A Life in Music from the Soviet Union to Canada: Memoirs of a Madrigal Ensemble Singer
A Life in Music from the Soviet Union to Canada: Memoirs of a Madrigal Ensemble Singer
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| ISBN-13: | 9781574417630 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | University of North Texas Press |
| Publication date: | 05/15/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 15 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
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CHAPTER 1
Childhood
Uman is a small town in Ukraine, halfway between Kiev and Odessa. The first historical reference to Uman goes back to 1616 when it was inhabited by around six thousand people and came under Polish jurisdiction. According to one Russian source, in 1654, the entire population swore allegiance to Russia. Throughout its history, Uman changed hands many times, coming under the rule of the Polish nobility (the Szlachta), the Zaporozhian Cossacks, and finally, Russian imperial power. The city's ethnic-religious composition was quite distinctly divided into two halves: Christian and Jewish. In 1847, the city counted 31,016 people of whom 17,945 were Jews. This ratio remained all the way up to World War II by which time the total population had grown to forty thousand. At the outbreak of the war, seventeen thousand Jews from Uman and the surrounding area fell victim to the Nazis. In the 1950s, the last synagogue was shut down, and residential housing began to go up on top of the Jewish cemetery. By the end of the 1960s, there were around a thousand Jews in Uman, but Hasidic pilgrims visiting Uman's burial site of the famous rabbi Nachman of Breslov changed all that. In the 1990s, a new synagogue was built, and today the city is an international hub of Hasidic pilgrimages.
By the time I was born, Uman had become a typical provincial Soviet town. There was some small-scale industry: a couple of little factories, a few craftsmen's guilds, a fowl-processing plant. This was expanded in the 1930s, which saw the construction of a gutta–percha processing plant (who still knows today what gutta-percha even means?), an integrated automotive repair works, as well as a few vocational schools and colleges. Even two institutes opened their doors: agriculture and education. By 1941, the city boasted six hospitals, as well as a municipal and a pediatric health center. Uman also saw the formation of a small intellectual class consisting mainly of doctors and teachers. This was the circle of my parents and their friends.
I was born on July 16, 1930, in the family of a doctor. My father was Nathan Meyerovich Tutelman (1891–1937). He was educated at the University of Leipzig, from which it can be surmised that he came from a sufficiently well-to-do family. Not everyone could afford to have their son attend a foreign university. Our branch of the Tutelmans may have taken its origins from a city in central Ukraine called Belaia Tserkov. What I know for certain is that my father was born in Belaia Tserkov, and his family lived there. The other Tutelmans in our family, who were from my grandfather's side and with whom we maintained no contact for some reason, came from the town of Mogilev-Podolsky.
The Mogilev-Podolsky Tutelmans included Samuel, my first cousin once removed, or "Samuilchik" as he was called in the family. Samuel Yakovlevich Tutelman played a major part in the world of Russia's prominent performers at the turn of the twentieth century. For many years, he was the impresario of Feodor Chaliapin. In his book entitled Man and Mask: Forty Years in the Life of a Singer, Chaliapin wrote very movingly about Samuel Tutelman who had become a Russian version of Sol Hurok in the pre-revolutionary Czarist empire. One can only imagine how scandalized the conservative and bourgeois Tutelman clan must have been by Samuel's connections with the "bohemian" world of the arts, which for them was embodied by a female jazz singer from (of all places) America! The family was aware of a legend regarding a visit paid to Samuel in Mogilev-Podolsky by the famous violinist Efrem Zimbalist Sr. By the time I was studying vocal performance, I perceived these stories as something full of charm, mystery, and special meaning. Samuel Tutelman's life served in a way as confirmation of my inevitable inherited musical destiny whose roots went far back into my family's past.
I recently learned that in the 1920s, Samuel Tutelman served as director of the Kharkov Philharmonic Concert Hall. This is mentioned by the conductor Nikolai Malko in a letter to B. L. Yavorsky in connection with a historic performance of Shostakovich's Symphony No. 1 in 1926 in Kharkov. At this event, the twenty-year-old composer himself also appeared as a soloist playing Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1. At that time, Shostakovich's symphony had been played only in Leningrad (today's St. Petersburg) and Moscow so a director of a provincial concert venue had to be rather daring to include it in the program of a regular symphonic season. Samuel Tutelman is also mentioned by Sergei Prokofiev who, after returning to the USSR in the 1930s, had met him in connection with concerts in Ukraine. But I know nothing about Samuel's life after that.
I cannot say much about my grandparents on my father's side. As mentioned before, Meyer and Adelle were well-to-do, but where this wealth came from is unknown to me. According to family members, Meyer Tutelman was a businessman, but I don't know what line of business he was in. My father had two brothers — Naum and Samuel (not the Samuel from Mogilev-Podolsky). They both lived in Kiev and appear to have had something to do with commerce. Samuel may have worked in a bank, but it is hard to say at what level he was employed in a Soviet banking institution. He was definitely not a bank manager. Naum worked in a ministry where, as it was rumored, he dealt with finances. This was mentioned in the family as something very important. As for my father, soon after graduating from university with a medical degree, Nathan Tutelman began to practice pediatric medicine in Uman.
