learned from his father just as much as his brothers had done, Fredersdorf had started an apprenticeship with the town musician of Frankfurt an der Oder when the recruiters showed up, but it really hadn't been much of a choice. At least the pay was regular, which wasn't true for most armies outside of Prussia, one heard. Still, Fredersdorf didn't intend to spend the rest of his life with the army. He had dreams once his six years of minimal service were up. Town musician of Frankfurt at least, and then perhaps more.
This wouldn't be possible if he didn't practice enough, he knew that. While his regiment did use him as an hauboist, what he had to play there wasn't comparable to the kind of challenges his old Master, Martin Simon, had started to set him. Luckily, Prussian soldiers were allowed to take additional jobs to supplement their pay, and got leave for the holidays. The regiment Fredersdorf was now serving with, commanded by Count Schwerin, was stationed at Frankfurt, and there was no war going on, so that had worked out well so far. At Martinsmass in November, Fredersdorf had asked and gotten such leave, and thus had been able to help Master Simon out, never mind the new apprentice Simon had been forced to take, who was still trying not to massacre the simpler instruments and thankfully was kept away from anything more delicate.
"Listen, Michael," Simon said, satisfied by Fredersdorf's performances, "if you manage to get leave for Christmas as well, I've got something for you."
Fredersdorf had planned to ask for leave anyway, but to visit his parents. His father had appeared somewhat frail the last time he'd seen him, and his mother shouldn't have to risk travelling to Frankfurt on her own, as she undoubtedly would if Fredersdorf remained there during Christmas. Still, Martin Simon knew their family's situation, and he wasn't given to making idle offers.
"I might. What do you have in mind, Master?" Fredersdorf asked cautiously.
"You'll get to play transverse flute," Simon replied with a grin, and Fredersdorf's heart leapt.
He liked being a hauboist fine, he did well on pipes and was even a passable organ player, but the instrument he really loved was the flute. Unfortunately, concerts for transverse flutes were in rare demand for town musicians. It was an instrument the nobility favored, and the only reason why Simon had been able to teach it to Fredersdorf had been because Simon himself had spent years as part of the orchestra of a baron before said baron had gotten too much into debt to afford musicians of his own any longer.
Still, there were his parents. His siblings, too. It would be the first time all of them were together in two years, for his married sisters would be there, and now that his brother had succeeded their father, he, too, might need some musical support for the holidays.
"For whom?" he asked, torn. Maybe Simon had managed to get a request from Schwerin himself. Gossip in the regiment hadn't mentioned that Schwerin was a passionate music lover, but he wasn't opposed to concerts outside of army marches, either.
"A bunch of students," Master Simon replied to Fredersdorf's disappointment and bewilderment. Frankfurt an der Oder did have a university, but its students usually were more noted for spending their money at the taverns than with the town musician. Did he really want to spent the Christmas holidays playing for a couple of future lawyers and doctors who for some reason wanted to get drunk listening to something other than their own voices, instead of his family in Gartz?
"They explicitly asked for someone competent with a transverse flute," Simon said, "and they told me they have the score of a new Blavet sonata, and a Vivaldi concert for transverse flute in F Major."
This was getting torturous. Scores were expensive. Fredersdorf, who had trained on the scores Simon had retained from his orchestra days, would have given his right arm for a new Blavet sonata. Clearly, at least some of these students had to have exquisite taste.
Simon watched him and evidently felt Fredersdorf needed another push. "You'll be able to keep the score after the performance."
That did it. "When exactly do they want this concert to be performed" Fredersdorf asked, feeling like the Prodigal Son before his reformation.
"On Boxing Day."
Both Frankfurt and Gartz were situated at the river Oder, but in winter, there were no boats. Still, if he walked all night, he could be there for Christmas Day and still be back in Frankfurt in time for Boxing Day.
"I'll do it."
