There was one shop in the street, immediately opposite Alice’s front door. From this Arab grocer Alice was able to buy everything she needed: fruit, vegetables, chicken and fish. She spoke to the grocer in Hebrew, with the writer and the lawyer in Czech and with the Erles and most of the others in the street in German.
* * *
AT THE end of October 1956, air-raid sirens sounded across the country. People rushed out onto the streets. There was a blackout: Israel was at war again.
The cause was Egypt’s decision to nationalize the Suez Canal Company and to use its tolls to finance the construction of the new Aswan Dam. The financing had been promised to them by the USA and Britain, but they had canceled the agreement in the summer of 1956. Britain and France, as shareholders in the Suez Canal Company, saw their economic interests in the region threatened and, with Israel, they made plans for an attack. Israel was also threatened as any blockade of the Suez Canal would put supplies to their country at risk. The Egyptians had concluded a pact with the Soviet Union but the latter was facing problems because of moves toward greater independence in Poland and Hungary. Israel seized its moment to invade the Sinai Peninsula and thereby keep the passage to the Red Sea and the Suez Canal open.
When the war broke out, Alice was worried that she might not have done the right thing in being so vociferous in her approval of Raphael’s joining up, but as a member of the army’s orchestra Raphael was not sent to the front. She was relieved, but her questions about the actual causes of the conflict between the Arabs and the Israelis became increasingly pressing. Was there a way out of the crisis? How could she get on so well with her Arab neighbors, yet there was war between Israel and Egypt? The dominant thinking in the country, allied to the precept that the Jews should “never again be victims,” seemed to be a source of injustice in the country’s dealings with the Arabs. Her own decision not to speak about the extermination of the Jews was emblematic of the tacit agreement between the survivors and the rest of the Israelis. The result was, however, an uncomfortable black and white thinking in Israeli society: here were the new Israeli war heroes and there were the “lambs who allowed themselves to be led to the slaughter.” Despite her doubts Alice was proud of the Israeli Army, which in the short period between 29 October and 5 November 1956, and with the support of the British and the French, was able to defeat the Egyptians and conquer the Sinai Peninsula.
* * *
IN THE summer of 1959, ten years after her arrival in Israel, Alice and Raphael were once again on the quay in Haifa, but this time to say goodbye. Raphael had successfully finished his national service and he was leaving for Paris to study the cello in Paul Tortelier’s class at the Paris Conservatory.
Alice was thrilled, naturally, but anxious, too. She was now fifty-six and knew that her son would go his own way. The older Raphael became the more he resembled his father and, like Leopold, he didn’t discuss his emotions and preferred to listen rather than talk. Mother and son stood silently together on the quay and looked at the ship that would be shortly leaving the harbor and heading for Europe. When the whistle blew for the last time to summon the passengers on board, he affectionately embraced his mother and said: “A letter a week!” It was his goodbye present.
* * *
IN MAY 1960 Adolf Eichmann had been captured by the Israeli secret service in Argentina and the news was on everyone’s lips. The man who had organized the Final Solution had been taken prisoner. Alice had not spoken to anyone about the concentration camps for more than a decade and she had put those years out of her mind. Now, however, reading the newspaper reports about Eichmann and the unimaginable slaughter of millions of Jews, much came back to her. As the Eichmann trial approached, the tacit agreement between the survivors and their fellow citizens not to discuss what happened ended. The trial began in Jerusalem on 11 April 1961, and the Israeli Attorney General, Gideon Hausner, was the chief prosecutor for the state of Israel and had written the indictment. He offered Alice the chance to attend the trial as she had known him well for years. Not only did he live in the same district, but his daughter came to Alice for piano lessons; Hausner was even a good piano player himself. In the months before the trial opened he was under enormous pressure and, as a non-religious Jew, he used to go round to see Alice on Friday nights when the others celebrated the Sabbath, and play duets with her. Alice was astonished how well Hausner could play from the sheet music, better than many professional pianists. Now, she wondered what it would be like to stand face to face with the man who had been behind Auschwitz and Theresienstadt, the man who had been the murderer of her mother and her husband.
