Authors: Mona Golabek,Lee Cohen
Tags: #BIO004000
He urged her on: “Don’t waste a single second thinking of me. Know that I love you and concentrate on the audition. I’ll be thinking of you every moment.”
She reread the last line a second time, filled with joy, and then threw herself with added fervor back into the Beethoven.
The night before the audition, Lisa had a dream. She was riding on the streetcar through the streets of Vienna in the days before the Nazis. The car passed the Ferris wheel in the Prater, and Lisa saw its merry lights going around and around. She saw the stately statues, and monumental buildings, and waved at the little band playing in the park. She glided past St. Stephen’s Cathedral and found herself on Professor Isseles’s street. He was waving at her from the window and smiling proudly. She heard his reassuring voice in her ear: “What have you prepared for me today, Miss Jura? Shall we begin?”
When she awoke, she did not feel nervous or frightened. She was clearheaded and felt a great calm within her. She trusted that the music itself would be her strength, her best friend, as her mother had said it would be. She reached into her dresser and pulled out the pictures of her parents, now tied together with a satin ribbon. “Wish me luck, Mama . . . Papa.” She kissed the picture and began her preparations.
The long line outside the girls’ bathroom grew loud and cranky—inside, Gina struggled to achieve just the right hairstyle for her friend’s big day. She was determined to style Lisa’s hair in a sophisticated swirl of curls that landed just left of the top of her head, where she pinned it securely into place with bobby pins.
The line of girls clapped when the two girls finally left the bathroom, as much in relief at finally being allowed their turn as for the beautiful vision of elegance that Lisa had become. She twirled in Mrs. McRae’s dress, took an exaggerated bow, and ran downstairs.
Mrs. Cohen and the cook appeared in the foyer, wiping their hands on their aprons, and waved good-bye. When Mrs. Glazer saw the beautiful girl in her fancy new dress, she burst into tears.
“I feel like it’s my own daughter,” she whispered as she waved.
Mrs. Cohen took out her handkerchief and handed it to the cook.
Lisa was surprised to see Gunter waiting on the sidewalk. He was wearing the brown tweed suit, which was now a size too small for him. “Aren’t you late for work?” she asked.
“I’m going with you,” he responded cheerfully. “Gunter!” she protested.
“The hat factory has given me the day off.”
“Gunter, you don’t have to, I’ll be fine.”
“Of course I do,” he said. “I’m going to quiz you on the way.”
She laughed and took his arm. “All right, then, thank you.” She knew this was a conspiracy that had been concocted by the committee.
“The dress looks very beautiful on you,” Gunter added as they hurried off to the underground.
“If this dress could play the Beethoven sonata,” she joked, “I’d have nothing to worry about.”
As they rode the train, Gunter thumbed through the pages of the textbook, lobbing question after question.
“Describe the sonata form. . . . What is counterpoint? . . . Give me an example of polyphony. . . .”
She did her best to answer each one, and when she stumbled on polyphony, she dismissed the question with a wave of her hand, insisting: “That’s not important!”
Gunter gave her a scolding look, then continued with the drill until they reached their stop.
Lisa hadn’t really felt nervous until they arrived at the entrance to the Royal Academy of Music. She was once again overwhelmed by the grandeur of the building. She saw the large group of well-dressed English teenagers and their parents and felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. She could feel the atmosphere of intense competition enveloping the courtyard. She had known she would be up against a number of young and talented musicians, but she hadn’t imagined how many.
They joined the line and Gunter tugged on his wool trousers in a reflex gesture, trying to fill the two-inch gap between his cuff and his shoes. Lisa smoothed the material of her blue dress neatly over her hips.
The boys next to them looked cool and confident, well scrubbed and manicured, and some of them sported public school ties and expensive shoes. Their parents hovered close to them, projecting an aura of English nonchalance and superiority.
The girls were even more intimidating; most wore simple but elegant black dresses, often accented by a single strand of pearls. They emitted a collective glow of beauty and confidence. Although she had tried to imagine the worst, Lisa had not prepared herself for the polished appearance of these teenagers, who were so unlike her refugee compatriots at the hostel or her co-workers at the factory.