In 1917, Nathan Tutelman married into the family of Efraim Vortman — a small-scale shopkeeper who sold chalk in Uman's old market. The market was also the location of the Vortmans' house, which became the center of an incredible story told to me later by my mother. The house ended up sinking right into the ground. I recall the apocalyptic impression this tale left on me. In reality the explanation was much more prosaic although no less tragic for my grandfather's family. The sinkhole must have been caused by the flow of underground water and the resulting soil displacement. I don't know what the family managed to save of their belongings and where a new house was bought or constructed, which is especially poignant because Efraim Vortman was not a rich man. He was a merchant of the 3d guild, i.e., of the lowest category in imperial Russia. However, despite this setback, he and his wife Feige managed to provide an education for all six of their children. And this is not surprising because Efraim was a literate man who read books and spoke Russian so well that he was known in Uman (where the Jewish population spoke Yiddish) as a plenipotentiary agent entitled to execute documents for legal proceedings and as a translator of court documents into Russian. The Vortman house contained books in Russian and Yiddish. My mother told me that grandfather's favorite was the nineteenth-century Russian poet S. Nadson.
Despite their modest resources, the family lived well enough and even had a croquet court in the back garden. All the girls were given piano lessons, and I recall that in my early childhood, my mother would occasionally play piano. The family valued education and the three sons — Shaia (Yeshua), Aaron, and Misha — graduated from a non-classical secondary school while the daughters — Rosa, Leah, and Khaia — went to a classical preparatory school. Misha ended up going farther than the others: already in the Soviet period, he graduated with a law degree and became a lawyer. The older brothers Shaia and Aaron also succeeded in life. Aaron became the business manager of a Kharkov leather goods factory. Shaia became a pharmacist and before the war lived with his wife Nadia in a small town near Uman. They occupied a house where their pharmacy was also located, which is why their residence was full of strange odors. Medications were made on a large counter in the pharmacy where customers were greeted by a heavy scale, various mortars, and vessels for mixing ingredients. I was warned that some of these compounds were poisonous.
Leah (1895–1960) was the middle Vortman daughter. She was the one who married Nathan Tutelman and became my mother. Their wedding was celebrated in early 1917. Who could have known that soon unbelievable cataclysms, starting with the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution, would change everything. However, the revolution did not bring immediate change, and life went on as usual. The wedding picture (or was it the engagement?) shows Leah and Nathan who is wearing an officer's uniform. This means he must have served in World War I as a doctor and was then discharged — either shortly before or after the wedding. Clearly, he would have graduated from Leipzig University before or just at the outbreak of the war, after which Nathan left Germany. Being a doctor and an officer was the epitome of prestige for Uman's Jewry, and the Vortmans must have been very proud to have a daughter so well matched.
In 1921, Leah and Nathan had their first child, who was named Isaac. I was the second and last child in the family, and the age gap separating me from Isaac was considerable: nine years. This explains the absence of closeness between my brother and me. I was still a preschooler when Isaac was already almost an adult, and when I turned nine, he left for Kiev to study in university. I remember pestering my older brother quite a lot, especially when he was visited by friends. As soon as they would gather in a room and lock the door, I was sure to start whining and begging to be let in. No matter what he did with his friends — chess, photography, or something else — I would ruin everything with my insurmountable urge to be with the "big kids." As I recall this, I keep thinking of "A Naughty Boy," Chekhov's short story about a mean little brat who keeps ruining romantic encounters between his older sister and her suitor. I was that naughty boy for my brother and his friends.
From the very first years of conscious life, I was aware of Isaac's outstanding academics and abilities. Everything he did was excellent, and so he became the example that I was supposed to live up to. This is important because my father's premature death turned Isaac into the only male influence in my childhood, however remote. We looked very different from each other. While my eyes were gray, Isaac had hazel eyes and resembled in a way — as I would later imagine — our ancient ancestors from Palestine. I am now looking at a picture of a swarthy-faced youth at the age of fifteen or sixteen. He has a well-defined mouth with a dimple over the upper lip. His large brown eyes bring to mind the eyes of an Arabian Thoroughbred. Isaac's features are quite regular. His black hair is trimmed close to his high forehead. Isaac's entire appearance creates the impression of harmony and grace, which is an accurate reflection of my brother's personality.
Many years ago, as I read Thomas Mann's great novel Joseph and His Brothers, I noted the description of the adolescent Joseph sitting at the edge of a well and pondering the moon. To me that was Isaac. Mann delves into the contemplation of Joseph's beauty, which stems from stunning individual parts and amounts to a perfect whole. The fact that this reading made me think of Isaac does not suggest that I perceived his appearance as the embodiment of beauty. The young Joseph exudes intellectual and spiritual depth in Mann's novel, and that is precisely what constitutes the crux of my brother's memory — a brother that I never really got to know. Once Isaac enrolled in Kiev University at age eighteen and left Uman, I saw him only once. That was already during the war.