When Alice sat in the courtroom for the first time, the sight of Eichmann upset her less than the witnesses who spoke for the prosecution. She was very shaken when she realized that she could not relate her experience with that of those who had lost everything and who had experienced the extermination camps firsthand. At least she had been able to save her boy, and she still had her sisters.
When the court met the next time she concentrated her attention on Eichmann, watching his reactions and listening to the answers he gave to the points in the indictment. She was horrified to find that she pitied him. She was, of course, aware that a mass murderer was sitting before her, but she could clearly feel how wasted his emotional life was. How miserable people like that, who lacked human feelings, whose hearts had never learned to love, whose minds had never experienced culture, really were.
She went to the courthouse three or four times. Everything she saw and heard forced her to the conclusion that “man is born in a storm,” and that every man has the capacity either to do good as well as something abominably evil. Her overwhelming reaction was to feel that “We must not hate! Man must not learn to hate.”
* * *
A YEAR before he finished his studies Raphael took part in the famous Casals Competition in Belgium, which attracted a great many young musicians from around the world. Raphael felt that the competition treated him and his fellow soloists like racehorses that had to run against one another. It promoted competitiveness and the desire for fame, which ran counter to his idea of music, but he realized, however, that without these competitions a career as a soloist was an impossibility. Over the next few years he went from competition to competition and when he won his first competition it was his mentor—Paul Tortelier—who was the happiest. A year later, in 1962, Raphael finished his studies and was awarded the Grand Prix of the Paris Conservatory. In the 1960s only three or four cellists out of thirty or more every year were awarded this highest honor. Raphael was at the beginning of what was possibly an international career.
The following year Raphael took part in the Piatigorsky Competition in Boston. Gregor Piatigorsky was a highly original American cellist of Russian origin who was almost as famous as Casals. He was a much sought-after partner for musicians of the quality of Vladimir Horowitz, Nathan Milstein, Arthur Rubinstein and Jascha Heifetz. Once again Raphael took the competition in his stride and won the first prize. Possibly even more significant was his success in the Munich International Cello Competition organized by the ARD that same year. A star-studded jury could not reach a decision between two cellists, Raphael Sommer and Sujoschi Zuzumi, and instead of awarding a first prize, they gave two seconds.
When Raphael won the Santiago de Compostela cello competion—then one of the most important in the world—in 1965, his reputation was secured not just in Europe, but also in the United States. It resulted in a highly prized invitation from Rudolf Serkin, the director of the Canadian Marlboro Festival. Like many of his more famous colleagues, the American pianist was Russian by origin. His towering fame was not only based on his Bach interpretations, but also on his magnificent interpretations of classical and romantic music. It was the highest point in Raphael’s career so far.
* * *
TOWARD THE end of his time at the Paris Conservatory, Raphael had become close to one of his fellow students, Sylvie Ott, a sensitive but practical y
oung woman who was studying the piano. Their wedding was quietly celebrated in Paris in 1966, but sadly Alice was not able to attend it because of her professional commitments. Instead she invited them both to come to Jerusalem straight after the wedding. Alice was very taken with her daughter-in-law, and was particularly impressed by the serious way with which she approached Jewish history and the Jewish religion.
Meanwhile, Raphael had been offered a tempting post as a cello teacher at the conservatory in Manchester, and the young couple moved to Britain, but chose to base themselves in London. There Sylvie taught music at the French Lycée, while Raphael commuted to Manchester by train.
* * *
ALICE WAS sitting at lunch with her niece Ruth during a visit to Tel Aviv when Ruth’s eighteen-year-old son Mickie burst through the door and announced, “We are at war!” It was 5 June 1967; everyone in the country knew that Israel was facing its severest test since its foundation. In 1948 the USSR and Czechoslovakia had supported Israel with arms during the war of independence. During the war against Egypt in 1956 it had been Britain and France who had been their allies. This time the Soviet Union was supporting Israel’s enemies, Egypt, Jordan and Syria. And unlike the promises made and the support given in 1956, the West was extremely cautious.
