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The Opera Sisters
by Marianne Monson
Publication Date: 9/6/22
Hardcover
ISBN: 9781639930463
Retail Price: $26.99
Page Count: 352
Historical Fiction
Cover art: ©Ildiko Neer / Trevillion Images; fStop Images / Getty Images
Book design: © Shadow Mountain
Art Direction: Richard Erickson
Design: Heather G. Ward
Book Synopsis:
Based on the true story of the Cook sisters, who smuggled valuables out of 1930s Nazi Germany to finance a daring, secret operation to help Jews find hope for a new life in England.
British sisters Ida and Louise Cook enjoy their quiet lives in south London. Ida writes romance novels, and Louise works as a secretary. In the evenings, the sisters indulge in their shared love for opera, saving their money to attend performances throughout England and Europe, becoming well-known by both performers and fellow opera lovers.
When Hitler seizes power in 1933, he begins passing laws that restrict the rights and lives of German Jews. The sisters continue visiting the German opera houses, but soon, Jewish members of the opera community covertly approach the sisters, worried that they will be stripped of their wealth and forced to leave their homes and the country.
Ida and Louise vow to help, but how can two ordinary working-class women with limited means make a difference?
Together with their beloved opera community, the sisters devise a plan to personally escort Jewish refugees from Germany to England. The success of the plan hinges on Ida and Louise’s ability to smuggle contraband jewelry and furs beneath the watchful eyes of the SS soldiers guarding various checkpoints. But how many trips can they make before someone blows a whistle? Or before the final curtain falls on Germany’s borders?
The Opera Sisters is a riveting and inspiring novel of two unlikely heroines whose courage and compassion gave hope to many Jews desperate to escape Nazi persecution.
MARIANNE MONSON received her MFA in Creative Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts and primarily writes on topics related to women’s history. She has taught English and Creative Writing at the community college and university levels and is the author of twelve books for children and adults, including the novel Her Quiet Revolution and her nonfiction works Frontier Grit and Women of the Blue and Gray.
She is the founder of The Writer’s Guild, a literary nonprofit, and writes from a 100-year-old house in Astoria, Oregon.
Visit her at mariannemonson.com
For author interview requests, please contact Callie Hansen at chansen@shadowmountain.com
Previous Publications:
-Frontier Grit: The Unlikely True Stories of Daring Pioneer Women
-Women of the Blue and Gray: True Civil War Stories of Mothers, Medics, Soldiers, and Spies
-Her Quiet Revolution: A Novel of Martha Hughes Cannon; Frontier Doctor and First Female State Senator
Advance Praise:
“Driven by their convictions and their passion for music, two English sisters provide aid to German Jewish families in Monson's kaleidoscopic historical novel. This story about moral courage in the face of risk stays warm and light. Ida['s] repartee with Louise is loving. In scenes together, they are delightful, and their impact on others is clear. Ordinary women find their inner strength, engaging in determined, clandestine actions to give others hope.” —Foreword Reviews
“The well-documented accounts of life under Nazi rule and the slow dismantling of the Jewish community and way of life are heart-wrenching and eye-opening. Perfect for fans of strong and resilient female characters.” —Booklist
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Excerpt from The Opera Sisters
JUSTITIA
As the train pulled into the bahnhof at Frankfurt, Ida and Louise scanned the crowd for Mitia’s daughter, Else. “I’ll be wearing a pink hat,” she had written.
And there she was, sitting on a bench in the station, with a pink velvet hat perched on top of her silky brown curls.
Her brown eyes shone as she talked about her studies at the Frankfurt conservatoire and led them across R.merberg square. The plaza of angled medieval buildings was decorated with Nazi banners. In the center of the square stood an elegant fountain with a statue of the goddess Justitia, scales hanging askew.
“You’re nearly as knowledgeable about opera and music as your mother,” Louise said, admiringly.
With none of her gloominess, Ida thought but did not say, loving the girl immediately.
They passed a store window plastered with notices, and though they could not read the German, they could guess one word—Jude—clearly enough. Ida averted her eyes, embarrassed, and followed Else’s pink hat over the cobblestones.
A block off the main square, Else led them up to a luxurious flat. “My family has been here for four generations,” she explained as she led them inside.
“What a music room!” Ida exclaimed, admiring the elegant grand piano and carved bookcases filled with books on musical theory.
“Hello again, and welcome,” said Mitia, embracing them. She turned to the tall man beside her. “This is my husband, Paul.”
“Thank you,” Louise replied. “You have such a lovely home.”
“You can’t possibly still plan to leave this place?” asked Ida, gesturing about. From all she’d seen of Frankfurt so far, it was nothing but a beautiful, thriving city.
