A few days later, Toscanini published a piece in Life in which he ruminated upon the fate of his country. According to biographer Harvey Sachs, the article, which appeared on the editorial page, was originally intended as a letter to President Roosevelt, but for reasons that remain unclear, the decision was made to publish it in one of the country’s leading magazines. Moreover, as Sachs notes, two Italian historians actually drafted the article, though the conductor revised it.137 Preceding Toscanini’s words, the editors established his status as a key figure in the world crisis, noting his confrontations with Italian fascists in the 1920s and 1930s.138
Toscanini’s text spoke of his “devotion to the ideals of justice and freedom for all.” Claiming to speak as an “interpreter of the soul of the Italian people,” Toscanini said they deserved the respect of all who could “discern between good and bad.” The Italian people had never been America’s enemy, he asserted, but had been led, against their will, by Mussolini, who had betrayed them. Now, the king and “his bootlicker,” Prime Minister Pietro Badoglio, joined by the alliance with Germany, controlled the country and would continue the war. They must not be permitted to remain in power, the conductor declared. As he reminded readers, his native land had been the “first to endure the oppression of a tyrannical gang of criminals,” though he claimed it had never submitted willingly. Professing equal love for Italy and the United States, Toscanini concluded by telling Life’s vast readership, “I love you sons of this great American Republic.” And soon, with the aid of the United Nations, you will help create a world marked by an “atmosphere of freedom and peace.”139
On May 25, 1944, Madison Square Garden was the scene of Toscanini’s grandest wartime benefit concert, a performance to support the Red Cross. More than nine hundred instrumentalists and singers offered their services before an audience of eighteen thousand, raising more than $100,000. The event was an extraordinary cultural and political moment in the life of the city. It brought together the New York Philharmonic and the NBC Symphony, and five distinguished vocalists, along with some six hundred singers from several New York City school choruses—all directed, one paper noted, by a musician who symbolized “all that is noble in the hearts of free men the world over.”140
Adding to the fund-raising excitement, during the intermission, Mayor La Guardia auctioned off Toscanini’s baton, which, for this oversized occasion, was thirty-six inches long—more than twice the length of the one he typically used. The auction raised $11,000 for the Red Cross and that was added to the $10,000 obtained from the sale of a limited number of souvenir programs, signed by the maestro, which well-heeled concertgoers purchased for $100.141
The concert was a triumph.The esteemed ensembles performed some of the New York audience’s favorite music; the pieces were memorably played—as one expected from a Toscanini-led performance. The evening’s program was substantial: selections from four Wagner operas, Act III from Verdi’s Rigoletto, and his “Hymn of the Nations.”142 According to Olin Downes, it was an event in which the “power of a supreme artist and an exalted purpose” created “a historic musical occasion.”143
The program, Downes wrote, reflected the concert’s purpose.144 Most notable was the final scheduled piece, “Hymn of the Nations,” a few words of which Toscanini had altered the previous year, changing the original language, “O Italia, o patria mia” (“O Italy, my country”), to “O Italia, o patria mia tradita” (“O Italy, my betrayed country”), an overt denunciation of the horrors fascism had visited on his native land.145 The conductor had also reworked the Verdi so that it concluded with “The Star-Spangled Banner,” which resonated powerfully with the audience. And before the musicians exited the stage, Toscanini directed a rousing rendition of Sousa’s “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” which led Downes to write that the maestro offered the final two pieces in order to serve both “art and mankind.”146
If the 1944 Madison Square Garden benefit was the most dramatic contribution Toscanini made to the war effort, his decision to participate in a government-sponsored propaganda film, released the same year, was another example of melding music to the antifascist struggle. The documentary featured the NBC Symphony, tenor Jan Peerce, and the Westminster Choir and was produced by the Bureau of Motion Pictures of the US Office of War Information’s overseas branch, which planned to present the film to audiences outside the United States. After a blazing performance of the overture to Verdi’s La forza del destino, the narrator described Toscanini’s commitment to vanquishing fascism and to seeing the return of democratic rule in Italy. Viewers then watched Toscanini lead chorus, soloist, and orchestra in Verdi’s “Hymn of the Nations,” which included stirring excerpts from the national anthems of France, Britain, the Soviet Union, and the United States (the last two added by the maestro).147 While the “Hymn” is surely not a memorable composition, the conductor’s reading, as presented in the documentary, captures the drama of the moment, as Allied forces grappled with totalitarianism. In watching the performance today, one is swept along by the virtuosity and precision of the orchestral playing, the commanding voice of Jan Peerce, the superb quality of the chorus, and the majesty of Toscanini’s interpretation, even as one recognizes that the piece is, at best, second-rate and melodramatic.148
What is most compelling about the government film, and more memorable than the performance offered by the conductor and his celebrated ensemble, is the “plot,” which depicts the decades-long battle against tyranny in which Toscanini and other leading Italians had been engaged. Narrated by the actor Burgess Meredith, the heroic tale, which casts a warm glow on the United States, begins immediately after the Verdi overture, as the maestro, securely ensconced in his New York home, places a recording on the turntable, with his grandson Walfredo watching from the sofa. Intruding upon this tranquil scene is the music he has chosen, which begins with an arresting brass fanfare as the two listen. Deep in thought, the conductor paces slowly back and forth, reflecting, one imagines, upon the grave challenges brought on by war.149