Alice left for the bus station immediately. She wanted to get back to Jerusalem as quickly as possible and prevent Marianne from worrying. The journey normally took a good two hours, but it was nearly midnight before she got home.
In crises such as these Alice had always sought to maintain her daily routine, and therefore on the first morning of the war she sat down at her piano and began to practice. The telephone rang and rang. In the hope that the caller would eventually give up she tried to ignore it and carried on playing, but the telephone would not stop ringing. She got up angrily and picked up the receiver. Before she could say a word she heard Marianne’s voice: “Alice, have you made sure there is a curtain over your window? The blackout has been strictly imposed.”
The Israeli army showed remarkable skill in the offensive. At 5:30 on 7 June 1967 the radio news reported that they had seized Jerusalem’s old city—the Arab quarter. The Israeli army’s superiority was so great that Jordan agreed to a truce the next day. Syria conceded the following day and then Egypt. On 11 June the last shot was fired at the front. The “Six Day War” was over.
A few months after the Israeli victory Emil telephoned, sounding uncharacteristically depressed. “I have cancer—glandular cancer. I give it two years at the most. Do you think I should tell my family?”
Although Alice was shaken she had an answer: “Emil, if you are asking me, I would not tell Marianne. It would kill her.”
It was not long before Emil had to spend weeks in hospital and, even though he never explained what was really wrong, Marianne was inconsolable. For the next three and a half years, however, she selflessly cared for her husband with no thought for herself. The only ray of light in these difficult times was the birth of Alice’s first grandchild, David, on 18 September 1968.
After months of decline, Emil died in 1971, by which time Marianne’s health was also failing. Her anguish at his death was so great that she developed angina in addition to her many other ailments, but the major blow was when she was diagnosed with lung cancer. Once again it was left to Alice to decide whether her sister should be told the truth and once again Alice suggested that she should be spared. They told her she had tuberculosis. But she had been married to a doctor and worked as his surgery assistant for many years, and remained skeptical.
Alice visited her sister more and more often, spending not only days but nights at Marianne’s bedside. Two minutes before she closed her eyes for good, Marianne told Alice: “That time you played the midnight concert from Prague, which we heard here in this room, it was the most moving experience of my entire life.”
* * *
SOON AFTER Marianne’s death, Alice’s work at the conservatory came to an end after twenty-five years. She decided to leave Israel for a while, wanting to be near her son and to visit friends in Sweden. London was her first stop. Raphael’s family had grown again: her grandson David had been joined by a brother on 31 December 1974. In her grief, Alice was consoled by the sight of six-year-old David helping to look after his newborn brother, Ariel. She stayed with her son’s family for several weeks, during which time she realized, with increasing distress, that neither he nor his wife was happy with one another. Raphael was a reserved and rather introverted man, but he loved the company of his close friends. His idea of a perfect evening was to spend time with one of them, putting the world to rights. His wife, on the other hand, had none of his need for friends and often felt that his cherished circle was imposing on her.
Alice decided to rent a tiny flat in London at the beginning of 1975. Now, Alice thought, she could come to London when she wanted and be independent. She would not be a burden to anyone but could at the same time be close to her son and her growing grandchildren. A few months later Raphael stood outside the door to her flat with a suitcase in his hand: “It’s finished, I can’t go on,” he blurted out. He wanted to live apart from his wife for a while. Alice decided to spend a few months in Sweden, leaving Raphael in her flat where he could find peace and time to reflect. In the end he decided on divorce; returning to his wife was out of the question.
* * *
IN THE years from 1975 to 1986 Alice lived in London for two months during the summer and in November and December she traveled to Sweden to see Robert Sachsel to help him out of his winter depression. The rest of the time she remained in Israel. She could finance these trips from her Israeli pension, together with the money that she received as a “victim” from Germany.
