The Bravest Voices

by Ida Cook

  While in Amsterdam, I discovered that there was to be a Strauss Festival Week there early in December, which would include two performances of Arabella. The composer was to conduct and Ursuleac was to sing the name-part. For the Sunday concert, Strauss would conduct the first half and Mengelberg the second, with Ursuleac as soloist.

  This festival, I realized immediately, would be a venture more in keeping with the state of our finances than a lightning trip to Vienna, and I enlisted Elisabeth’s help to find out all particulars about the Strauss week before returning to England.—One of the loveliest things about Elisabeth was that she never minded one being thrilled about other artists. In fact, when I first told her the story of our saving up to go to America to hear Galli-Curci, she exclaimed, “I could love you for that alone!”

  On my return home, Louise agreed that a Strauss week in Amsterdam would be a delightful way of spending the remainder of our leave allowance, and after a careful count of our resources, we decided we could just do it. Happy chain of coincidences—or were they only coincidences?—that led to our making just that particular visit at that particular time.

  It was the first time we had heard Strauss himself conduct, and we were, like everyone else before us I suppose, indescribably impressed by the extraordinary economy of gesture with which he secured his effects. Nowadays, of course, one looks back on him as the last of a great line of composers, but we should also remember that he was one of the great conductors of his age.

  Because of the good offices of Ursuleac’s agent, we were allowed to go to the dress rehearsal, so in the end, we really had three Arabellas under the conductorship of the composer and with his original Arabella and Mandryka.

  Each time, we noticed a distinguished-looking, white-haired lady in the audience whom we had seen once or twice with Krauss and Ursuleac in Salzburg. But we took no notice of her than to be mildly annoyed that we were not the only ones who had the distinction of turning up in different countries for different Ursuleac performances! However, when we went around backstage to see Ursuleac, the white-haired lady was introduced to us as Madame Mayer-Lismann, the official lecturer of the Salzburg Festival.

  Although from Frankfurt-am-Main, she spoke excellent English, and we were all very polite to each other. But when we got outside, Louise said, “You remember. We noticed the advertisement of her lectures on the Salzburg programmes and decided we didn’t want them. These people with double-barrelled names are never any good. A lot of talk, when what one really wants is the performance.”

  I’m sorry to say that I heartily agreed.

  The concert—the last of the performances—was on Sunday afternoon, and I remember that Ursuleac sang the three wonderful songs that Strauss had orchestrated especially for her: “Frühlingsfeir,” “Dein Auge” and “Cäcilie.” In the second half of the programme, she sang the finale to Salome. It was not a role she ever sang on the stage, but this concert performance was quite splendid.

  She was leaving Amsterdam that night, and having obtained permission to see her off, we presented ourselves at the station. To our chagrin and annoyance, there was the woman with the double-barrelled name! Louise and I accepted the situation with reasonably good grace, but each knew the other was thinking the same thing—that we had wanted Ursuleac to ourselves this time.

  And then a strange thing happened. Ursuleac took us by the arm and, with an earnestness and gravity that we could not quite understand, explained that this was a great personal friend of hers who was going to England for the first time to give a couple of music lectures. Would we please look after her?

  We had no idea why she needed looking after. She looked much better able to do it than we did. But of course, we were immensely touched and gratified and—all minor annoyances forgotten—promised earnestly that we would certainly look after her.

  In my mind’s eye, I still see the scene on the platform of Amsterdam station as Ursuleac turned to her companion and said, in a tone of sombre satisfaction, “Now you will be all right.”

  We remembered that scene again and again in the years that followed. Ursuleac’s confident, “Now you will be all right,” was to extend our responsibility far beyond Mitia Mayer-Lismann and her family. For, though we did not know it then, our first refugee had been commended to our care.

  As soon as Mitia arrived in England, we found that most of our preconceived notions about her were either inaccurate or absurd. To begin with, she was the most utterly charming person, and double-barrelled name or no, her lectures were enchanting. Indeed, much of our really deep appreciation of the German school of opera dates from the time when we knew Mitia and, later, her daughter Elsa.

  On this first occasion, we took her on an informal sightseeing tour to all the “right” places, and she asked—as she told us long afterward—what she believed to be the right and intelligent questions. In Westminster Abbey, she gravely enquired whether this was a Protestant or Catholic church, and when we reached St. Paul’s, she asked the same question.

  I thought, “Maybe we had better ask which she is before we get any farther.” And so, under the dome of St. Paul’s, I politely enquired whether she was Protestant or Catholic.

  “I?” Mitia turned a surprised glance upon us. “I am Jewish. Didn’t you know?”

  I laughed and said no, we hadn’t even thought about it, and that, for our part, we were not violently anything, but called ourselves Christian and tried to do our best.

  We didn’t know—imagine! In these days we didn’t know that to be Jewish and to come from Frankfurt-am-Main in Germany already had the seeds of tragedy in it.

  However, as our friendship developed during her short stay in England, we began to see things more clearly and to see them, to our lasting benefit, through the eyes of an ordinary devoted family like ourselves. This was one of the most heaven-sent things that ever happened to us. By the time the full horror of what was happening in Germany, and later in Austria, reached the newspapers, the whole thing had become almost too fantastic for the ordinary mind to take in. It took a war to make people understand what was happening in peacetime, and to tell the truth, very many never understood it.