Grumbkow was delivering, more or less. Being sent a short inspection tour to Frankfurt an der Oder for the Christmas holidays at least meant he did not have to spend them in Küstrin again, but he hadn't been allowed to go without some guards, even if they were by now politely referred to as his escort, and Friedrich knew very well his servants and gentlemen were reporting to both Grumbkow and the King. It also seemed the King had made his choice of a bride already, despite the fact that in Berlin, he'd pretended to be still wavering. It made Friedrich wonder whether the freedom which had seemed nearly within reach wouldn't be an illusion in every regard. His body would still not be his own, he would not be able to take a single breath without the presence of eyes and ears that belonged to his father, for he had no doubt that any bride approved by King Friedrich Wilhelm would not, could not be other than his father's punishing hand in female form. He'd hoped to get some of his former household back, his steward perhaps, if not his old teacher who'd had to flee the country last year. But no. And music, any kind of music, was still out of the question. At least in Küstrin, everyone knew he was a prisoner. For this visit in Frankfurt, he'd have to pretend to be a prince again.
The chief commander of the regiment stationed at Frankfurt an der Oder was Christoph von Schwerin, the same Schwerin who'd been a member of the war tribunal Friedrich had faced a little more than a year ago, so blessedly convinced they wouldn't dare to harm him, and therefore could not but spare Katte the death sentence, for how could Katte be condemned if Friedrich was not? He'd been such a fool, not counting on his father overriding the tribunal's judgment not once, but twice. It would be the first test of his new self, then, this: facing a man who'd last seen him in that pathetic state of delusion.
Against his will, he recalled Wilhelmine's look when he'd spoken polite platitudes to her. No, not the first. And if she, who should have known when he was lying, could believe he wasn't screaming inside, had really become the puppet their father had always wanted, well, then Schwerin most certainly would.
Friedrich was presented to some subaltern officers and town worthies before getting to meet Schwerin, however. He pasted a smile on his lips and absolved the ritual greetings which he was rapidly discovering he had not missed in the last year. All the endless "Your Royal Highness, how very glad we are to have you with us" seemed like mockery from country provincials who bowed and scraped as if they didn't know he still was only a prisoner on parole. Then, just when Friedrich was hoping they could finally proceed to have lunch, one of them told him the town's students had prepared a surprise for him.
With his luck, it would be an entire theological speech in German, which was his father's idea of a Christmas entertainment. This whole trip looked less and less like freedom and more and more like an appalling preview of his future life, Friedrich thought, while keenly aware any grimace on his part would immediately be reported to the King. Where was Schwerin, anyway? Sparing himself the speech and awaiting them at the dinner table, no doubt, but which meant Friedrich would have to go through yet another round of courtesies once this was over.
Then the first note cut through the air, unmistakable. High and clear, sunlight shaped in sound, and followed by more like water rushing down a cliff. Friedrich had not heard these sounds since the last time he'd played them himself, in last year's early summer, in the company of his sister and a dead man. A transverse flute, like the one taken from him along with everything else.
Not this melody, though. He did not know this composition, and suddenly he felt simultaneously like a starving man and one who'd been thrown into water when he'd all but forgotten how to swim. All the walls he'd worked so hard at and had put into place, they didn't help, because here was music again, and he'd so longed for it that he'd almost made himself believed his father had managed to kill it, too.
He had the sense to almost immediately close his eyes, though. He didn't want to see anyone staring at him right now, not before he'd regained control, and he would do that, in a short while. Just not now. Not now that someone had brought him music again.
It was a sonata, Blavet, not Bach, he was almost sure of it, had to be. Friedrich had spent the last year playing in his mind every composition he'd ever learned, but at times his memory had refused service, and then he had felt he was truly going insane. The great Quantz had told him that if you didn't practice every day, you would inevitably lose some of your skill, no matter how talented you were. Maybe you lost your ability to judge as a listener, too, if starved of new nutrition, but he thought the flautist playing right now was exquisite.
Stop it, Friedrich thought. Open your eyes. Be polite, thank the students, and then pray none of those subalterns or your own guard dogs write to the King and Grumbkow before you can.
The sonata ended, and only then did he realize he must have cried, for his cheeks were wet. This would not do. They would report it, they had to. Hastily, he did open his eyes, and there, standing in the provincial salon of a Frankfurt town house, were indeed some students, staring at him, with one of them launching into a speech, in German, as he'd feared. But none of them was holding a flute. That was the common soldier standing behind them, wearing the clean uniform Friedrich's father required from everyone, the tidy impression only marred by boots that looked as if they were wet and had only recently been hastily cleansed of snow and mud.