Whenever Alice returned to Israel from London or Sweden the news that she was back spread quickly. Every day there were calls from friends and former piano pupils, many of whom wanted private lessons from her. At seventy-two, Alice felt she was still needed in Jerusalem; she was still professionally active.
In the style of the concerts she held at home in her Prague days, she started to keep open house on Friday and Saturday afternoons. At four there was tea and coffee and her legendary apple cake, which Alice made according to an ancient Prague recipe and which she had learned from her mother. More than a dozen friends and acquaintances sat around the big table in the smaller of the two rooms. There was relaxed conversation about the situation in the country, about the latest rumors, and about new books or the concerts they had been to that past week.
One of the most loyal members of the circle was Amoz Witztum who studied economics in Jerusalem between 1976 and 1986. It was a Saturday afternoon in December 1979 when he knocked on Alice’s door for the first time and he remembers these musical afternoons fondly: “The tea and coffee party lasted about an hour before Alice invited her guests into the piano room and sat down at the Steinway grand. People sat down, not just on the chaise-longue and the one or two chairs, but also on the floor when there were insufficient places. She prepared a different program each week which, with a short break, lasted for two hours. Alice always played from memory.”
* * *
FOR MORE than a decade Alice commuted between Israel and London, until her son asked her if it would not be better for her to make London her permanent home. The thought of spending her remaining years close to Raphael was enough for her to decide to leave Israel, though her wide circle of friends deeply regretted her decision.
She sold the Steinway grand as her savings did not quite stretch to buying a one-room flat in London, but took the upright piano with her. The other bits of furniture she gave away. In the weeks before she left, the flat was almost bare. One last time she bought a block of ice from the Arab iceman to chill her groceries. She had known him for more than thirty years, and he was still transporting his blocks of ice with a horse and cart. She had been his only customer for years—most people had a fridge by then—but now he would lose her trade, too.
Epilog
ue
“Music Takes Us to Paradise”
“WHEN I try to count up how many forms I have had to fill in over the years: declarations before every journey, tax forms, declarations of currency, customs formalities, requests for entry permits, requests for exit visas, registrations and resignations; how many hours have I stood in the waiting rooms of consulates and committees; how many officials have I faced—friendly or hostile, bored or overworked; how many examinations and interrogations have I lived through at borders. When I think of these things I realize how much of our human dignity we have lost in this century when we young people had dreamed of freedom in the coming cosmopolitan world.”
Alice put down Stefan Zweig’s memoirs on the tiny table next to the sofa which she used to sit on during the day and which, with a few adaptations, served as a bed by night. On her calendar she had marked the day 26 November 2003 with a small cross, and the following Saturday with a bigger one. On that day her daughter-in-law Geneviève and her two grandsons David and Ariel were going to give a party; more than a hundred friends and relations were coming. They were due to arrive from Israel, the USA, Czechoslovakia, Sweden, Australia, France, Austria and Germany. There was two hours to midnight, two hours before her hundredth birthday.
A standard lamp lit the one-room flat. Alice allowed her gaze to wander over the photographs on the wall, the oil painting of her son, the books on top of the wardrobe, the modest little piano and the radio. She had come to London from Jerusalem seventeen years before, aged eighty-three, a great age which few of us are privileged to reach. But Alice had conquered yet another world. She liked the place: it was a peaceful part of Hampstead, a few minutes walk from her son. There was a swimming pool round the corner and she liked the way the English looked after their gardens.
She enjoyed Raphael’s frequent visits—he came for lunch and always brought new things to talk about—and she liked to be close to her two grandsons. At the beginning she had been lonely without her familiar Jerusalem circle of friends, and in the first years she wrote to Jerusalem daily and often called Edith or one or other of the friends or acquaintances she had left behind.
Alice's Piano Page 32