But what made her feel most apart from the others wasn’t the fact that she had a blue dress and not a black one. It was that she was the only aspiring artist in line on this important day who wasn’t accompanied by his parents.
Don’t worry, Mama, she said silently. I know you’re here.
Gunter saw that Lisa was shaking and took her hand and held it tightly. She smiled at her loyal friend, so glad that he was here.
After what seemed like an eternity, a young woman with a clipboard came forward.
“Piano students will be next; follow me, please,” she said, reading off a list of names. Lisa’s was among them, and the young woman signaled for them to follow her. Gunter released her hand, giving her the RAF thumbs-up they had seen in the newsreels, and disappeared into the foyer to wait with the rest of the families.
Lisa and twenty other students were taken to a small classroom on the third floor, where she was handed a pencil and a test booklet and told she had one hour to complete the music theory portion of the exam. The pages were filled with endless questions. Nervous that she was spending too much time on each, she began to speed through them in a flurry. Answers that she had crammed so hastily into her head appeared before her like visions, and she wrote them down at a furious pace, afraid they might disappear like the popping of a soap bubble. There were questions she couldn’t answer, but then there were many she could, and she alternated between the feeling that she was doing brilliantly and the fear that she was failing miserably. She answered the questions so fast that she finished the exam early but felt too scared to go back and check things, afraid she would get confused.
“Pencils down,” the monitor said finally, then she was taken to a practice room with an upright piano, where she was tested on pitch and solfeggio by a serious young man. She sang the intervals as asked and did her best to name the notes as he struck them on the keyboard.
“Thank you,” he said when it was over, not giving any hint of how she had done. “Please wait in the hallway outside the auditorium on the first floor.”
The merciful young woman with the clipboard came by and told her that she would be sixth in line for the performance section of the audition. She was relieved to know the order. At least she wouldn’t have her heart in her throat each time the auditorium doors swung open and a new student was called.
When Gunter saw her he came over and sat in the chair beside her. She smiled at him and leaned her head back against the wall and did her mental preparation. She organized the images of each piece in her head and tried to center herself for the trial ahead of her.
She knew that the audition would be only twenty minutes and that the judges might interrupt her, in order to hear bits of all that she had been asked to prepare.
Occasionally the furious pounding of a competitor’s strong octaves could be heard through the padded doors, ruining her concentration. Each pianist sounded more magnificent than the one before. She tried to force the sounds from her head; the more she heard, the less confident she felt.
When the woman with the clipboard called out her name, Lisa stood up as proudly as she could, disguising the sudden pounding of her heart, and walked through the double doors.
Her knees were weak as she walked down the corridor of the cavernous auditorium toward the stage, where a beautiful Steinway grand piano lay waiting. In the tenth row of the otherwise empty hall, three judges sat waiting with impassive expressions.
She climbed the stairs, walked over to the piano, and bowed to the judges. She had planned to begin with the ballade in order to dazzle them from the beginning, but with the pounding of her heart terrorizing her so, she decided to switch to the Beethoven. Maybe the steady march of the opening chords would calm her down.
“What would you like to play first?” the male judge on the left called out, his voice echoing through the empty hall.
“Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in C Minor, opus thirteen, number eight,” Lisa replied.
“The
Pathétique,
” the other man said, jotting down a note in the book in front of him.
She adjusted her weight on the piano bench, tested the pedals quickly to judge their spring, took a deep breath, and began.
The opening notes of the sonata were solemn, the tempo measured and deliberate. For Lisa, it was a call to prayer. It was as profound and heartfelt as the lighting of the candles on her parents’ mantelpiece. She saw the care in her mother’s hands as she kindled the flame of Shabbat, and relived the warmth of the glowing dining room in the harmonies of the dramatic chords.
