The Audition

March 3, 1861

Budapest, Hungary

Had Professor Johannes Strobel entered any other bakery on any other day, things might have turned out very differently—for Strobel himself, for the Király family, even for music in general.

It was, therefore, lucky that Strobel entered Sovany's Bakery at precisely ten minutes to six after an afternoon of exploring the nearby cemetery. And though it didn't seem so at the time, it was even lucky that he'd forgotten the Hungarian word for roll.

After a moment of staring at the baker in extremely awkward silence, Strobel was strongly considering turning tail, fleeing back to his hotel room, and making a meal out of crackers and cheese. He might very well have done this, had he not felt a tap on his shoulder.

The shoulder-tapper was a tall, rangy woman with dark red hair piled on top of her head, dressed in a gray wool frock and striped apron. She looked at him with a smile, clearly amused by the sight of an overdressed Austrian tourist in her neighborhood bakery. “Mister. You need help?”

Delighted at finding someone in this part of the city who spoke German— regardless of how well—Strobel nodded. “Indeed, madam. Perhaps you could translate for me?” He explained what he needed, and the woman informed the baker in incomprehensible Hungarian, resulting in a warm bag of rolls being deposited in Strobel’s hand.

“Thank you, Mrs …?”

“Király,” the woman said. “Király Anna. Who are you?”

Remembering his manners, Strobel tipped his hat. “Professor Johannes Strobel, at your service.”

“Professor, eh? You teach school?”

“Indeed, at the Academy of Music in Vienna. Thank you once again for your help, if there’s anything I can…”

“Wait.” Mrs. Király’s gray eyes focused on him sharply. “You work at a music school?”

“A music school!” Strobel chuckled. “Madam, I work at the music school. The finest in Europe.”

“Ah! Good. Then you will come to have dinner at our flat," Mrs. Király said, with as much authority as Emperor Franz Joseph himself. "It is necessary that you meet my son.”

Strobel sighed, preparing himself for the inevitable. This precise situation happened with alarming frequency: a proud parent would discover where Strobel worked and attempt to foist all manner of talentless children upon him. There had been the little girl in Salzburg who sang like a frog, the boy from Munich who'd broken three harp strings while trying to play "Ode to Joy," the twins who'd gotten into a fistfight while attempting a piano duet; all very bright young people, no doubt. Just not musicians.

Still, he couldn't be rude. "Your son, madam?"

“My son. He plays the violin. He is,” Mrs. Király said with resignation, “a very good boy. But he will not get the proper education here. We do not yet have a music school in Budapest.”

"I'm sure he's very talented, though I must warn you, admission to the Academy is extremely competitive..."

“I know, Professor. But I did help you just now, and you did say ‘anything I can do.' What you can do, Professor,” Mrs. Király said firmly, “is to come to a very good dinner, and to spend five minutes listening to my Andras play the violin, and then to go home in peace. This is fair, yes?”

Strobel nodded, resigned to his fate. If nothing else, Hungarian home cooking sounded pleasant enough. “Very well, Mrs. Király. Lead on.”

–

The Király family flat was located in a dilapidated tenement building just around the corner from the bakery. Upon entering, what hit Strobel first was the smell. A good smell—meat and onions and spices, filling up the small space and making his stomach growl. The smell emanated from a small stove in the corner of the room, where a short, stocky man leaned over a steaming pot.

“Ah! My husband makes goulash,” Mrs. Király said with satisfaction. “György! Látogató!”

The man at the stove turned around, his bushy eyebrows drawing together in suspicion at the sight of his wife’s unexpected company. Strobel noted, with some surprise, that Mr. Király had a wooden leg.

There ensued a brief conversation in Hungarian, at the end of which Mrs. Király seemed to emerge the winner. She turned back to Strobel, smiling brightly. “My husband’s German is not so good,” she confessed. “But there is no need to worry, we have plenty of food for you. Would you like to meet the children? They will be in the other room, studying.” She paused as a burst of raucous laughter sounded from behind the narrow door. “They should be studying. Children! Come now, we have a guest!”

There was some scuffling from behind the door before it opened and an assortment of youngsters tumbled out: first, two brown-haired little girls, followed by a tall, thin boy gently carrying a toddler.

“Here you are, Professor,” Mrs. Király said proudly. “The baby is little Katalin—we call her Kitti—and then there is Jozefa next, she is six, and Ilka is nine—and here is Andras, he has just turned sixteen. He,” she added, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “is the one I tell you about.”

To Strobel’s eternal shame, his first thought regarding young Andras was: Well, he certainly looks like a musician.

He chastised himself immediately afterwards, of course—hadn’t he learned, during his career as a teacher, that musicians came in all sorts of shapes and sizes? And yet it couldn’t be denied that young Andras’ thin face, long fingers, and shaggy auburn hair gave him an artistic air.

Appearances didn’t factor into the matter, though. What was important was whether or not he could play the violin, which was yet to be confirmed. Strobel wouldn’t let himself entertain any high hopes.

“Children, here is Professor Strobel, who is visiting us from Vienna,” Mrs. Király said. “You will speak to him in German so you can practice. And Andras, you will play the violin for him after dinner.”

Andras frowned, glancing from Strobel to Mrs. Király. “Why?”