The man was tall, not quite a giant of the type Friedrich's father loved to collect, but certainly tall. He didn't wear a wig but his own hair of a light brown, pulled into a tail as required. His eyes were on the student making the speech, but when he caught Friedrich looking at him, he turned his head slightly, looked back and smiled, as if they were two strangers meeting at a social occasion, not a soldier and the prisoner who was also his future commander, if the King didn't change his mind again.
Whoever he was, it didn't matter. He and his regular features and his skill with a flute would disappear back into the army, and the next time Friedrich heard music again, which he would, he most certainly would, by real musicians, he would be better prepared.
"...and thus," the student finally finished, "we hope our Christmas gift to your Royal Highness is well received."
"It most certainly is," Friedrich said blandly, forcing himself to be gracious, for if he'd been ungrateful for a gift, his father would complain about his "infernal grimaces" again, and his lack of a good heart. Not too grateful, though, never that, or the students would be accused of defying a royal order. The King had been crystal clear on this subject. No music for the Crown Prince, not to play, not to be played to him, not unless they were songs in church.
"Drink to the King's health for me, my good fellows," Friedrich continued, and signaled his valet to give the students some money. He'd come to Frankfurt prepared for some donations; it was Christmas, after all, and he'd thought there would be beggars. The valet obeyed with a none too thrilled look; possibly he'd helped himself to some of the contents of Friedrich's purse.
It was then that the soldier with the flute surprised him a second time.
Walking through the night in late December had turned out to be a mistake. Fredersdorf had arrived in Frankfurt so cold and frozen that he'd been afraid he wouldn't be able to use his fingers ever again, never mind playing flute. "How foolish, my boy!" Master Simon chided when rubbing his hands and dosing him with coffee and wine. Leave it to Master Simon to have coffee; it was a luxury no one in Gartz could have afforded, and Fredersdorf had been unfamiliar with it before starting his apprenticeship.
At first, while his teeth were still chattering, he was inclined to agree with Master Simon, but then he recalled how happy his mother had been, and how his father had glowed when he and his brothers had been able to play together, a quartet, no less. His father had been a fisherman's son, and choosing to become a musician instead had looked not a little presumpteous and foolhardy back in the day, at least that's how the older family members told the story. Finding so many of his children shared his passion for music always gave him pride and joy.
"You shouldn't have mentioned those scores if you didn't want me to take you up on it", Fredersdorf returned, and Master Simon laughed.
"Of course I wanted you to take me up on it, but I thought you'd stay in Frankfurt!"
Since he prided himself on being good in all he chose to do, Fredersdorf had practized what the students wanted to hear. But it wasn't until he met up with them, warm again and thankfully with fingers that still worked, that they revealed they were planning a surprise concert for the Crown Prince who was in Frankfurt for the Christmas Holidays.
"So he's free again?" Fredersdorf asked, for of course he knew the story, along with the rest of the army. The future King attempting to flee the country had been sensational enough to be discussed in the last barrack.
"Almost. The King had let him attend his sister's wedding, and he's giving him more and more responsibilities in the administration of this province. But he still has to live at Küstrin."
This particular group of students, as it turned out, had actually tried to see the Crown Prince at the start of this year, in January, on the occasion of his birthday, but back then things had looked for worse for him, and they hadn't even been permitted to speak to him despite having made all the way to Küstrin. This time, they had been given advance information, along with those scores, by "a well wisher", whose identity they had sworn not to reveal. Fredersdorf guessed they might have made that up, except for the fact genuine new scores by Blavet and an entire Vivaldi concert were hard to come by, even if you were a student and thus by definition the spawn of a family who could pay for your university education. In any event, he had to admit the prospect of playing for the Crown Prince was exciting and somewhat daunting. Someone like the Crown Prince was bound to have heard the best musicians of the country.
The sonata was a solo piece, but the Vivaldi was not, and Frederdorf after doing a quick run through with the students who would support him was relieved they didn't sound too bad, though his father would have knocked their heads together and made them practice much more. Which he couldn't have said out loud; those students were noblemen. They all were wearing fine clothes, which made his uniform look shabby in contrast, but it couldn't be helped. At first, they were greeted by the steward who gave them more instructions of how to address the Crown Prince, if there was opportunity, and promised they'd be given something to eat in the kitchen later. Then they were shoved into the salon. It took Fredersdorf a while until he had spotted the Prince, both because the Prince wasn't tall and because there were so many people standing between them. By the time he'd made out more than the back of his head and part of his shoulder, it was time to play, so Fredersdorf shoved his curiosity aside and focused on Blavet.