  But our understanding of the problem grew quite naturally. We were ignorant and well meaning when we first agreed to “look after” Mitia. The problem was not at first presented to us in the lurid colours of melodrama. It had not yet become melodrama for more than a comparative few.

  To us, the case of the Mayer-Lismanns was curious and shocking, but not incredible. It seemed that, because they were of Jewish blood, it would be wise for them to start making plans to leave their country. According to Mitia’s husband, who was more far-seeing than most, the time was rapidly approaching when Germany would be an impossible country for them to live in.

  We were shocked, but we did what I suppose most people would have done. I asked: Where did they hope to go? What had they to offer in the work markets of the world? And, finally, what could we do to help? It was all what I can only describe as un-urgent to us in those early days. We did little more than discuss plans and suggestions during that first visit. But we had definitely set our hand to the plough of practical assistance, and we did not look back until the war stopped us.

  After Mitia had returned to Germany, her affairs, though by no means forgotten by us, retreated somewhat into the backs of our minds. For one thing, the Opera Season was looming up on the horizon once more. That year at Covent Garden saw a very fine revival of Prince Igor, and Rethberg came over to play, among other roles, that of Yaroslavna. It was Silver Jubilee Year, and there was a very festive atmosphere everywhere. On Jubilee Day itself, after we had managed to see the procession, we went to the opera, and I remember so well how the old king’s address to us was broadcast through the house.

  It was said that no one was more surprised than George V himself at the overwhelming warmth and love with which he was greeted during the day. In consequen
ce, he scrapped the formal speech he had been going to make and spoke almost extempore. I know as he began, “My very dear people,” we all looked at each other and swallowed lumps in our throats. It was an unforgettable moment, and I’m glad we experienced it in Covent Garden.

  That season saw our first “star-cum-gallery” party. I had explained to Pinza and Elisabeth that their most ardent admirers and staunchest supporters were really to be found in the gallery queue—an opinion with which they heartily concurred—and that, while Louise and I were the envy of our gallery associates because we knew them personally, we thought there was really no reason why the fun should stop there. If I gave a party for certain members of the gallery, would they agree to come and be the guests of honour?

  The idea amused, pleased and slightly intimidated them, but in the end, their answer was yes. So Louise and I gave the first of our gallery or “gramophone circle” parties. The significance of the latter term is that, during the ten months of opera-less starvation, some of us with gramophones and good collections of records banded together to give parties periodically. In this way, we kept in touch, exchanged opera views and gossip and bridged the long gap from one Grand Season to another. Of course we saw each other with reasonable frequency at the Old Vic—later Sadler’s Wells. English performances, which were often of a very high standard indeed.

  The Pinza-Rethberg party was much the most ambitious event we had undertaken, and our nervous anxiety beforehand was great.

  But we need not have worried. Rethberg was a little shy, but proved a marvellous hand with those who were more so. And Pinza, who simply did not know the word shy and was never able to understand any attempt to enlighten him, took everything in hand. He told us operatic anecdotes, allowed us to put on his records so that he “could tell us what was wrong with them,” and was even persuaded to do a few of his famous imitations.

  The party was an unqualified success, not only with us, but with our distinguished visitors too. The final proof was that, when I met Pinza at the airport on his return to London the following year, his first demand was, “Can we have another gramophone party?”

  It is all nearly forty years ago now—I can hardly believe it—but the fact is that, even now, when we have the occasional “star” party, there are still several in attendance who came to that first occasion in 1935.

  During 1935, we made two of our longest and closest friendships—with Nesta and Jane Guthrie. And since they play a considerable part in the later pages of this book, a word on them now will not be out of season. Like ourselves, they were sisters with only a few years dividing them, and like ourselves, they were born romantics with a passionate interest in all things operatic. Our introduction to them was by way of the gallery queue and had an element of pure comedy in it.

  We knew them quite well by sight: during the 1934 season, I had seen one of them “snapping” a soprano rival of Ursuleac’s. Drawing what I believed to be a very shrewd conclusion from this, I said to Louise, “We’ll avoid those two. We don’t want any unnecessary disputes, and they’ve obviously got all the wrong ideas.” Louise agreed.

  One evening during the following winter, however, we found them sitting very near us at a Queen’s Hall concert. It was always almost a physical impossibility to ignore a known Covent Garden-ite during the long winter of our discontent, which stretched from one Grand Season to the next. So we exchanged rather remote smiles with each other and presently, in the interval, entered into wary conversation.

  As it happened, I had some Ursuleac photographs with me, and feeling, I suppose, in an aggressive mood, I flourished them under the Guthrie noses and stated provocatively, “We thought Ursuleac simply magnificent.”

  Like magic, their reserved air melted, and they cried, “So did we! Oh, isn’t it wonderful when you find someone who shares the same enthusiasm?”