Mitia laid a finger to her mouth. “We’ll talk of it later.”
****
The next day, Paul motored the Mayer-Lismanns—including Mitia’s older brother Carl—and the Cook sisters through verdant stretches of green that meandered along the Main River to Offenbach, a hamlet ten kilometers from Frankfurt. The Mercedes turned up a wide, circular drive in front of an impressive villa and stopped beneath a stone porte cochere. Ida and Louise climbed from the car, mouths agape.
It was clear from the greeting with Frau Elfriede Basch that the two families were dear friends. Frau Basch ushered their guests into a large oak-paneled library where the grand furnishings dazzled them both.
“What a splendid estate!” Ida exclaimed, but Elfriede waved off her compliments.
“You should have joined us in happier years when we used to hold musical soirees here with ever so many glittering guests. Isn’t that right, Mitia?”
Mitia nodded. “Shall we show them the music room? They will appreciate it.”
Elfriede led them into the hallway, past a massive Venetian mirror Louise paused to admire. The upper landing, where an elegant divided stairway met, was adorned with matching glass cabinets. The cases held a decorative glass collection that included delicate handpainted vases, a Roman-era rainbow patina cruet, and glass filigree decanters from Murano, Italy.
The walls of the music room were ornamented with heavy framed Dutch paintings; a grand piano inlaid with palisander, lemon, and boxwood details took up one corner of the room.
Ida and Louise looked about in awe, and Ida wondered if she should have worn something other than her six-and-eleven-penny satin jumper.
“Let’s have tea, such as we have, and music,” said Elfriede, looking toward Else. “Did you know our darling Else will be the last Jewish student to graduate from the Frankfurt Conservatoire?” Else took the cue and sat down before the pianoforte. They clapped for her melodies, which were genuinely superb.
“The fact remains,” Else was insisting to Louise a short time later, “all the characters in The Magic Flute must face the prospect of their own death.”
Ida talked with Mitia and Carl, who was such a sweet man that he had both her and Louise calling him Uncle Carl in no time. Mitia looked more relaxed than they’d ever seen her, and the fire they’d once glimpsed on the stage flashed once more at the corner of her eyes.
But after the empty teacups had been stacked upon the sideboard, Elfriede said, “There. It’s best we truly talk. Else’s English is better than mine, so she will explain things.”
Ida and Louise looked up in surprise.
“Miss Cooks,” Else began, “I’m afraid we must leave Germany . . .”
“All of you?” Ida asked, looking round the circle at each of the refined faces, so clearly rooted in this world. “Are you certain?”
“Very certain,” came Else’s answer, and heads shook in unison.
“And—you’ll leave all this behind?” Louise asked. It seemed too incredible. This house represented centuries of accumulated wealth beyond anything the sisters had ever imagined. Just a few moments before, they’d been singing parts from their favorite operas.
Frau Basch flew off in rapid German, and Else nodded. “Da, da. Her husband, Felix, has been taken,” Else explained.
“Taken where?” Louise asked.
“To Dachau, a work camp,” Paul interjected. “Accused of being a communist.”
“Gracious,” said Louise. “Do you think things will get worse than they already are?”
Ida chimed in. “Wouldn’t you want to try to wait? My father says—”
Uncle Carl, his skin creased like parchment, spoke up in English with a heavy German accent. “It is becoming difficult for us now to buy even food. Things could get much worse, liebling. Much worse.”
Ida realized with a strange awakening that it didn’t matter much what her father said, for her father had never been here, had never spoken with these people. The newspapers at home, written by a correspondent from a comfortable armchair behind a British desk weighing strategy and politics could not possibly understand the reality these families lived with. For the first time, she felt a branching of reality and sensed that beneath the grandeur of this mansion, beneath the tea and music and elegant furnishings, simmered a rising wave of dread she could not comprehend. To consider leaving this behind—they must be facing impossible circumstances.
“If you aren’t allowed to buy food, what do you eat?” Louise asked practically.
“Fortunately for us, our neighbors are farmers. For this time, they allow us to barter. We trade them a rare book, a piece of family silver, in return for sacks of potatoes and a chicken.”
The way Mitia and Paul were nodding at each word told Ida things were even more difficult for the Mayer-Lismann family. She felt a wash of shame for judging Mitia for being gloomy of all things. The crude and harrowing signs from the streets of Frankfurt rose to
her mind: Jude. An awkward silence followed, and she cleared her throat. “Frau Basch, can we help somehow?”
The woman’s face, as regal as a queen’s, warmed to kindness at Ida’s words. “Else believes there may be a way.”