He did notice something extraordinary, though. When he'd finished playing and looked up, the Prince had had his eyes closed, and when he opened them again, they were of a startling dark blue, instantly transforming what was a rather homely looking face. There was an expression in them somewhere between joy and despair, and something that reminded Fredersdorf of the helpless fury a fox caught in a trap had showed when he'd been a boy, during a bad winter when the foxes had come into the houses of Gartz to steal food.
Then it was as if someone had gone with a sponge across the Prince's face; it became a bland mask as he listened to the students. His voice, when he finally spoke, sounded bland as well, and like a foreigner’s to boot. While Fredersdorf was aware that the nobility talked French a lot among themselves, he hadn’t yet met one who spoke German as if it wasn’t his own language. And then a snooty valet started to hand out money already, not too much by the looks of it, when Fredersdorf hadn’t even played all he had prepared yet.
This isn’t what I walked the whole bloody night for, he decided. The students who were supposed to back him up for the Vivaldi were looking uncertain, not sure what to do about the money, which indicated the Crown Prince was taking them for commoners. Fredersdorf, who had made certain they paid him in advance, thought that was foolish, but also beside the point. How anyone who had practized music and was able to play could not wish to play something as gorgeous as the pieces they had prepared was beyond him.
He also wanted to see whether he’d been mistaken about the way the Prince had looked when Fredersdorf had been playing.
So he stepped forward, imitated his commander’s voice when giving orders and said: “Gentlemen, take up your instruments. We still have a gift to give.”
Everyone, including their hosts, looked startled, but the students he’d practized with listened to him. The Prince looked at him, directly at him, and the bland expression made way for something that seemed almost angry. So be it, Fredersdorf thought. There’s still music to play.
He started, and after some endless moments, the students followed suit. This time, his focus on the music didn’t prevent him from an increasing awareness of his audience. The Prince hadn’t closed his eyes again. And yet, there was that expression once more, so much longing and desperation and helpless fury in one face, and suddenly Fredersdorf thought that someone who felt this strongly about music should not, must not change back to yet another nobleman uttering condescending pleasantries.
It struck him then that there probably had not been any music in Küstrin if the students had not been allowed to present themselves to the Prince there. Fredersdorf, who had grown up with a musician for a father and in a household where everyone else learned to play at least one instrument, could not imagine what this had to feel like. Being drafted into the army had not been easy, but given he’d been apprenticed to Master Simon, they had put him to the regiment’s oboists from the start. The idea of being without any music whatsoever was not just scary, it was outrageous to him, and something of the heat crept into his fingers as he kept playing, as if sharing Vivaldi with the Prince right then could ensure such a wall of deafening silence would never surround him again.
Perhaps it was a good thing that the well-meaning but evidently philistine subaltern who seemed to serve as Master of Ceremonies tonight interrupted half way through the Vivaldi to tell Friedrich that while everyone was very pleased the his royal highness enjoyed the students’ gift, it really was time for lunch now, and Schwerin was waiting.
He hadn’t felt so stripped of all the protection he’d built for himself since the frantic November night last year when they had told him Katte was in Küstrin and would be executed in the morning. And now he’d be facing Schwerin and the memory of the war tribunal again, in this shape instead of the emotionless safety he’d worked so hard for. I didn’t ask for this, Friedrich thought, and this time, he looked at the flautist with anger. Now I’ll have to do it again. It’s your fault. Who are you to do this to me?
“Yes, of course,” he said, welcoming the rage, which was the second best protection after not feeling anything at all. The flautist didn’t seem to understand the meaning of Friedrich’s glare, though. Instead, he looked from Friedrich to the subaltern and back, and then, with a tiny smile, rolled his eyes, as if they were in conspiracy together, a conspiracy against a world where music was secondary entertainment at best and could not possibly compete against a growling stomach and etiquette. It was the kind of conspiratorial glance Friedrich used to share with Wilhelmine, and the fellow was impudent to use it. He had no right, and Friedrich had to tell him so, which unfortunately meant he’d have to speak with him. For that reason alone. To make things clear.
“You,” he said. “What is your name, soldier?”
