by Mona Golabek
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.”
20
FEBRUARY 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.
Each night at dinner, there was a hush if Lisa’s name was called.
“Lisa Jura?” Mrs. Cohen would say, looking at the handwriting on the envelope.
Breaths would be held.
“It’s from your sister, Sonia . . . again,” Mrs. Cohen would add quickly, to relieve the unbearable tension.
Sonia’s letters were now written in fluent English and filled with more positive news about what she had learned in school.
One Friday night, at the Shabbat meal, Lisa thought she detected a strange excitement. More than a few heads turned to look her way. She knew that often, whoever had taken in the mail spread the gossip of who had a letter waiting, and such news traveled like wildfire.
But no one had said anything to her, so why were they all looking at her so strangely? she wondered.
“Lisa Jura?” Mrs. Cohen said, holding up a letter. “It’s from the London Royal Academy of Music.” A hush came over the room.
As was the custom, Mrs. Cohen handed the envelope to the boy on her left, who passed it around the large dining room table. Each person gently stroked the embossed gold letters of the Royal Academy emblem with their eager fingers. When the letter made its way to Lisa, she took it and stared, paralyzed.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Mrs. Cohen questioned gently.
Lisa could not respond, she kept staring at the envelope before her. Could she face another disappointment?
“Would you like me to open it?” Mrs. Cohen asked finally.
Lisa nodded and sent the letter back up the table. She had wanted to wait, to be alone, but she knew instinctively that she must share the news, good or bad, with everyone. This was her family, they had helped her through it—this was their answer also.
Mrs. Cohen opened the letter with a clean knife, to preserve it, if need be, for posterity. She unfolded the thick, elegant stationery and read: “The Associated Board of the London Royal Academy of Music is”—here Mrs. Cohen paused to take a breath—“pleased to inform Miss Lisa Jura that . . .”
There was a scream at the end of the table from a young boy, who had a hand
slapped over his mouth quickly, so the rest of the glowing faces at the table could hear the end of the sentence.
“. . . she has been accepted into the scholarship program for the study of the pianoforte. Please report—”
A tumult as loud as any of the octaves from the end of the ballade broke out at the table. Lisa was swarmed and enveloped by kisses, hugs, and thumbs-up signs, and those who couldn’t get close enough to give one started to clap. One boy began to whistle “God Save the King,” while another yelled, “Soon we’ll have to pay to hear her!” Lisa was a hero, and the children of Willesden Lane desperately needed a victory.
Everyone insisted that Lisa play them something from the audition, so the entire hostel crowded down the stairs to hear the presto con fuoco ending of the ballade. Hans, Gunter, and Gina put their arms around one another, swaying back and forth, savoring the payoff of their months of hard work. Even Aaron’s absence could not mar Lisa’s joy on this wonderful evening.
After the finale, Mrs. Glazer called them up for the special dessert she had made in secret (hoping that the news of the letter would be good). “Gingerbread for all,” she announced, and the stampede began.
Mrs. Cohen stayed behind smiling; Lisa came up to her and put her arms around the matron. “I never would have even known about the audition if it weren’t for you. How can I ever thank you?”
“You have thanked me. You’ve brought honor to this house,” Mrs. Cohen replied.
“It’s wonderful to see everyone so excited,” Lisa answered shyly.
“Of course they’re excited,” the matron said. “We all need to dream, and tonight, everyone is living their dream through you.”
To add to Lisa’s euphoria, Aaron was released the following week from detention camp. He showed up at 243 Willesden to help celebrate Lisa’s triumph.
“Where are you taking me?” Lisa demanded in that flirtatious tone Aaron loved.
“We’re going to celebrate, and that’s all I’m saying,” was his answer.
Lisa ran upstairs, putting on her new pleated skirt and a chic blue blouse, topped by a stylish felt hat, and met him in the foyer. He whistled his approval, and off they went.
They jumped on a double-decker bus and hurried up the stairs to the top, huddling together in the cold, in order to appreciate the magnificent view from the open deck. The bus weaved its way past Buckingham Palace, down Oxford Street, and south toward the Thames. Each time Lisa insisted on knowing where they were going, Aaron merely laughed. They were having so much fun, they almost missed their stop—the Parliament building, or what was left of it after the bombing.
“What are we doing here?” Lisa asked, somewhat disappointed.
“Just wait, you’ll see.”
They waited for many cold minutes, as Aaron lit cigarette after cigarette, looking at his watch nervously.
“This better be good!” she teased, blowing a breath of frosty air at him.
Finally an old gentleman arrived and waved. “Hello, Mr. Lewin!” he said, shaking Aaron’s hand. “Let’s go!”
The man unlocked a nondescript door and ushered them into a hallway leading to some narrow stairs.
“Come on, hurry up!” Aaron said, and they followed the man up and up the stairs.
“Are we there yet?”
“Keep climbing! You’ll just have to trust me,” Aaron said, holding her hand tightly.
She followed him into the darkness of the winding stairwell.
When they reached the top, Lisa was blinded by the bright sunlight shooting through an open tower. Then she saw it—a giant clock with its inner workings and huge bells.
“It’s Big Ben!” Aaron exclaimed.
“I can’t believe it!” Lisa cried delightedly.
“Come on . . . look over here,” Aaron said, pointing. “And here! Look!”