“Going to England is probably the best choice for us,” Else explained. “My mother and Elfriede can apply to receive visas as ‘domestics.’” Ida and Louise exchanged a glance. The very idea of women such as these pretending to be domestic servants. Wholly unbelievable.
Else continued, “I can apply for a student visa. It’s my father and Uncle Carl who are most at risk, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t fuss about me! I’m old!” lectured Uncle Carl. They’d clearly had the conversation before.
Else continued, “They’re both liable to be rounded up and taken at any time, especially if they are not employed, which they can’t be thanks to new laws. Guarantees are what we need. British citizens must sign documents agreeing to be financially responsible for us as long as we remain in Britain—or until we receive permission to go to the States.”
Ida and Louise exchanged nervous looks again. A hefty promise. Their family certainly didn’t have the resources, and yet, as Ida watched the fire flash in Mitia’s eyes, she knew they must do everything in their power to help these two families. Finally, she understood the full weight of Viorica’s words: “There, now you will be all right.” Viorica had, perhaps, trusted them to help beyond a train journey.
“I’m afraid we know nothing about the immigration process,” Ida confessed, feeling guilty that she’d thought of little besides romance stories of late. “I feel foolish that we haven’t paid more attention. The newspapers in London have covered the political situation, of course, but not the impact on . . . real people like yourself.”
“On Jews,” Mitia said directly.
Ida nodded helplessly.
“We will look into it,” Louise promised. “We will help if there’s any way we can. Our family is quite ordinary, I’m afraid. I’m not sure we’d qualify to give a guarantee.”
Else explained it all back in German, and there were more nods around the circle. “We have one more request of you.” Else’s pretty face flushed. “It may be quite dangerous, and we understand if you choose not to.”
“What is it?” Ida asked, a sinking feeling in her stomach.
“Have you heard that Jewish houses and all their belongings must be registered with the Nazi government?”
Ida shook her head; they hadn’t known. There was so much they hadn’t known.
“Everything above five thousand reichsmarks must be registered. We believe they intend to confiscate it all. Without money, no foreign government will allow us entry, and we will be unable to leave Germany.”
Elfriede moved to the buffet, where a velvet box sat upon the polished surface. She brought it back to the circle and withdrew something. Ida noticed for the first time how prominent the older woman’s veins were, tracing up both sides of her hands like vines lacing up the sides of a tree.
“You asked to help,” she said. “If you can help us get these to England, they will make the difference.” She uncurled her hands to reveal a gorgeous ruby brooch surrounded by glittering diamonds. Nestled beside it was an ornately carved emerald ring.
“Oh!” Ida started. “They’re like something from the Queen’s jewels!”
“Ida,” said Louise, nudging her.
The two exchanged a long, tortured glance. There was a name for this. Smuggling. Smuggling jewels legally required to be registered with Nazi officials. They’d had no idea of the real situation in Germany. What else didn’t they know? And if they were caught. . . ? A flash of fear struck Ida’s heart—fear of never being able to get home, of being trapped in a twisted carnival mirror with a deep sea rising.
Dachau. Elfriede’s husband had been sent there. A fierce homesickness
swept over her.
Ida picked up the ring—a dazzling rectangle as large as the knuckle on her ring finger. Light from the windows passed through the gem, reflecting shimmering emerald shafts deep within the faceted stone. What if it had once belonged to a Bavarian princess? What if it contained secret powers? If any ring did, it would look just like this one.
“It’s exquisite,” Ida said. “I’ve never seen anything like it—outside of a museum.”
“Perhaps,” Louise suggested. “Perhaps. If we wear them openly?”
Ida was amazed that her sedate and practical sister who had never done anything even slightly dishonest was considering it.
Louise held the ruby brooch against her sister’s satin jumper. “If we wore them with our simple clothing, they might be taken for Woolworth’s paste.”
“Do you think so?” Ida stammered.
The Basches, Uncle Carl, Mitia, Else, and Paul watched them try on jewels, debating, as if the jewelry were costumes one could simply slip in and out of, rather than a family’s inheritance, the last remnant of an entire estate, a faint and final hope.
“Da, da,” Elfriede said.
“Can we possibly?” Ida whispered to her sister, the emerald ring luminous in the palm of her hand.
“How can we not try?” Louise replied with tortured eyes, and Ida marveled at the strength and goodness of her older sister.
So they nodded their agreement to Elfriede, and it was done. Gratitude. Relief. Laughter. Else returned to the pianoforte to play. What a solace the music was; clearly one of the few things of light and beauty still there for them, exactly as it had been in times before.
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