  Oh, that, they assured us, was just one photograph among many. It had no significance for them. And from that moment, we never looked back. Nesta and Jane were firmly swept into our orbit, becoming our closest friends and confidantes. Among other things, they were immensely interested in any modest literary successes I might achieve—and this brings me to the incident that made 1935 personally important to me.

  Sometime during that year, Miss Taft called me into her office and said, “You know, dear, what we need is a really strong serial. And I believe you could write it. Why don’t you try?”

  A “strong” serial in my type of literature, in case anyone doesn’t know, is where you have such an exciting or provocative scene before “To be continued” that everyone buys it next week to see what really happened to the girl.

  Why didn’t I try? As usual, I was hard up, for our appetite for foreign travel was beginning to grow alarmingly, and I knew how handsomely successful serial writers were rewarded. So I went home, and in penny Woolworth notebooks—they were a penny then!—I wrote the first three instalments of my first romantic serial, Wife to Christopher.

  When I typed these and took them back to Miss Taft, her mood had changed slightly, and she was not quite sure that a “sweet” serial would not suit our purpose better. But she said the instalments were good so I had better finish the story. I went to work again.

  It took me a long time to write that first one. But I had a wonderful time over it. I cried over all the best bits myself, and when it all came out right in the end, I could hardly believe it. And in the end, she bought it. I was never so excited in my life. For one thing, I had never seen so much money in my life.

  The next great problem was—what was I going to call myself? When you first write my kind of book you are self-conscious about it, and you think, “I wouldn’t like the people up the road to think I wrote that scene in chapter seven.” So I decided I would change my name and never tell anyone about my writing. I chose Mother’s first name, Mary, and the maiden name of Dad’s mother, which was Burchell. Thus my writing name, Mary Burchell, was born.

  I need hardly add that, when the story came out, I was so pleased with myself I told everybody. I might just as well have called myself Ida Cook. But it is quite a good trick to practise on yourself in the beginning. Later, you become completely hardened. You don’t even mind when people come up to you—as they frequently do—and say, “Of course, I don’t read your sort of stuff.”

  It used to wound me very much when I was young. But now I don’t mind a bit. I just look them in the eye and say, “No? And you can’t write it either, can you?” Then they fade away.

  Wife to Christopher appeared as a new serial, either late in 1935 or early in 1936. And almost immediately after its appearance, the fiction editor of the firm sent for me and informed me that he thought the story would make a good romantic novel. There were at least three firms he thought might be interested, and he would give me the pros and cons so that I could decide which we should try first.

  I chose Mills & Boon. And in nearly forty years, I have never had reason to be anything but thankful from the bottom of my heart for that decision.

  Wife to Christopher was sent along to Charles Boon—the father of the men I now work for. And in a week’s time—think of that in these days when publishers take nine months to tell you they don’t want the thing—back came the answer: It was highly approved, and the firm would accept it, provided I would sign a contract giving them the first refusal of my next two.

  Just as I had never meant to tell anyone I had written a book, so I had never visualized myself writing more than one. But I said, “Of course!” and went along to sign my first contract.

  I was so bemused and excited that I would have signed anything. When Mr. Boon handed me the contract, I reached for a pen immediately.

  “No, no!” he said firmly. “You must never sign anything like that. You take that contract home and show it to your father, and if he says you can sign it, you can.”

  How’s that for the wicked old world of publishing? No
wonder I knew from that moment that I was in safe hands.

  While Christopher was going to press for book publication, I thought perhaps it was time to start on that problematical second book. My efforts resulted in Call and I’ll Come, and this was chosen by one of our distinctly less highbrow daily papers as “the best romantic book of the month.”

  That, of course, gave me publicity, which resulted in requests for serials and a general broadening and brightening of my literary and financial horizons.

  I remember now how Louise and I, in company with Nesta and Jane, used to walk miles discussing the extraordinary phenomenon of my increasing income and deciding on the purposes to which it should be put. Cars and fur coats came under rapid review, as well as trips to America or to Europe. We even discussed Louise’s possible retirement from the office. Indeed, we spent thousands in our imagination—on the strength of two books and—I believe—an advance of thirty pounds.

  But our guardian angels must indeed have been looking over our shoulders at that time. Before we had any chance to alter our way of living or get into the habit of spending what seemed to us then great sums, the full horror of what was happening in Europe finally, and for all time, came home to us.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  We had kept in close touch with the Mayer-Lismanns, and it was at their home in Frankfurt that we really came to know Krauss and Ursuleac well. It was also through them that it became clearer and clearer to us that there were hundreds of thousands who were trying to escape from an ever-pursuing and ever-deepening horror of persecution.

  It is perfectly true that the Nuremberg Laws—which, broadly speaking, deprived all Jews living in Germany of any rights as human beings at all—were not strictly applied in all areas during those earlier years. The situation differed very much from city to city and district to district. But these laws were on the books and could be applied at any time, depending on the outlook or mood of any official in power. It was from 1938 onward that the tempo quickened horribly and the Jewish population came to realize that death was encircling them, constantly tighter and tighter, that their one chance of life was to escape somewhere, anywhere, into the outside world. But that was possible only if help, usually financial help, were forthcoming from outside.