Bob and Mary Ann spent the hot Tucson summers up in the Colorado mountains, in Steamboat Springs, and invited Dad to go with them. In the summer of 1995, shortly before I was to fly to Colorado for a visit, a call came from Mary Ann. Dad had taken Thundress for a walk in the late afternoon and then had gone upstairs to rest for a bit. When he didn’t appear after his usual half hour or so, Mary Ann had gone up to check and found him unconscious. He had had a fatal heart attack. Dad had always said, even in shock after receiving word that a friend had dropped dead suddenly, “But that’s the way to do it!” And that’s the way he did it.
Ironically, I had just finished recording another Impressionistic water-themed program, which would be called Singing on the Water. It was an album of barcarolles, including the Liszt transcription of Schubert’s Auf dem Wasser zu Singen (To Be Sung on the Water). My dedication on that recording reads:
Dedicated to the memory of my father
Maurice Seiberling Rosenberger (1903–1995)
whose fearless and generous spirit
will always be my North Star
That same year Amelia, at age seventy-five, was diagnosed with cancer. Her first request was that we not tell anyone but her closest friends, fearing that any news of her condition would damage Baby Delos. She knew that hers was still the name most closely associated with the label.
From that time on, Amelia had periods of intensive cancer treatment, followed by periods of remission. When I went with her to chemo appointments, I was touched, but not surprised, by the way she could change the atmosphere in a room where several patients were undergoing the same kind of IV treatment. Whether in the waiting room or in the treatment room itself, people would be sitting mostly in silence, looking weary and sometimes depressed. Amelia would look around the room and catch someone’s eye, smile, and make some comment about a scarf or a shirt or something that happened on the way up to the office or any other random topic that might start a conversation. And once an exchange started, most people would brighten up and join in.
Amelia’s strategy worked partly as a distraction from that omnipresent IV in the treatment room and partly as a bit of community to offset the loneliness patients can feel at such times. It was the sort of thing Amelia could always do when working with families—as she had brought them together with social workers, probation officers, and nurse counselors at Lathrop or any other psychological-medical facility. Or it could be anywhere, in any meeting, with any group of people. But it was deeply touching to see her do this when she herself was undergoing treatment, and yet making the day just a little better for the others in the room. Amelia’s battle with cancer would go on for more than a decade.
Although she needed time for rest and recovery, Amelia was always optimistic, and she was determined to continue Delos projects with as much enthusiasm as ever. We even put together a follow-up album to Perchance to Dream, this one also drawing on Shakespeare for its title: . . . Such Stuff as Dreams . . . A Lullaby Album for Children and Adults.
In the summer of 1998, Amelia and I went to a Chinese restaurant in Los Angeles for a get-acquainted lunch with the brilliant American pianist-conductor Constantine Orbelian. He and Amelia had talked by phone, but this was our first in-person meeting. It may have been the longest-lasting lunch any of us ever had experienced.
Constantine, a dynamic, outgoing young man with a resonant voice and a contagious laugh, was a San Francisco native, and had grown up speaking both English and Russian at home. His Ukrainian mother, Vera, and Armenian father, Harry, had survived unspeakable tragedies during World War II and the Stalin era. They had come to the United States as refugees and had, over time, made substantial contributions to their community in San Francisco. Constantine grew up playing the piano and had continued his studies at Juilliard in New York.
In 1991, a few years into his successful career as a concert pianist, Constantine became the first and only non-Russian ever to be offered the music directorship of a top Russian orchestra. Since that time, he had been touring worldwide with the Moscow Chamber Orchestra, bringing American artists to Russia and Russian artists to America—applauded in both diplomatic and music circles as a cultural ambassador. Now he was eager to go to the next level and begin a recording series with his remarkable orchestra—a state-supported group of virtuoso players who loved what they were doing.
By the time we came to the first pause in our conversation, all three of us knew that this meeting was life-changing. Just at the point where “Baby” had been experiencing a slight lull, we were sketching out an ambitious and exciting new recording plan.