“Michael Gabriel Fredersdorf,” the man said. A provincial Pomeranian, by the accent. Not a man of culture at all. Except that he had played as if he had the soul of one. Well, no matter. Friedrich opened his mouth to say something cutting and dismissive, when Fredersdorf added not the expected “at your Royal Highnesses’ service”, but, “and these are”, and then he rattled off the names of the students who had been playing with him. It was the kind of thing Friedrich’s teacher Duhan would have done, a tactful and kind way of pointing out that other people making an effort existed, and shouldn’t be excluded. But Duhan, who was another person lost in last year’s devastation, though at least to exile, not to death, had been supposed to train Friedrich in manners as much as anything. This man wasn’t. “We’ll stay and play later for you, your royal highness”, this Fredersdorf fellow continued, “when you’ve finished your lunch.” Then he ended with a smile: “Merry Christmas.”
This was presumptuous. Very presumptuous, this surety that Friedrich would care to listen to them further, and then to almost organize his schedule…except that Friedrich did want to hear more. He was a starving man who had been finally fed again, but only with a few appetizing morsels, and that was unbearable. And it didn’t escape him that Fredersdorf had just found a way to avoid any conflict with this occasion’s noble hosts.
Not a fool, this man. And seen close-up, also not bad looking, not bad looking at all, though that was beside the point. Amusement and curiosity won over anger, and Friedrich said: “Lunch could take very long, my good man. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be in town, celebrating? Don’t let me keep you.”
His valet added: “If it’s more money you’re after, fellow, his Royal Highness has been generous already. Don’t be impudent.”
Which was a reminder, as if one was needed, that the household Friedrich currently had were all his father’s spies, and felt they could speak on his behalf. Friedrich getting in debt had been but one of the thousand ways he’d incurred his father’s wrath, but one the King minded a lot, the King who prided himself of having turned a debt ridden country into a prosperous one and feared Friedrich would waste it all.
“I’ve already done my celebrations”, Fredersdorf returned, unfazed, ignoring the valet, “and I know what’s worth waiting for.” With a look at the students, whose faces were a study in confusion, he said: “Though if your Royal Highness should choose to send some food out to us while we’re waiting, that would be most welcome.”
Suddenly, Friedrich remembered how in the course of the last year, strangers had repeatedly sent him food to Küstrin. Of course the Küstrin staff hadn’t been ordered to let him starve, but his father’s idea of healthy nourishment hadn’t been enjoyable even when the King was in a good mood, and he certainly did have a punishing diet in mind for the first half year, before Friedrich’s very public submission in August. And yet, these parcels had come, from everywhere in the country, it seemed, and Münchow and Lepel, the two highest officers at Küstrin, had seen to it that they reached him. It hadn’t been strictly against orders – the King’s orders only forbade any literature other than the bible and a few theological treatises, any instruments, any written music, or unlicenced correspondence to reach him, while food had not been in the index -, but it had been a kindness nonetheless.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and let himself be escorted to the dining room at last.
Schwerin looked unchanged, a stocky man of medium height in his 50s. He wasn’t in uniform, though, and that helped a bit; Friedrich was able to muster the mask and greet him politely without feeling like he was back in his prisoner’s garb, defiantly answering questions, so sure, so absolutely sure that the worst that could happen was imprisonment for both Katte and himself. Had Schwerin voted for life or death, back then? He had an impeccable military record and hence no fondness for deserters, but on the other hand he had also vocally disagreed with the King and the King’s best friend, Old Dessauer, on the brutal drilling and some of the punishments the army had in store in the past. And he did love both literature and music; he had attended several of the concerts at Monbijou, the Queen’s palace, in the King’s absence.
“Your Royal Highness”, Schwerin said, “it does my heart good to see you as part of the army again.”
Ah yes. His father had finally granted that petition. New uniforms were tailored. Starting with next year, Friedrich would not take them off again. Because there was no future and no life without the army. If there ever had been, it died on a cold November morning. So yes, he would take the uniform he’d once mocked as a death shroud and wear it, and he would not simply be part of the army, but be more successful in leading it than his father ever had been, his father who famously loved his soldiers but not actual wars.
“Do not fear, Generalmajor”, Friedrich said blandly. “I have learned the last of my lessons.”
“I should hope not, Your Royal Highness”, Schwerin retorted. “For life never stops teaching us, and I wish your Royal Highness a long and fruitful life.” With a somewhat lower voice, he said: “I always have done.”