“Because he is from the Academy of Music,” Mrs. Király explained patiently. “And perhaps he can help you.”

The boy looked as though someone had just told him he was going to war. “Do I have to, Ma?”

Mrs. Király raised her eyes heavenward, as if asking for strength. “Yes, Andras. You must. But first we will eat.”

Dinner was delicious, though Strobel was careful not to eat too much; generous as this family was, they still had four young children to feed. And nice children they were, at that. Little Jozefa explained, in a mishmash of Hungarian and German, that she could read an entire story on her own now with no help, and Ilka shyly informed Strobel that Father Jonas at church had taught her to play a song on the piano and had the Professor ever seen a grand piano?

Andras, meanwhile, spent most of the meal in silence, occasionally casting worried glances in Strobel’s direction. There was an almost palpable air of anxiety around him, and when the last of the goulash had been eaten Strobel fully expected him to flee like a frightened rabbit. From the look on Mrs. Király’s face, however, this was clearly not an option.

“Girls, you will please help your father with the dishes now,” she said briskly. “Andras, you will go and get Clara.”

“Who is Clara?” Strobel inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Clara is my violin,” Andras replied, a bright red flush spreading across his high cheekbones. “That’s what Mr. Batori called her...it. He taught me to play, only he died last month, so I have Clara now.”

Strobel nodded sympathetically. “My condolences, young man. If you don’t think you can play…”

“No, I suppose I’d better, if Ma says so.” Andras let out a long-suffering sigh and rose from the table. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He returned with a violin that, while it had clearly seen better days, was undoubtedly high-quality—whoever this Mr. Batori was, he must have been a professional. Without ceremony, Andras lifted the instrument to his chin and began to play.

The piece was one of Bach’s sonatas and a devilishly tricky one at that, though Andras didn’t seem worried. Indeed, the minute he started playing, the panicky, awkward boy faded away, replaced with someone who knew exactly what he was doing. A true artist.

And Strobel, who had seen so many auditions and met so many gifted young people, felt a familiar prickle of excitement, knowing exactly what he was confronted with.

Talent. Pure talent.

–

After a brief and quiet conversation with Mrs. Király, Professor Strobel left his card and the address where he was staying and returned to his hotel in high spirits. A prodigy, by God, a genuine prodigy! Perhaps he was starting a bit late—the great pianist Liszt had given his first concert at nine years old—but after all, sixteen was still young. A lad like that could go very far, given the right support. The Királys would make the right decision, naturally.

Upon returning to his hotel the next evening, Strobel was surprised to see young Andras waiting for him; not with his mother, whom Strobel had expected to see, but entirely alone.

“Professor,” he said. “Could we talk?”

Strobel nodded and ushered the boy upstairs to his room, where Andras perched on one of the chairs looking highly uncomfortable.

“What can I help you with, my lad?”

“Well,” Andras said hesitantly. “Ma says you want me to go to that fancy school, in Vienna.”

“Indeed I do. It would be exactly what you need, in my opinion.”

“That’s kind of you, Professor. I know Ma wants me to go, she’s been talking about it with Pa all day, and I’m very grateful, but I…” He took a deep breath. “I can’t go.”

“Can’t?” Strobel frowned. Had he not made it clear to Mrs. Király that there was no reason to fuss over money, that there were scholarship funds for this sort of thing? “Why on earth not?”

“Professor, you came to our home. You saw we have no money.” Andras’ German was good, schoolboy-correct, though his accent was made more obvious by distress. “If I stay here, I can get a job in a factory or a shop, help my sisters. I can’t send money home if I am at music school.”

Strobel was not a temperamental man, but at this, he nearly could have thrown something. “Andras, how old are you? Sixteen, your mother said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nearly an adult, then. So I will speak to you as an adult. You are a fool, young man, for thinking that getting a job in a factory will help your family more than getting a free education. Do you think I would be offering you a scholarship, to one of the finest conservatories in Europe, if I didn’t think it would be worth my while? Now, I cannot guarantee you professional success,” Strobel admitted. “It’s a tricky business, music. But I can tell you now that even a poor violinist in Vienna will be able to help his family more than a factory worker in Pest. And furthermore, if anyone who can play the violin like you decides to work in a factory or a shop, you may as well spit in the gods’ faces. It is unacceptable.”

“Oh.” Andras blinked, evidently somewhat taken aback. “I didn't think of it like that.”

Strobel sighed, passing a hand over his brow. “I apologize if I was too forceful. But really, there is only one question that matters here. Do you love music?”

Andras hesitated, tapped his fingers together awkwardly, ran a hand through his already wild hair—and then nodded.

“It’s not just that I love it,” he said. “If I didn’t have music, I’d be the most useless person in Hungary. I’m not brilliant at school, I’m not strong enough for labor, I can’t sew like Ma or fix things like Pa—but that doesn’t matter. Not as long as I can play the violin.”

Strobel smiled, warmth flooding his chest. This boy would love the Academy, that much was certain, and the Academy would love him back. “And do you want to study in Vienna?”

“Yes,” Andras said quietly. “More than anything.”

“Good,” said Strobel. “Then there is nothing more to be said on the subject.” He smiled and gently patted the boy on his shoulder. “You will do well for yourself, I think, Master Király. And believe me, I am someone who should know.”