During the Moscow Chamber Orchestra’s 1998 fall tour, Amelia, John, and I began the new recording series in what had become our favorite Los Angeles venue, the First Congregational Church. The resulting CDs were Russian Soul, which Constantine dedicated to his mother, Vera, and Mozart Adagios, with oboe virtuoso Allan Vogel and other American artists (including me) taking solo turns with the MCO. One of the sessions fell on Thanksgiving Day, so Amelia treated the orchestra members to their first-ever Thanksgiving dinner.
The following spring, Amelia and I, along with two John Eargle protégés, Jeff Mee and Ramiro Belgardt, flew to Moscow to continue the recording series. This was a dramatic development for both Amelia and me. In her teens, Amelia had been fascinated by socialist ideals of equality, wherever they could be found. She had taken Russian language classes along with her International Law studies in college, but even while working as editor of a State Department publication in Washington, D.C., had never thought she would have an opportunity to visit Russia. In my teenage years, I had read Russian composers’ and musicians’ biographies and had imagined their Mother Russia, as it was often called. But as an American in Vienna during the Cold War, I hadn’t even been allowed to go as far east as Budapest or Prague. Now, suddenly, we were bound for Moscow.
The four of us flew from Los Angeles to London’s Heath-row, where we changed planes. We had dozed for a while when suddenly I woke up, looked at my watch, and realized that we must have reached Russian airspace. That’s when I found myself saying excitedly, “Amelia, we’re flying over Mother Russia!”
We were to have a number of memorable recording trips to Moscow in the years that followed. Amelia and I were always welcome to stay at Constantine’s flat, which was a short walk from the Great Hall of the Moscow Conservatory, where we made most of our recordings. Constantine also found inexpensive lodging for other members of the Delos team. The sessions began around 11:00 p.m., as the hall was usually booked for concerts in the evenings and rehearsals during the day. No one seemed to mind the late hour, and there was a feeling of excitement and joviality among these outstanding musicians, who would often line up to greet Amelia and me when the session was over.
We also had opportunities to record Constantine and his orchestra during their subsequent American tours. John, Amelia, and I had a wonderful time at Skywalker Sound in California’s Marin County, working with Leslie Ann Jones, Director of Music Recording and Scoring. Leslie, John, and Amelia had long respected each other’s accomplishments, and we all enjoyed getting better acquainted during our memorable lunches between sessions. In one program we recorded at Skywalker, a Shostakovich/Schnittke album, Constantine was both the piano soloist and the conductor. In another, the music of British composer Frank Bridge, I was the soloist in a lovely work Constantine had arranged for piano and orchestra. The great Polish contralto Ewa Podles recorded an album of Handel arias with such virtuosity, and such blazing tempi in the fast sections, that the Opera News reviewer Judith Malafronte referred to Constantine as “driving the getaway car.” It was indeed quite a ride!
The Opera News review also singled out Constantine as “the singer’s dream collaborator,” a gift that Amelia and I noticed in him from the outset. He always seemed to intuit exactly what a vocal soloist was about to do so that his orchestra could be the ideal complement. The Moscow sessions brought us together with some wonderful opera stars who
came to record with Constantine and his orchestras (both the MCO and its expanded version, the Philharmonia of Russia), including Siberian baritone Dmitri Hvorostovsky and American soprano Sondra Radvanovsky. Our first recording with Dmitri, in 2001, was followed by many more, and Sondra, in addition to a solo album, also joined Dmitri for a memorable duet album.
Throughout the many recordings we did with Dmitri, Amelia and I reveled in his incomparable artistry. He was always highly prepared for the sessions, and his breath control was mind-boggling. Each take was beautifully thought out and executed, and sometimes in the booth, between takes, he’d be doing one-armed push-ups to keep his energy level high. When he sang in one breath a phrase that any other opera singer would have split into two, my hands would immediately start sweating in a sort of visceral panic. It felt as if no one could possibly have enough breath left to finish the phrase. And yet, of course, Dmitri always did, and beautifully. Amelia and I agreed that comments about his “singing like a god” were right on target.