Had he? Or did he just conclude that given Friedrich’s survival and impending return to the full status of Crown Prince, he’d better win favor with the future King so that Friedrich would not punish him once his own reign began?
“That’s good to know, Generalmajor”, Friedrich replied, and decided he would make up his mind about Schwerin later. For now, it would be best to just get through the lunch somehow and then return to music. If he had to explain to his father one concert in any case, he might as well make it last as long as he could. He beckoned one of Schwerin’s servants.
“There is a group of musicians in the salon, some students and a soldier”, he ordered. “Have some food sent to them. They’re waiting for me.”
The servant looked at Schwerin, who nodded, a brief moment that nonetheless was a reminder that “almost free” was just another word for “still a prisoner”, and Friedrich’s orders still had to be countenanced by other sources, even in such trivial matters as this.
“You were pleased with their performance, then?” Schwerin asked. Something clicked, and Friedrich realized that Schwerin was far too methodical and thorough a man not to know ahead of time that this blatant breach of the King’s instructions against any music around Friedrich would be committed. Undoubtedly, he had his own musicians, but if he’d ordered them to play for this Christmas meal, he’d have gone against his King’s commands. On the other hand, a surprise by students could always be explained. They weren’t part of the army, after all. Perhaps that was even how the students had found out just when and where Friedrich would be in Frankfurt, and how they had gotten their hands on Blavet and Vivaldi scores to play from.
Fredersdorf was part of the army, though. In uniform, part of the army, and hence someone who had just gone against an explicit instruction of his commander-in-chief by playing for Friedrich. And going by the fact he had spoken German, not French, and that his uniform was evidently the best bit of clothing he owned, not someone whose family had either wealth or connections. He could be punished for this. Unlike Schwerin.
“They did”, Friedrich said. “Though you and I both know what they did not – none of them – that this was against the King’s wishes. I am better now in military etiquette than I used to be, Generalmajor, but I still cannot compete with your experience, so answer me this: Once the King learns of this, and he will, through me, so there won’t be need for any other report, will there by punishment for sins committed in ignorance?”
Schwerin took a sip of the sugary, heated red wine that had just been served. “I doubt it”, he replied. “His Majesty is a Christian King, much pleased by your Highnesses’ recent conduct, and this is the season for joy and forgiveness, is it not?”
Whether he was referring to King Friedrich Wilhelm forgiving Friedrich, or Friedrich, in the future, forgiving Schwerin’s participation in the War Tribunal, only Schwerin knew.
I don’t believe in royal forgiveness, Friedrich thought, for I have learned it comes only in the form of endless humiliation, and prices to be paid. But maybe, just maybe, I’m sitting not across an enemy but an ally, who sought to help just as those strangers who had sent me food did.
“Let’s hope so,” he said. “For everyone of us.”
At first, the students wanted to know what had possessed Fredersdorf to talk so forwardly to the Prince. It seemed that as a commoner and a soldier to boot, he had not been supposed to say anything at all. One of them, the son of a baronet, even told him it could have spoiled everything. But once the food arrived, they cheered up and decided the Crown Prince had to be pleased.
“Still”, the young baron said, “I don’t know what you were thinking.”
“I was thinking that the Prince sounded as if he still needed to hear more music”, Fredersdorf said peaceably, “and that Christmas is not over yet.”
They were excited, happy that their presentation had gone well, and once the day was done, they’d return to their lives. They would, in time, manage their estates, or become judges in their counties, or both. Even if the Prince had been displeased, this day would not have changed anything about this.
For Fredersdorf, it was different, that was what he had decided while talking to the Prince, though he had no intention of sharing this particular thought with any of them. The Prince was the strangest person he’d ever met, so full of longing, joy and anger at the same time, and he definitely needed someone to take care of him better than that snooty valet and the other hangers-on he had right now, none of whom had any ear for music. As for himself, maybe becoming Town Musician of Frankfurt an der Oder after a few years with the army wasn’t all he could be. Sometimes you had to catch lightning when you saw it, even at the risk of getting burned.
He wondered whether the Prince had access to scores by Quantz. Joachim Quantz, who had been a smith’s son yet now was playing for the Prince Elector of Saxony and King of Poland.
He wondered whether the Prince had a mode between the automaton who had walked into the salon and the man who had talked to him later, all focus and intensity.