Still, Isaac exerted a major influence on my entire life. He was the first person to introduce me to the world of music. He was an outstanding pianist — one of the most talented at our music school at the time. I recall very clearly his excellent performances with the school's symphony orchestra and frequently as a soloist. Of course, we attended all his concerts and knew everything about the business of the orchestra. My family did not own a gramophone, and it was impossible to hear good music on the radio. So my first musical impressions have to do with my brother's playing. Here is one vivid childhood memory: I am approaching our house in summertime. The air is saturated with the intoxicating, sweet aroma of gillyflowers growing below the open windows. And from there I can hear the sounds of Beethoven's Appassionata played by Isaac. I stop and stand there mesmerized. In the quiet of the evening, the darkness encroaching upon our town adds a special coloration to this music. It all sounds so unusual from the outside, and I feel transported away from ordinary life into a mysterious realm.
I suppose all these recollections are a kind of rationalization of the past although it seems to me that this was precisely how I took in the experience. To this day, I have preserved this attitude to the sounds of a piano heard from outside a house. Whenever I hear music coming out of a window, I am carried off to Uman and can hear my brother the invisible pianist. Isaac's playing of music was heard at our house all the time, and the first composers that I encountered were Mozart, Haydn, and Beethoven. They shaped my early musical tastes, which is probably why German music with its inimitable idioms has remained essential to me all my life. All that I later learned — my preferences and musical criteria — was established back then. Without knowing it, Isaac ended up determining my entire future.
Oddly enough, my other major musical influence was kindergarten. Polina Bilinkis, the wife of Semion Bilinkis, both of whom were close family friends, worked at my kindergarten. She had graduated from a German music conservatory as a pianist, which is why music class at the kindergarten was, as I realized later, considerably different from the primitive level typically characteristic of preschool education. We listened to good music under Polina's guidance, which included having the children actually sing a great deal instead of just droning away as was common elsewhere. I had a good ear for music, and thanks to Polina, it developed considerably as time went by. I can still remember us sitting on little stools around the piano as Polina played Schubert, Schumann, Chopin, and Grieg. When I visited the Bilinkis family, I was allowed to sit at their luxurious black grand piano brought long ago from Germany.
Many years later, I learned this piano's curious history. The magnificent Bechstein had been given to Polina as a gift in Germany by her father the year she graduated from the conservatory. The instrument was purchased right at the Bechstein factory in Berlin. The young musician and her father were accompanied by the conservatory professor who had taught Polina. There were dozens of pianos standing in the huge display gallery — each one more striking than the next, which made the choice difficult. Finally, the professor helped to select a wonderful instrument that was soon delivered to the Russian Empire. When Polina married Semion Bilinkis, the piano took up its place of honor in the Bilinkis house in Uman. At the oubreak of World War II, the Bilinkis family fled, as did so many others, leaving their belongings in Uman. After returning home following the war, they found their home pillaged and empty. The piano was gone. But one day, Polina had to visit the office of the local Communist Party and suddenly saw her piano. A court case was initiated, but the parties were not evenly matched — David vs. the all-mighty Goliath of the Soviet system. On the day of the court hearing, everyone was sure that the authorities would win the case. Once the attorney for the state had finished his remarks, Polina was called to testify. "Can you prove that you are the owner of this piano?" asked the judge who was certain that this would be the last question, to be followed by the departure of the dejected plaintiffs. "I can try," Polina replied. "If you open the lid, my maiden name, Lieberman, should be inscribed in the lower right-hand corner." Having said this, she opened the piano and pointed: "Right here." This is how the piano was returned to the Bilinkis family, and a few years later, when my family also returned from war-time evacuation, I would often visit their house in Uman and play the beautiful Bechstein. That was when Polina told me about the dramatic recovery of the instrument against all odds. Later, the story of the piano would acquire a most unexpected conclusion that had to do with me personally, but this will be told in due time.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "A Life in Music from the Soviet Union to Canada"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Alexander Tumanov.
Excerpted by permission of University of North Texas Press.
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgments vii
Note on transliteration viii
Introduction ix
Chapter 1 Childhood 1
Chapter 2 Outbreak of War, Escape 32
Chapter 3 Kharkov After the War 69
Chapter 4 Kharkov College of Music 84
Chapter 5 My University 95
Chapter 6 Moscow-Gnessin College of Music 120
Chapter 7 Sovetskaya Muzyka magazine 152
Chapter 8 Madrigal 162
Chapter 9 Madrigal's Workdays 198
Chapter 10 Andrei Volkonsky 240
Chapter 11 Emigration 265
Chapter 12 Vienna 286
Chapter 13 Italy, Rome 297
Chapter 14 Travels in Italy 314
Chapter 15 Return to Rome 327
Chapter 16 Life in Toronto: Part 1 336
Chapter 17 Life in Toronto: Part 2 360
Chapter 18 PhD Dissertation and Edmonton 378
Chapter 19 My Book 399
Endnotes 417
Index 424