I hadn’t been touring during the seven years since Mom’s death. But in the summer of 1999, Constantine got me started again with an invitation to play a concerto with the Moscow Chamber Orchestra on his Palaces of St. Petersburg Festival series. Constantine said that after the festival Amelia and I could go on to Moscow with him and the orchestra for two more recording projects. My performance anxiety started creeping in again, but the chance to spend time in fabled St. Petersburg, the Venice of the North, was stronger.
The festival took place every summer during the city’s “White Nights” season in some of its most glorious palaces, such as Peterhof, the Winter Palace, and Catherine the Great’s Palace. Amelia and I drank it all in while I worked myself back to performance pitch. Shortly before walking onstage, I found out that Russian television was filming the entire concert, and my anxiety level rose a few more notches. But Constantine’s relaxed manner helped me focus, and I cleared that hurdle.
Toward the end of the festival, Amelia and I attended a lavish banquet in one of the splendid palaces. Constantine had placed his Russian cousin, Vladimir, who spoke good English, next to Amelia, and I was sitting across from them at the long banquet table. When the vodka was served in what looked like jumbo shot glasses, Vladimir explained to Amelia that Russian custom was to make a toast and then drink the entire contents of the glass before putting it down. Amelia was nodding as he explained this custom and proposed a toast. After they clinked glasses, Amelia downed hers, Vladimir took a couple of sips, and they both put their glasses onto the table. When Vladimir looked over at Amelia’s empty glass, his jaw dropped and he burst out laughing. Amelia had learned the chug-a-lug technique in her college years, at fraternity beer parties, so downing an oversized shot glass of vodka was no big deal.
From St. Petersburg we went on to Moscow, where Constantine and his orchestra recorded an album of Shostakovich waltzes. The sessions ended on July 14th, and we were to begin the next recording, an all-Tchaikovsky program, on the 16th. July 15th was set aside as a rest day and, not coincidentally, to celebrate Amelia’s eightieth birthday. Constantine invited the Delos team to what he called “a relaxed birthday dinner” at a restaurant that had already become our favorite in the capital: The Boat, on the Moscow River. The host seated the five of us at one end of a long table more fit for a banquet, but Constantine shrugged and said it was early for Muscovites to go to dinner. As we settled down to have a celebratory vodka, Amelia and I marveled that she was spending her birthday in Moscow. But soon we learned the secret reason for the large table: Some of our favorite orchestra members began to arrive, bearing gifts and flowers. A little later a large, decorated birthday cake and champagne arrived at the table. Constantine and I will never forget the look on Amelia’s face when she realized that the orchestra was in on the surprise.
That St. Petersburg/Moscow trip broke through a personal barrier. Since I had thought that my hard-won concertizing years had ceased in the early 1990s, I had accepted the miracle and felt blessed that I had already enjoyed some twenty-five years of successful touring. But after the St. Petersburg concert, Constantine continued to invite me to perform with his orchestra on tour. From Juneau, Alaska, to Marathon Keys in Florida; from Town Hall in New York to Philharmonic Hall in Moscow; from Italy to Finland and Sweden, and many venues in between, the next few years were sprinkled with performances. I happily rode in tour buses with Constantine and the orchestra members, many of whom became my friends. Amelia usually joined us, depending on her health and Delos’s needs. The orchestra loved her and always cheered when she could come along.
We did programs for all sorts of audiences, in a wide range of venues with a variety of pianos. I would play one or another of my favorite Mozart concertos on every program. The spectacular Italian saxophonist Federico Mondelci, who had been the star of our very first Moscow recording, joined us for some of the tours. Presenters always requested some of his wonderful arrangements of Piazzolla tangos, the repertoire on his first Delos recording.
Whenever possible, Constantine would offer an open rehearsal for schoolchildren, parents, teachers, and anyone who couldn’t come to the concert itself. He made it informal, usually introducing some of the orchestra members. Once when he had introduced the concertmaster, Dmitry Khakamov, someone asked how old Dmitry had been when he started playing the violin. Dmitry answered that he had begun lessons at age five. “I’m five!” came an excited, high-pitched exclamation from one of the front rows. That little boy’s horizon had just been expanded.
