Alice's Piano Page 9

“I have married him, me!”

  “GIGI, CAN you hear me? Neither illness nor death takes us to paradise. It is only music.”

  Alice opened her eyes. The face looking down on her had a comforting smile. Without taking her eyes off her friend, Trude reached for a cloth and dipped it into the dish of water on the bedside table.

  “What day is it today?” Alice’s voice sounded lifeless. Trude squeezed out the cloth and carefully dabbed the sweat from Alice’s feverish brow. Earlier that day the family doctor had welcomed her back to life. His line, “we have been very worried about you,” was still ringing in her ears.

  “It is the seventh of January 1925,” Trude answered “and you have been asleep for two weeks.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and grasped Alice’s hand. The two friends looked at one another tenderly for a long while.

  Trude hesitated before speaking again. “You suddenly collapsed. I am so happy that…”

  “Is Daisy really…” whispered Alice. Trude took a deep breath. She could hardly bear the pain.

  “Go ahead and cry, Alice,” said Trude, and she herself allowed the tears to roll down her cheeks. “It was … very quick … just two days of high fever … inflammation of the lungs … no pain.”

  It was less than three weeks since the four inseparable girls—Alice, Mizzi, Daisy and Trude—had last met and played music together. Daisy had been relaxed and happy and she had, like so many times before, infected the others with her mood.

  “And now … gone.” Alice stared into the void.

  “I was so terribly worried about you. I am so happy that you…” Trude said once more.

  For two weeks she hadn’t dared visit Alice. For a fortnight the same thoughts had been going through her head: Whether there was any cause for her collapse other than Daisy’s death? Whether things had been bad for Alice for some time, and that she had not noticed? Was it the disappointment over Rudolf Kraus? Or was physical exhaustion after weeks of practicing Chopin’s E minor Concerto the reason that Alice had become ill?

  Trude had always found Alice so confident and strong. Was that just a facade? Was she in fact a much more fragile person than her outward demeanor would give her credit for? Had her friends been too little concerned about Alice because she was always interested in others, because she was always happy and always saw the best in everyone, and because she seemed always to know what she wanted?

  “Do you know Leopold has written to me?” said Trude. Trude enjoyed a deep friendship (and a correspondence) with Leopold Sommer, a young man from Prague who had been living and working in Hamburg for a year.

  “I’d like to read you his letter, Alice,” said Trude. “He consoled me in such a lovely way. May I?”

  Alice pressed Trude’s hand. The letter’s message made a lasting impression on Alice.

  Dear Trude,

  Why is it that someone must leave this world so early, before they have really even begun to live, while another might live to be eighty or more. Why do we have no reasonable answers to these questions? Or is it ridiculous to even ask them?

  When I read your letter and sat down impotently for a while, I picked up all your old letters and read each and every one of them again. From your descriptions it was so clear what a likeable and joyful person Daisy had been. You often spoke of your excursions to the theater and the concert halls and the countless books that you had read and discussed. And with what enthusiasm you played music together, Sunday after Sunday.

  Think about it then: what profound pleasure a person can derive from a piece of music or reading a novel. Is that not an extraordinary gift, to be able to live with such intensity and with every experience become more mature and more humane? There is no question that Daisy belonged to the elect: people who are capable of the deepest relationships between human beings and yet who are endowed with the capacity to experience the miracle of true friendship.

  * * *

  TRUDE READ reverently and emphatically as if she had read out the words many times before.

  Does not the secret of true life lie entirely in the here and now and in the intense exchange of experiences with one’s fellow man as well as in the consciousness of the daily miracle of this world? If we look at it like this, then your Daisy lived a fulfilled, happy and richly endowed life.

  Using some unknown source of strength, Alice sat up in her bed so that she might hear better. With every sentence she became more excited and more alert.

  Her death was not terrible for her, but for all those who were close to her. And for those people it should be the reason to examine their own lives. Don’t more and more people measure the worth of their lives by outward success alone? And do they not define themselves by their money and their recognition by others? Don’t we have to learn to see our lives in perspective again, to make the goal of life to render people happy and keeping in step with those who are near to us?