As the story unfolds, the narrator observes that every week, radio brings Toscanini’s music into the homes of millions of Americans, rather like the scene viewers are watching at that moment. Melding the nobility and heroism of the conductor to the implicit virtue of the United States, the narrator claims that America had “taken Toscanini to its heart, not only as a musician of unmatchable talent, but also as a champion of democracy.” As overseas viewers will learn, in the conductor’s American home he has “found a haven of freedom for his children and grandchildren,” though his thoughts never stray far from his “beloved Italy.” In his past, this “son of a soldier of Garibaldi” had never allowed “his music to become the servant of tyrants,” and for two decades, he had confronted fascism in his homeland. Later, he did the same elsewhere, refusing to truckle to the fascists in Germany and Austria. Indeed, when the “night of fascism darkened” the European continent, Toscanini brought to the New World “his music and his democratic faith.” Nor was he alone, the narrator asserts, a point illustrated by the appearance of numerous leading Italians—academics, journalists, a soldier, and even a priest—who likewise opposed the malevolent force that had washed over their homeland. Preferring “exile to slavery,” they have continued their struggle in America, which has provided a sanctuary, a place where they “waited, fought, and hoped.”150
From images of heroic Italian refugees, the scene shifts to a broadcasting center, where a sonorous voice, the kind one encounters on a radio news bulletin, speaks forcefully about the removal of Mussolini. “Italy has thrown off the fascist yoke and is free at last of the tyranny which has betrayed and enslaved her.” At last, the day for which countless Americans of Italian heritage had waited was here, the announcer declares. And then the narrator’s voice returns, drawing Toscanini back into the center of the story. “This was the day. Arturo Toscanini had his answer ready. And his answer was music.” Toscanini fills the screen, seated at his piano, making his way thro
ugh Verdi’s “Hymn of the Nations,” playing and reworking the score in deliberate fashion. Viewers learn the music is intended not just for Italy, “but for all the nations united in freedom.” Finally, the conductor and his assembled forces prepare to play Verdi’s “Hymn.” Composed in the last century to celebrate Italy’s liberation effort, it is a piece Toscanini had not conducted since a 1915 performance in his homeland during the First World War, a conflict Germany had also “forced on civilization.” The performance would be presented to viewers overseas, who could watch American musicians accompany an American tenor, directed by an Italian conductor, who wished to “celebrate Italy’s new renaissance in freedom.” With that, the baton comes down and the “Hymn of the Nations” begins.151
Press coverage of the film was effusive, with one columnist going so far as to declare (perhaps half-jokingly) that this “white-haired patriot,” who had played the twin roles of “world’s top batonist” and “foe of tyranny,” deserved an Academy Award. “Every crescendo seem[ed] a punch at Fascism,” as the “marble-visaged” conductor whipped his forces into a fervor.152 While an Academy Award seemed unlikely (viewers never heard the conductor’s voice), journalists and NBC officials gushed, believing the film could shape the way people overseas understood the nature of America’s struggle against fascism. According to The Etude, the film would surely “arouse” in Italian hearts enormous appreciation for America’s role in freeing Italy from the “deadly swastika.” Labeling it a “piece of musical diplomacy,” the monthly contended it would do more than a million words.153 The trade journal, NBC Transmitter, called the film a “Sound Track to Victory,” proclaiming it a “musical indictment of despots.”154
A thoughtful assessment of the government’s rationale for making the documentary was offered in the New York Times Magazine in January 1944 by music critic Howard Taubman, who explored the notion that music was well-suited for making “direct contact with people who do not speak our language.” Taubman reflected upon an idea that would become increasingly important to the United States government, especially after the war, when music would be viewed as an effective form of “propaganda,” though the reporter noted he meant that in a constructive sense. According to Taubman, music accomplished its goals “beneficently,” as demonstrated by the activities of the music division of the overseas branch of the US Office of War Information, which was devoting an increasing amount of time to music broadcasts in Allied and neutral countries. The result would be to create and reinforce friendships for the United States.155 Taubman noted the Toscanini film would be shown in numerous countries, Allied and neutral, where it would help the United States “win friends and influence people for our cause.” Nothing was more important to the Italian maestro than using music as a “weapon” to help “win the war and secure the peace.”156
Soon after the war, the film’s power was assessed by American composer Marc Blitzstein, who encountered the documentary in March 1944 in a theater in London, where he was working as music director for the American Broadcasting Station in Europe, which he called the “invasion radio station.” As Blitzstein recalled, he was so moved by the film that he quickly obtained a recording of the Hymn of the Nations soundtrack, which was beamed repeatedly into France, Holland, Norway, Denmark, and Germany, along with instructions concerning the coming invasion and what Europe’s people should do once it occurred. Among Europeans, he said, the response to the music was “electric.” The recording was later obtained by an envious BBC, which broadcast it to a still greater number of listeners. Considering the impact of the music, Blitzstein claimed the “Toscanini sound track provided the most potent single musical weapon of World War II.”157
