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packed.
    In 1929 he had moved to Berlin as Head of the Institute of Musical Studies and continued to live the life of every decent German academic: lectures, concerts, music-making in his home and the constant care and support of his students.
    So why was it that when Hitler came to power it was he and not any of his colleagues--left-wingers and political activists--who had refused to dismiss his Jewish students? Why was it he and not Heinz Kestler, who had addressed so many meetings of the Left, who stood up for the social democrats on his staff?
    Why was it impossible to silence this elderly man who fell silent so easily during the interminable meetings of his faculty?
    The Nazis had not wanted to dismiss Professor Steiner. His family was eminent; he was exactly the kind of German, Aryan to his fingertips, they needed to endorse their cause. They gave him chance after chance, cautioned him, arrested him, let him go.
    In the end they lost patience. He was stripped of his post and his medals and told to leave the country.
    Others in his position went to France or America or Britain. Steiner only went over the border to Austria, still independent and free. His family had long owned a small wooden summer house on the Hallendorfer See. He had lived there for the past three years with his books and his manuscripts, needing almost nothing, looking
    with gentle irony across the lake at the antics of the strange school which now occupied the castle.
    Then, two months earlier, Marek had suddenly appeared. He had known Marek's parents, but it was not the family connection which years ago had drawn Steiner to the boy. Even before Marek's special gifts had become apparent there was something about him: a wholeness, a strength allied with gentleness which is sometimes found in those who as children have been given much.
    "I only want to borrow the van, Professor," Marek had said. "And the equipment. There's no question of involving you. If I'm known to be one of your students and authorised to carry on your work, that's quite enough."
    "You can have the van, but I shall come too. I have to say you don't look like the popular image of a folk song collector. You will do better as my driver and assistant."
    They had argued and in the end Marek had agreed. It had cost him dear, allowing this frail and saintly man to risk his life, but he knew why Steiner had refused the posts he had been offered abroad and was still in Austria. He too had hostages to fortune in what had been his native land.
    The drew to a halt in a clearing. Marek got out and opened the door of the van. It was painted black with the letters INTERNATIONAL ETHNOLOGICAL FOLK SONG PROJECT written on it in white paint. Inside were the microphones, the turntables and wax discs, the piles of manuscript paper which they needed to record the ancient music of the countryside. And other things --food and blankets, because folk song collectors frequently have to venture far off the beaten track, and a loaded rifle, for these woods were part of the great primeval forest which stretched across Eastern Europe as far as Poland and Russia. Bears had been seen here not long ago, and wolves; guns were a necessity, as were spades and sacking for getting the van out of a rut, and a torch ...
    "We'd better find something nice for Anton," said Marek. It was not the first time they had crossed the border and the guards were becoming interested in their work.
    He put a needle on the turntable and an eerie, querulous wail broke the stillness.
    "Why are the wedding songs always so sad?"' asked Marek, remembering the tears streaming down the face of the old man, almost insensible on slivovitz, who had sung to them in a smoke-filled Ruthenian hut.
    "I don't know why, but they always are. On the other hand, the funeral songs are always jolly--and the curses too."
    "Well, one can understand that," said Marek. "We'd better get on then."
    He shoved a driver's cap on to his head and the van moved forward in