A Good American by Alex George

Riva Bloomberg’s misty-eyed rapture for the same disapproval she showed while Frederick cavorted about during his performances. But not even that disquiet could dampen the euphoria that swept through him when he sang. The music filled him up, and made him whole. As the notes flew from his throat, the rest of the world receded. All that was left was beauty.
    Melody and rhythm came to him as naturally as breathing. Riva Bloomberg only had to play a tune once for it to be deposited, note for note, in his faultless musical memory, and then he could reproduce it perfectly on demand. After a few months, Joseph had worked his way through every piece of music Riva Bloomberg had for solo treble. She asked Frederick what they should try next.
    “Oh, there is plenty of music out there,” Frederick said cheerfully. “Just not for boys.”
    So it was that Joseph and Frau Bloomberg began to explore some of the great soprano opera roles. Every week my father underwent a peculiar metamorphosis, changing from a shy young boy into one of a gallery of unhinged women. He played scheming maids, a suicidal Japanese concubine, a collection of flaky consumptives, an oversexed gypsy, several aristocratic
grandes dames
, and at least one witch. He did not possess Frederick’s flair for melodrama, but the music, distilled in a voice like his, needed no histrionics. This was just as well, because most of the time Joseph had no idea what he was singing about. Riva Bloomberg did not approve
of most of opera’s greatest female characters, who were (in her opinion) either hysterical hotheads or dissolute fornicators. She was determined to protect Joseph from all that depravity. Whenever he asked the meaning of a particular foreign word, Frau Bloomberg said the first thing that came into her head. As a result, when Joseph wistfully sang about the imminent return of a long-lost lover from overseas, he believed that he was telling a touching story about penguins. His innocence breathed new life into those arias. In that parallel universe of meaning, unshackled from messy human context, the music existed simply for itself and acquired a new, luminous beauty. Joseph’s voice was high and lovely, impossibly pure. The notes chased each other through Frau Bloomberg’s living room, a shimmering tail of melody.
    E ver since my grandparents’ arrival in Beatrice, Anna Kliever had been Jette’s closest friend. The two women recognized in each other the perfect confidante. The town was small; everyone lived their lives in front of a silent, watchful chorus of their fellow citizens. Wary of this unwanted audience, Anna Kliever had learned to bury her feelings deep within herself. But Jette’s guileless friendship opened her up like a flower feeling the first warm touch of summer sun.
    As for Jette, the patina of breezy good humor that she maintained for the benefit of her husband and the outside world could not survive the intimacy she shared with Anna. When they were alone she was unable to halt the choked litany of regret that stewed inside her. It was Anna who listened to Jette’s frustration at Frederick’s inability to concede, even for a moment, that their new life was anything but perfect.
    Jette’s quiet confessions to Anna gave her the strength to return to her family with her mask of contentment still in place. Her decision to hide her unhappiness from Frederick was not the result of any cooling in their marriage. Quite the opposite: it was her devotion to her husband and children that made her want to protect them from her sadness. Her silence was the greatest gift she could give them.
    It was certainly true that Frederick was happier than he had ever been. As the Nick-Nack’s musical reputation grew, business boomed. Frederick built a rudimentary stage in the corner of the room where the piano had lain silent for so long.
    There was one problem, however. Dr. Becker was happy to shower Frederick with compliments, but he was reluctant to give him