In the spring and summer of 1945, America achieved its goal of helping to vanquish Germany and Japan. Music accompanied the triumph, providing a salve as the American people moved from the sorrow of war to the exhilaration of peace. But just before the war’s end, the death of Franklin Roosevelt on April 12 was marked by a solemn evening at Carnegie Hall, which saw Serge Koussevitzky lead his Boston ensemble in a concert that Olin Downes said exemplified the place “artists should take in the life of the world.”158
Black cloth and an American flag hung at the rear of the stage, and Maestro Koussevitzky announced that the music would be played to mark the president’s passing. The program comprised the first movement of Shostakovich’s Eighth Symphony, which, the conductor told the audience, had been composed to express the “tragedy and pain” humanity had just experienced. After that, the orchestra played the first two movements of Beethoven’s Eroica, which included the somber Funeral March. Koussevitzky reminded the audience that Beethoven had dedicated the symphony to a “great man” (Napoleon), and that his ensemble was today playing it “in memory of the greatest man in the world.” The final composition that afternoon was the New York premiere of “The Testament of Freedom,” a setting of Thomas Jefferson’s words, which Randall Thompson had written to observe the two hundredth anniversary of that president’s birth. The orchestra then performed “The Star-Spangled Banner,” placed, this day, at the end of the program. Before the concert began, the conductor asked for a moment of silence, and throughout the performance there would be no applause, lending the event, Olin Downes wrote, “the atmosphere . . . of a religious observance.”159
Across the country, the president’s passing was mourned with music, too, as radio networks cancelled their commercial selections to play Beethoven, Mozart, and Bach. American offerings were included, with a broadcast by air corps trainees from the California desert who sang “Home on the Range,” one of the late president’s favorites. According to the Musical Courier, “the voice of music . . . took up where words failed.”160
A few months later, joy resounded on stages across the nation, as Japan surrendered and audiences celebrated the war’s end. In Los Angeles, Leopold Stokowski conducted an all-Wagner program on August 14 at the Hollywood Bowl, where listeners heard the Prelude to Lohengrin and excerpts from the Ring. That Wagner’s music could be offered on a concert proclaiming peace illustrates how differently Americans now thought about music. This sensibility was captured by the local music critic, who said the Wagner Prelude was altogether appropriate for the occasion. As for the Ring excerpts, those were especially fitting as “twilight finally descended upon the war gods of the world.” Maestro Stokowski’s programming was a “deft fitting of score to circumstances.”161 Such words would not have been uttered in 1918.
In Chicago, a vast crowd celebrated the war’s end at Soldier Field, where “reverent relief and a buoyant gayety” marked the proceedings. Mezzo-soprano Gladys Swarthout and baritone Lawrence Tibbett touched the hearts of ninety thousand men, women, and children with a mix of operatic excerpts and popular tunes. From 9:00 P.M. on, the concert was broadcast across the nation, the joyous evening concluding with the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s Messiah, a performance made still more memorable by a chorus of four thousand.162 Boston witnessed something similar on the banks of the Charles River, where the Esplanade Concerts, a summer favorite, were especially jubilant in this season of peace. On August 15, forty thousand Bostonians attended the “Victory Program,” which included the national anthem, Sousa’s “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” “Old Hundred,” and “God Bless America,” which was led by the former mayor, eighty-five-year-old John F. Fitzgerald.163
A couple of hundred miles south, the nation’s largest city experienced a less momentous musical salute to the war’s end, which is not to say there was no jubilation at the conclusion of the greatest cataclysm in human history. The celebration of Japan’s defeat and the end of the summer season of the Lewisohn Stadium concerts coincided on August 14. The soprano Grace Moore offered arias from Tosca and, of all things, Madame Butterfly, along with some lighter pieces. Especially memorable was the contribution of Mayor La Guardia, who ascended the conductor’s platform and led the orchestra in a selection of patriotic pieces and marches. The mayor acquitted himself well
, using the baton to maintain a “firm rhythm” and to give “correct cues.”164
A few weeks later, on September 1, Arturo Toscanini marked the end of the Second World War via national broadcast, conducting the NBC Symphony in a performance of Beethoven’s Eroica. The concert, dubbed “Victory, Act III,” signaled the joyful culmination of Toscanini’s three celebratory concerts, his two earlier efforts dedicated to the defeat of Italy and Germany.165 With the war over, the United States would emerge as the world’s most powerful country, a status that presented the nation with responsibilities it had long been reluctant to assume. The country would embrace this new station, with momentous consequences for America and the world. As the postwar period unfolded, it would become clear that the war’s triumphant conclusion had done little to enhance America’s sense of safety, for both its leaders and its people would soon believe they were more vulnerable than ever. The threat of overseas peril, whether real or imagined, would spill over into the classical-music domain, demonstrating yet again that it was impossible to separate art from world politics. If, by war’s end, classical music had assumed an inspirational quality, which helped celebrate a great victory, the postwar years would witness the return of the enemy artist, an idea that would once more haunt the cultural landscape.
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