  For me too the death of a girl whom I know only from your descriptions is a challenge to re-examine my life; and a warning not to give in to the transient, but to strive for an alert and proper life day in, day out …

  “I have to meet him, Trude,” Alice burst out.

  Her friend did not venture to ask why. Alice then spoke again: “Did you say how old he was? He’s going to be twenty? He must be an extraordinary person to have so much wisdom and insight at that age.”

  Alice’s unexpected recovery was so delightful to Trude that she replied: “You will meet him, Alice. He often comes to visit his parents in Prague, and when he does he always calls on me. Perhaps he’ll even come in the spring, or in the summer at the latest.”

  * * *

  LEOPOLD SOMMER’S letter performed a miracle: just a week later Alice had recovered to such a degree that she was able to resume her daily routine. She sat at the piano for four hours before lunch, and in the afternoons she gave lessons. At twenty-one she had not only made a name for herself in Prague, she was also greatly in demand as a teacher. Although she lived with her parents she was becoming financially independent.

  Her evenings were spent almost without exception in the standing areas of theaters and concert halls. What a pleasure it was for her to sit at the top of the steps which led down to the seats and to follow the music with the score in her hand. Quite rightly Prague was recognized as one of the leading cultural metropolises of Europe and musicians from all over the world were drawn to it.

  After the performances Alice and her friends liked to wander up to the castle. There were some evenings when she was lost in thought, on others she was in a more jocular mood as she looked down on Prague and thought of all the reasons she loved her native city. Alice adored these walks at any time of year, but particularly on starlit winter nights when the fresh snow crunched underfoot. Her thoughts often turned to Leopold Sommer and his letter. Trude had to tell her what news she had of Leopold and bring a picture of her friend. The photograph showed a slender, carefully dressed young man, who gazed gently at the lens in a pleasant manner. Alice was all the more determined: “I must meet him!”

  It was a summer afternoon in 1925 when Alice met Leopold Sommer for the first time. Her heart beat loudly and once again she had to admit that she was susceptible to outward appearances. She was immediately struck by Leopold’s impeccable teeth and elegant hands. On the other hand, at about 1.65m., slim and well-proportioned, Alice thought him rather small.

  Trude Hutter had invited a large party of friends to a concert at her house, to be given by Alice. Knowing that Leopold would be there, Alice reflected long and hard over which piece would be fitting for their long-awaited meeting. She finally opted for Beethoven’s Sonata in A flat major, Op. 110, which he had written in the spring of 1822 while he was completing his Missa Solemnis. Alice loved this late work and she played the jubilant finale with convincing panache, as if, Trude later recalled, she were pulling the notes out of the inner recesses of her soul. There was no question about it—she had reached Leopold’s too.

  When the two of
them spoke toward the end of the afternoon it seemed as if they had known one another for years. Leopold was as enthusiastic as he was knowledgeable about art, and as precise in his judgment on music as he was in the visual arts. He had hesitated for a while about turning his passion for the violin into a profession, but he was put off by the thought of possibly demeaning his favorite recreation—making music—by making it into his livelihood, and thereby making it merely a duty. He was also a realist and realized he did not have the talent to be a successful professional musician. So, together with his best friend, Robert Sachsel, he had opted for a school of commerce and an office-bound future. The two men had also chosen to take their first professional steps together. As they both spoke excellent French and English, they had joined a British import-export business in Hamburg.

  Leopold Sommer was a reserved, modest man who was difficult to gauge at first sight: only those who took the trouble to get to know him saw how deeply he thought about things, and experienced his multi-faceted sense of humor. As if it were the most obvious thing in the world, he made a date to see Alice the next day. Until his departure for Hamburg, hardly twenty-four hours passed without the two of them seeing one another, and in the months until they met again they exchanged regular letters.