He wondered whether, if the King changed his mind about the Prince again, anyone else would lose their head. Or other things. There had been considerable talk about Lieutenant Katte’s execution in the regiment, but people also mentioned some choirmaster’s daughter who’d been involved with the Prince to some degree and had gotten whipped all over Potsdam and put into the workhouse at the King’s orders.
Once the doors to the dining room opened again and the Prince returned, Fredersdorf was able to channel the very different emotions these thoughts had left him with into the remaining Vivaldi. This, he thought, this was worth walking through a winter night for, and as he watched the Prince’s hands, pressed against his knees at first, unclench and start to move as if trying to play counterpoint to Fredersdorf’s flute, he knew he’d made the right choice.
Afterwards, the Prince signaled him to approach.
“When does your leave end?” he asked.
Fredersdorf told him that it did not extend further than Boxing Day, and that he would have to rejoin his regiment tomorrow at noon.
“I see”, the Prince said. “And you really don’t regret having spent part of your holidays playing music for other people? The money wasn’t that good, and while undoubtedly the food was better than army rations, you would have been well-fed in town, too.”
“Your Royal Highness, playing for other people was what I was apprenticed to do before I got recruited”, Fredersdorf answered matter-of-factly, “and a town musician has more work during the holidays than at any other time.” Then he risked a more personal remark. “But it’s a rare thing to play and be actually heard, so I got my own Christmas gift as well.”
Something flickered in the Prince’s eyes. He fell silent, didn’t deny what Fredersdorf had said, nor did he make a joke about it. Fredersdorf didn’t add anything, either, nor did he look away when the Prince stared at him. The silence lasted until some of the Prince’s company harumphed, and one of them said something about needing to leave so the Prince could write his expected report to the King.
“Are your parents still alive, Fredersdorf?” the Prince asked abruptly.
“Yes, Your Royal Highness, and most of my siblings, though my father is somewhat ill of health by now. In fact, I saw them all only yesterday.”
“I saw my family last month, at my sister’s wedding, and what a joyful occasion it was,” the Prince said with a nondescript expression. “Tell me, Fredersdorf, if you feel so gifted: how do you make yourself heard when the one person who should have heard you seems to have lost that ability just because the tune you were playing that one single time was a false one?”
Fredersdorf didn’t take this as a critique of his performance, even though, to tell the truth, some of the students had glitched in the second part of the concert even more than the first. From what he could tell, the Prince had asked about his family, though if Fredersdorf’s own experience was anything to go buy, family arguments were nothing a stranger could solve, and any outsider offering advice sooner or later got their head bitten off. Any large family had their arguments, different arguments, to be sure, and none in Fredersdorf’s family had ever involved his father threatening the life of any of his children.
Still, the Prince had asked, and Fredersdorf suspected a refusal to reply would be seen as cowardly by this man.
“I’d try again”, he replied, which happened to be the truth. “I don’t hold with giving up, Sir. And neither, I think, do you. You’ll make yourself heard by anyone you want to listen, if you try.”
Friedrich flinched, though you had to stand close to notice. Then he murmured, with a very low voice: “Here’s to trying again, then.” Somewhat louder, and in the cool, polite tone he’d used at first when arriving in this place, he added: “We shall see how good you are at trying again, Fredersdorf, and trying something new. I did just ask Generalmajor Schwerin to have you transferred from his regiment to Küstrin, and he has granted my request. If you want to thank me, don’t. The town of Küstrin isn’t half the size of Frankfurt, and service at the fortress is so exciting that they send only older or infirm soldiers to do it. It’s not exactly a career opportunity, so consider yourself warned. The only thing I can promise you is that you will be heard there.”
As a boy, in Gartz, he had learned to swim by following his older siblings into the river. At one point, it could have ended in the current tearing him away and drowning him. But he had kicked, splashed and clung to the arms and legs of his brothers, had figured it out, had remained alive. Had, in the end, swum. That moment between knowing you could end dead and actually swimming, though, that had stuck with him, and there was something of that sensation in Fredersdorf now. He might end up stuck in Küstrin when the Prince moved on, back to Berlin, which could be, would be soon.
Or he could catch that lightning and see where it took him, far beyond anything he’d ever dreamed of.
“As I told you, Sir,” Fredersdorf said. “I know what’s worth waiting for.”