Ramparts of Vienna. An airy view Beethoven loved. The rooms where he wrote the Archduke Trio and re-wrote Fidelio. Nothing gave him such trouble. I once asked a professional what it was like singing the First Act quartet on stage. She said, The earth moves if you get it right. On display, a showcase all to itself, the canister that held his salt and pepper. Separate lids, delicately hinged for each gilded compartment like tiny harpsichords opening side by side. Amazing this survived. He rarely picked up anything without dropping it. Every domestic item knocked and broken. In shadow behind the door, a sign says this museum was set up in 1941. Jews in the house of Beethoven! The family living here was sent to Auschwitz. I think of fallen stones, a Jewish cemetery in forest overgrown by fern and the story of a cantor’s son I heard in Sejny, Poland. Twelve. Fastest runner in the school. When the Nazis came, his father said Run. He ran the stretch marked out on sports day, from the synagogue steps to the forest edge - the only one in town who got away. This sign behind the door is Europe too. We are all Vienna, the beautiful city you cannot trust. Beethoven knew it, we know it again, creatures of division, evil and good blown off course by a bitter wind and lost in a haunted wood. We are the dark. Rift in the lute, fault in the bone, the light of enlightenment driven away by monsters at the heart and fallen feathers in the dirt like warnings. But earth still moves if you get it right.