  Ten days together in the autumn confirmed their feelings for one another. Leopold thought up a particularly lovely pretext to introduce Alice to his parents, brothers and sisters: he organized a musical soirée at his home. Before the break he played with his quartet; after the break, Alice came on stage.

  From the beginning Alice felt at home in the Sommer household. Mother and Father Sommer exuded what many would characterize as “aristocratic nobility” and received their visitors with such warm-hearted hospitality that everyone who came close to them felt special. His father, like Leopold, was pleasantly reserved. His mother was the outward-going person, with her infectiously open and refreshing manner. Alice kept in contact with her when Leopold was working in Hamburg; for even if it was not yet official she already felt part of the family. The weeks and months between meetings were a time of waiting and anticipation, even if Alice was by no means idle.

  Alice was concerned about how she should develop her talents, and had been since she had finished at the Music Academy. Under Conrad Ansorge’s directions, Beethoven had absorbed most of her time, followed by Schubert, Schumann and Chopin, but she had been limited to the nineteenth-century tradition. Václav Štěpán, who remained her most important adviser in musical matters, now made sure that she took an interest in modern Czech composers, above all Vítěslav Novák, Otakar Ostrčil and Josef Suk. The young pianist, however, was curious about the most recent developments in the world of music coming from Vienna, influenced by composers such as Arnold Schönberg and Alban Berg.

  Alice listened to modern works whenever she could. In recent years, she had often witnessed the behavior of conservative Prague audiences, who enthusiastically applauded the traditional works in the first half of the concert and then demonstratively left the concert hall in protest against the unfamiliar noises in the second half.

  Alice had been struck by the experience of going to a performance given by the Polish pianist Eduard (or Edward as he was later known) Steuermann, who lived in Vienna. Among other things he played Schönberg’s Chamber Symphony in a version made for solo piano. Steuermann had studied first with Busoni and then with his friend Schönberg. He was seen as a “phenomenal musical talent,” belonging to the much talked-about school of expressionism which, under the influence of war and upheaval, wanted to “revolutionize piano music.”1 Alice was struck as much as by his modern vision as his technical skill.

  When Steuermann proposed the idea of teaching the younger generation of Prague pianists and suggested coming from Vienna to Prague once a month to give lessons, Alice seized the opportunity. Not only did Alice want to look at the modern repetoire for piano, she wanted to study a classical masterpiece with him so that she could compare Steuermann’s version with Ansorge’s, and a nineteenth-century view with one from her own time. Alice chose Beethoven’s Appassionata.

  After only a few hours of lessons Alice began to have doubts. Steuermann showed no real interest in his pupil, his teaching style was impersonal and uninspiring and Alice had the suspicion that he only came to Prague for the money. A year’s lessons had been arranged and paid for in advance so Alice tried to make the best of the situation. At the end of the year, she was happy to see the back of Steuermann and even told him of her disappointment, though as a rule she went out of her way to avoid argument. Eduard Steuermann was shocked by what she said and told her: “I simply don’t know what you want! I taught you the Appassionata and now you are complaining.”

  * * *

  BETWEEN 1927 and 1931 Alice spent a fortnight at least two or three times a year in Gräfenberg (Lázně Jeseník), in the Sudetenland, where her twin sister Marianne, also known as Mizzi, now lived. It was a spa famous for the the quality of its air and waters near Freiwaldau (Jeseník) in the Reichenstein Mountains.

  In 1927 Marianne had married a Prague doctor, Emil Adler, who was three years older than herself. Up to then she had run an office for a leading firm of lawyers in the city, and done their accounts. Emil, aged only twenty-six, had been appointed senior physician at the renowned Priessnitz Sanatorium in Gräfenberg. Like Irma before her, Marianne had celebrated her wedding with a modest ceremony and invited only her closest family to the registry office.