Through all of this, Amelia was valiant in the face of spreading cancer and the need for debilitating courses of treatment. But she was determined to care, or plan care, for her “Baby,” even while her own health was impaired. Up to that time, only a few close friends knew about Amelia’s illness, and she had asked them to continue keeping the information to themselves. Constantine knew, and always showed his concern for Amelia’s welfare, helping when needed while we were recording or traveling together.
In late August of 2006, Amelia and I were in the Bay Area for a celebration of Constantine’s birthday and that of his mother, Vera, who had also become a good friend of Amelia’s and mine. Immediately after both celebrations, a meeting took place with a bicoastal group that was proposing a series of joint projects with Delos. Although Amelia was not feeling well, she held up during the birthday festivities, and then conducted an “Amelia-style” meeting in the conference room of the West Coast group’s quarters. Constantine and I were marveling at the way she could still open communication channels among people who had never met or worked with each other—even though she was suffering from intermittent nausea, weakness, and “chemo brain.” It was a brilliant meeting, and everyone left the room in high spirits.
I tried always to be on the alert, making sure that Amelia was holding on to someone when we were walking even a short distance, as her frequent dizziness could come on at any time. But she was in high gear at the end of the meeting, and set out on her own, talking excitedly with one of the New York people. Constantine and I were trying to make our way toward her, to insist that she hold onto one of us, when we saw her grab at a doorknob for support. Evidently the door had not been firmly closed, and it swung open just as Amelia took hold of it. She fell backwards, hit her head on a hardwood floor, and immediately started bleeding.
The emergency team arrived quickly and rushed Amelia to Marin General Hospital. Over the next few days, she seemed to recover sufficiently for the medical staff to approve a flight back to Santa Monica. She was told to take it easy over the next few weeks.
But then one day in early October, something seemed to go haywire. Amelia couldn’t control the movements of her legs or arms and wasn’t making sense when she spoke. Once again, she was rushed to the hospital, this time to St. John’s in Santa Monica, where a brain scan revealed that a severe hemorrhage had occurred. She sank into a comatose state, and only gradually and episodically began to emerge.
Throughout the
years I had known her, Amelia had often said, “We’ll find a way!” when a problem came up, whether at Delos or in any other part of life. But how could we “find a way” now? Her oncologist told me gently that the brain injury would preclude any further cancer treatment. In other words, even if Amelia continued a gradual recovery from the brain hemorrhage, she was doomed.
John Eargle wanted to be by my side. Other friends, too, came to the hospital. But there was no one who could help me fix any of this or help me “find a way.” The extraordinary person who had encouraged me to take the precipitous climb out of the rubble, and who had given me the great gift of believing once again in myself, was now herself beyond help. All I could do was be there every waking hour with my lifetime closest friend and keep watching for some way to make that day a little better for her.
There were tests and attempts at some therapeutic passive movement, but they all seemed to result in one heartbreaking failure after another. Amelia would mumble something about “getting out of here,” as if I could perhaps help her to escape from this purgatory and get back home. She even tried to figure out how to do it, gesturing toward the window and the street below as the place I should bring the car. It was agonizing to watch, and it must have been agonizing to experience. She couldn’t tell me much, but her desire to “escape” was strong.
Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day—2006 into 2007—all came and left sickening trauma that I can scarcely bear to remember. One of the hardest things was having to avoid speaking the truth for the first time in Amelia’s and my many years of deep friendship. I would tell her anything that I thought would give her hope and any kind of positive feeling. Yet I knew there was no hope. That same sick feeling—literal heartache—has echoed every year since, especially during the holiday time.
This agonizing situation went on for three long months, during which I would tear myself away from Amelia’s bedside only to go home and try to get a few hours of sleep. Finally, Amelia’s doctors decided that she could go home as long as there would be round-the-clock hospice care.
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