Then out of the gravity of this call to prayer came the energy and bustle of the con brio. Her hands flew lightly into the trills and arpeggios, speeding up and down the keyboard. She imagined the energy was like the preparations for the Sabbath meal. She saw the playfulness of her sister Sonia scurrying in and out with the plates—how fast she went on her excited little legs as the high notes tinkled and twirled through the acoustical perfection of the hall.
Again the solemnity of Beethoven’s music returned with the reprise of its opening chords. In the majestic simplicity of the notes, Lisa’s hands searched for just the right touch to convey the poignant melancholy that lay within her.
“Thank you,” she heard between the notes near the end of the first movement. She suddenly realized that the judges had let her go on for ten whole minutes. Oh, no, she thought, that means only ten minutes to go and I haven’t shown them the ballade!
“Perhaps you could play your prelude and fugue next.” She wanted to say: “No, no, you must hear the Chopin!” But she bowed graciously and began Bach’s Fugue in D Minor. She tried hard to hear the metronome in her head, since she knew the piece should be precise and controlled. She tried to be careful, but as the beautiful tones of the Steinway rang gracefully from her delicate touch, she couldn’t help but add a liberty here, a little rubato there. She thought she was doing pretty well when the woman’s thin voice pierced her concentration.
“Thank you,” said the small lady in the dark suit. “And what have you prepared from the Romantic period?”
“I will play Chopin’s Ballade in G Minor, opus twenty-three, number one.”
Again no reaction, just the movement of pens making notes in their mysterious books.
As with the Beethoven, the Chopin opened slowly and majestically—a largo. But then Chopin opened Lisa’s heart with his romantic, interlaced melodies. Here was a composer who reached into the furthest recesses of Lisa’s soul and stirred her deepest yearnings.
Lisa’s mother had told her that in this ballade, Chopin was crying for the loss of his native Poland—at having to flee war and destruction, never to return. It was a tribute to his lost homeland. Lisa’s fingers sang her own nostalgic tribute—to Vienna, now lost to her, and to her parents and Rosie, and even Sonia, so far from her.
She laid her heart bare as her fingers moved almost with no conscious effort. At one point, she realized that a tear was falling down her cheek, but she paid it no mind.
As she played deeper into the ballade, Chopin’s music wove lighthearted arpeggios from the haunting melody. Lisa’s strong but delicate fingers raced up and down the keyboard and flew through filigreed chromatics as she expressed the passionate yearnings for her future life—her growing feelings for Aaron, her prayer for Johnny’s recovery, and her belief in the beauty of a world someday without war.
She was in such a state of ecstatic unconsciousness that at the end of the fiery conclusion of the pounding octaves of the
presto con fuoco,
she hardly knew where she was.
Another “Thank you” broke into her reverie, and she realized with alarm that she had played the entire piece without being interrupted. Maybe they had tried to stop her and she hadn’t heard them. How embarrassing!
She raised her head and looked out. The male judges were writing in their books, and the tiny woman nodded her head politely.
They don’t look angry, I guess, Lisa thought, but these were the only words of encouragement she could find to give herself. She scoured their faces for a reaction but found none.
“That is all, you may go,” was all she got by way of response, so she bowed politely and walked off the stage with as much dignity as she could muster.
Gunter was waiting in the hallway. “How was it? How did you do?” he asked, anxious for the news.
“I did everything I could. I gave it my all.”
F
EBRUARY BECAME
March, but the weather in the spring of 1942 remained bitterly cold. The bombings grew more sporadic as the unusually icy weather made it more difficult for the Luftwaffe to fly as far as London. Lisa started working overtime at the factory—as much to do her patriotic duty as to distract herself from the agony of waiting for the results of the audition.
She trudged down the block every morning, passing the same newsboy on the corner of Walm Lane, and read the daily ration of gloomy news, It was true the Americans had given everyone a huge boost in morale, but the news from Europe continued to be grim—frightening rumors were circulating at the synagogue about the massive deportations of all Jews from Europe.
Mail call at dinner was a sad time since most of the children had stopped receiving letters from their parents in Europe. They had now transferred their expectations to waiting for Lisa’s answer from the Royal Academy of Music.