  Alice arrived in Gräfenberg in the summer of 1927. She had promised she would visit soon at Marianne’s wedding. She was reconciled to the idea of not having a piano for the duration of her stay as Marianne and Emil had more of an affinity with literature than music. As it turned out, their pretty house and garden in the middle of the doctors’ compound was so small that it had not occurred to them to install a piano. In fact, despite the sisters’ closeness, there was not even room for Alice, so Emil Adler reserved a room in the sanatorium for his sister-in-law.

  Alice’s fear that she would not be able to play music in Gräfenberg proved unfounded. Right next to her room, in the common-room of the sanatorium, there was a decent grand piano and Marianne had planned a small concert for doctors and patients for the evening of her arrival. She knew that Alice would not object, quite the contrary, and that she had a particularly wide repertoire which she could play by heart. Alice sat down at the piano and immediately put a program together. After that, whenever she was in Gräfenberg, her weekly piano concert became a regular fixture. Even the first concert was so popular that Alice had to play three encores. When she finally closed the lid of the piano, she was approached by a man with deep-set, expressive eyes and a strikingly high forehead. Next to the girlish Alice he looked almost like her father although he was only a little older than her.

  “Dr. Ernst Boronow, music lover and dentist from Breslau (Wrocław). It is a pleasure.” Alice was astonished by his praise of the concert; she had seldom come across someone with such a deep love of piano music. At around ten that night Boronow asked Alice if she would play Smetana’s Czech Dances once again, which was warmly applauded by the guests as well.

  Over the next few days Boronow was always in the room when Alice came in to practice. He sat patiently there for hours, never interrupting her playing and even when Alice was not playing he stayed close to her. She enjoyed talking to him, and she did not refuse his invitations to go for long walks in the neighborhood. When Alice discovered that Boronow did not work as a dentist at the sanatorium, but had been a frequent patient there, she was surprised. Boronow was so humorous, so spiritual, so well educated and so cultivated. However, since it was patently obvious he was harmless, it did not worry Alice in the slightest.

  Another regular visitor to the Gräfenberg concerts was Joseph Reinhold, the director of the sanatorium. He had a passion for romantic piano music. He always reserved a seat for himself in the middle of the front row and regularly fell into a state of rapture when Alice brought the c
oncert to a close with a piece by Chopin, Schumann or Schubert and would carry on clapping long after the others had fallen silent. Reinhold would not ask for an encore so he carried on clapping until Alice played another piece—sometimes two.

  Soon Alice was giving concerts at Reinhold’s villa as well as at the sanatorium. Whenever she arrived at Gräfenberg, Reinhold would meet her to arrange the traditional house concert before a small, hand-picked audience. When the guests arrived there was a fire burning in the grate and they were treated to an impressive meal before the concert. Armchairs were then arranged around the elegant saloon in such a way that they could be close to the Steinway grand and have an unimpeded view of both the pianist and the hearth. Joseph Reinhold also offered his guests the chance to make requests and every one of them wanted to hear his or her favorites.

  At one of the first of these fireside concerts Alice met the painter and graphic artist Emil Orlik, who had been living in Berlin since 1905 and was a regular guest at the Priessnitz Sanatorium.

  Alice had heard of Orlik long before meeting him. A close friend of the poet Rainer Maria Rilke, he was the most successful Prague Jewish artist of his time. Moreover, Irma was a friend of Orlik’s sister and was happy to recount the adventurer’s innumerable journeys, which had taken him as far as Japan by the turn of the century. His experiences influenced the works he did for the Vienna Secession, to which he belonged from 1899 to 1905.

  The artist was almost sixty when Alice met him, but he looked older. Orlik had grown up the son of a tailor in the ghetto and spoke fluent German, but with a heavy Czech accent which he never lost. No evening passed in his company without him recounting some amusing episode from his exciting life. His humor was basic, occasionally coarse and sometimes sarcastic, but he always carried his audience with him.

  On one particularly amusing evening around the fire, besides Emil Orlik and the master of the house, Marianne and Emil Adler and Ernst Boronow were also present. A mischievous argument soon sprang up as to what pieces should be performed and which should be played first.