They were high above London, and the City stretched out below them, the House of Commons, the great dome of St. Paul, and the crowded winding streets. The Thames flowed peacefully and disappeared into the distance. Lisa slipped her hand into Aaron’s, but instead of taking it, he wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in a kiss.
Then they stood, speechless, staring at the great panorama before them. The war, the bombs, and the destruction seemed to disappear, too.
At that moment, Lisa dared to have hope. Hope that the war could be won, hope that she’d see her family again, and hope that her dreams could come true. She could study! And if she studied hard enough, she could become what she had always dreamed—a concert pianist.
As she stared at the thousands of buildings and homes laid out before her, she imagined she was staring at a thousand faces—the faces in a concert hall—the faces in the daydream she used to have on the streetcar in Vienna. She allowed herself again to imagine the elegantly dressed audience waiting for her to begin. She could hear the hush and feel the anticipation as she sat in front of the nine-foot grand piano and began. Why couldn’t it be so?
When she came out of her reverie and looked at Aaron, she saw he was also dreaming of faraway things. But he wasn’t staring at the horizon, he was looking down at a group of British soldiers gathered beneath Big Ben’s tower.
21
THE REAPPEARANCE of the crocuses in the spring of 1943 meant that another year had passed, but Lisa had barely noticed, she was so absorbed in her new studies. She hardly had time to read the corner chalkboard, which was plastered with encouraging headlines like ALLIES ENTER NAPLES and KIEV LIBERATED!
The Royal Academy of Music had proved as exciting as she had hoped and as demanding as she had anticipated. Theory classes, history classes, elements of orchestration— Lisa loved them all.
In the fall of 1942, her first year, she had been assigned a “master teacher” and was surprised when she opened the door to the small studio to find that it was the same small lady who had been on the jury at the audition. Her name was Mabel Floyd, a teacher with a very distinguished reputation.
Mrs. Floyd had greeted her warmly, giving Lisa great assurances about her talent (calling her a “diamond in the rough”), then launched into a first lesson where she corrected almost everything about Lisa’s playing.
In the entire first hour of that first lesson, she did nothing but go over and over and over the first two pages of Chopin’s ballade.
“Why did you put the space there, Lisa? Listen . . . it continues . . . it’s a question, then an answer . . . keep going, Lisa! . . . That’s right, it’s driving now! Don’t stop! . . . There! Wonderful, Lisa!”
That day Lisa walked home with Mabel Floyd’s parting words ringing in her ears: “We have a lot of work to do!”
She couldn’t wait to tell Hans all about it. “Can you believe it? One hour on two pages! At first, I thought she was going to be so reserved, this little British lady. But do you know what she did? She started singing the phrases before I played them. You should have seen her waving her arms all around, like she was conducting!”
Then Lisa sat at the piano: “Listen to this,” she said, playing the new phrasing of the Chopin.
Hans listened carefully, smiling in appreciation. “Ah! Now you’re sounding like Rubinstein!”
“You said I sounded like Rubinstein before,” she shouted, above her playing.
“I was fibbing,” he said, laughing.
She stopped, grabbed the music, and beat him playfully on the head.
That first year brought many other changes in Lisa’s life. After a long struggle, Johnny had died, leaving a hole in the heart of the hostel. Lisa was devastated—she had really thought her friend would pull through, but his internal injuries were more severe than any of them had known. She missed him terribly.
To add to her loneliness, Aaron enlisted in the Auxiliary Military Pioneer Corps as a paratrooper. After having seen the look in his eyes as he watched the soldiers from the tower of Big Ben, Lisa knew his announcement should have come as no surprise—how long could he bear looking at the parade of heroes and not feel left
behind?
At first she was excited, visualizing a war hero for a boyfriend. “Ooh, look at you, handsome!” Lisa said when Aaron first appeared in his neatly pressed uniform, having returned from training camp.
But when Lisa had to face the reality of their impending separation, she was distraught. On the night before he was to ship out, he came to the hostel to say good-bye, Mrs. Cohen kindly lending them her room for a few private hours to say good-bye.
When the evening was over, Aaron came into the living room and shook everyone’s hands. It was especially hard for Gunter to see him go; he was feeling guilty for not having enlisted himself. But Gina consoled him by reminding him of his recent decision to dedicate himself to his studies. Gunter had decided to become a doctor, even though he knew it would be a struggle, since he was only now being given the opportunity to attend middle school.
Lisa was crying so hard that she couldn’t leave Mrs. Cohen’s room for the final glimpse of him going out the door.
At first she wrote him every day, then every week, but then she grew so busy that she wrote just once a fortnight. Aaron had done the same, as he was swept up in the life of the regiment and the hardships of the parachute division. In the beginning his letters were detailed and enthusiastic, but after his first combat experience, they became more guarded; Lisa tried to read between the lines. What was it like? What had he seen? She didn’t want to imagine.
When the weather got warmer, Mrs. Cohen had the children plant the year’s Victory garden—tomatoes, green beans and cucumbers. The younger children were given responsibility for the newest innovation—a backyard flock of laying hens.
“Eggs! I’d forgotten what they looked like,” Mrs. Glazer said, marveling when the first one dropped.
The summer of 1943 brought the glorious news that, after a year of begging, the Bateses finally agreed that it was safe enough to allow Sonia to come and visit with her older sister in London.
Lisa met Sonia at the train and enveloped her in an enormous hug. She was surprised to see that Sonia was still thin and small for her sixteen years. “Are you getting enough to eat out in the country?” she asked anxiously.