Excerpt
PART ONE
In Dialogue
Major crossroads in the ideological mapping of Europe, with whole nations entangled in the invasive tentacles of radicalism. By now, the 1917 October Revolution in Russia—a revolution set in the service of delusion and ultimately responsible for political terror and extermination—has imposed Lenin’s Bolshevik dictatorship. Within the frame of a merciless police state, the target of the regime is to program people through thought-control. Gradually, communism is spreading and gaining territorial authority over the nearby countries of Eastern Europe, enclosing them in the communist bloc. The social-economic utopia in Russia, disguised as five-year plans of unrealistic economic expectations based on the collective ownership of all resources and the equal distribution of goods, is in fact encouraging quantity, not quality and mostly, self-deceit. Actually, there is no “equality principle “at work in this political system, rightly labeled by Orwell “an oligarchic collectivism”, in his dystopia, 1984 . For forty-odd years, “the Emperor would walk naked” and none of those involved in the “parade” would dare to signal the fact—that is, not unless risking electric-shock brainwashing or disappearance without a trace.
Almost in parallel, in 1919, the ancient Roman symbol of the “fasces” is adopted as a “coat-of-arms” by the Fascist Party in Italy, led by Mussolini, the first dictator in Western Europe. Contagiously proliferating, fascism will reach its deadly climax in Hitlerite Germany. Isaiah Berlin, perceived by many as the pre-eminent philosopher of modern liberalism, remarks:
The curse of the 20th Century [was] that both of its major utopias—Hitler’s and Stalin’s—rejected the very idea of the indivisibility of the human species. A communist true believer did not even attempt to persuade a bourgeois or aristocrat of the truth of communist principles; they were class enemies to be re-educated or disposed of. Likewise, fascists did not deign to reason with Jews, gypsies, or other racial enemies. They were to be extirpated, like vermin . (Michael Ignatieff, A Life—Isaiah Berlin , New York : Henry Holt & Comp, LLC, 1998) 248
Once the First World War is over, people—unable to foresee an even grimmer future—are still desperately trying to enjoy what is left of their spared life and to block the grief for the lost ones, by indulging themselves in pleasures of all kinds. A provocative lifestyle takes over, as if in compensation for the wasted years of war turmoil. It is “The Roaring Twenties”. Women bob their hair, shorten their skirts, drink and smoke publicly, initiate dates in nightclubs—all in all, a crazy time that is . . . for those who can afford it. As for the many who cannot, frustration and despair is their share.
In entertainment, there is the novelty of film music meant to help the coherence of the action and to highlight the emotional highpoints of the script. So far, there has been music accompaniment just meant to cover up the noise of the projector, whereas now, prominent composers provide their services through remarkable self-standing scores, such as Eric Satie’s soundtrack for Rene Clair’s surrealist Entracte (1924) or Shostakovich’s powerful score for New Babylon (1929). Of outstanding value will prove to be the perfectly synchronized working relationship between Prokofiev and Sergey Eisenstein when producing the masterpieces Ivan the Terrible and Alexander Nevsky (1938). A new genre— film music—has come into being, adding to the growing popularity of cinematography.
Since the Soviet Big-Brotherhood has not sucked dry most of the riches of Romania yet, the country, as if not caught up in the spinning wheel of the world events for the moment, is still self-sufficient, due to its rich natural resources. They would meet the needs of the population and also bring in, if not foreign currency, at least mutually profitable bartering. There are still a few years left before the country’s riches start being turned into a handy, free “smorgasbord” feast by its “overprotective” next-door elephant-neighbor, the Soviet Union.
For now, though, stylish Bucharest, with its Belle Epoque edifices, is taking pride in being labeled “The Little Paris of Eastern Europe”. Still basking in the sun for a little longer . . . .
A petit bourgeois, rather obscure Jewish neighborhood in the outskirts of Bucharest, on Soseaua Vitan, close to Calea Dudesti. Not quite representative of the “Little Paris” glamour of the city. No urbanization principle at work and no homogeneous building style, accordingly. Some houses—very much like country houses, with a typical porch all along the front side—look as if transplanted to an urban setting. The only difference is the paved sidewalk (potholes and all), that would be unusual in rural areas at this time. Some other houses look more pretentious, due not to the sophistication of style, but mostly to their larger proportions. The ground floor is often turned into a shop of whatever kind, sometimes even with a sheltered barbecue in front, for the ever-in-demand mititei, which enjoy the wide popularity that hamburgers have in some other parts of the world. No advertising necessary when the barbecue is on and the mititei are sizzling—just the flavor spread all around is enough to stir gastric juices that urge immediate gratification. Glass verandas added to some of these houses are a much envied bonus, of course, since “life is a stage” which stirs the curiosity and wets the onlooker’s appetite for street sensations.
A picturesque, animated “stage” this one is, of varied walks of life and occupations. Here and there, appearing and disappearing at odd times, there are a number of gypsies, of no settled domicile, still restless nomads of quick chameleon-like versatility, adjusting to the local color of the ethnic environment they choose to settle in. As if through osmosis, their Indo-Aryan language, Romany (often mistaken abroad for Romanian) assimilates Romanian words—a strange Latin touch to a southern Asian tongue. It is like casting a flashlight upon the initial Indo-European common ground out of which both languages, like many others in Europe, Asia, and India are thought to have descended. An intricate puzzle whose pieces are scattered all across Eurasia . . . .
Among the larger residences, the Comissionas’ is an unassuming, spacious house, with both live-in and guestrooms, plentifully displaying solid oak furniture, Persian rugs, Muranos, crystals. Walls quilted by shelves teeming with books—well-respected books, dusted dutifully, not violated by dog-eared pages, the halts in reading being signaled by souvenir bookmarks from family vacations in summer resorts. An even more respected item is the upright Bechstein piano in Sergiu’s room. The stool has to be lowered to the maximum, for his plump legs to reach the pedals, when he hesitatingly touches the keys. The piano is, in fact, his sister Milly’s touchstone, whereas his is the violin.
For both children, the music lessons are a daily duty not to be discussed. No wonder that after long hours of practice, as a venting alternative, the bored boy takes revenge on the punching bag hanging from the ceiling, or kicks the hockey ball right under the piano, so fit for a goal net substitute. For motivational purposes, he has been promised by his mother a monetary reward—five lei per hour of practice—a deal that manages to stimulate . . . his business spirit. So much so that he eagerly proposes that maidservant Aristitza report a fake number of hours of practice, a strategy that would entitle her to a share of the profit. As a God-fearing country girl, she rolls her eyes and hurriedly crosses herself when only hearing such a preposterous suggestion. Both moved and amused, Sergiu will remark later on,” That was my very first lesson in commissions . . . Now I play without cheating.”(“Maestro Sergiu Comissiona ‘Unplugged’”, Jewish Western Bulletin 16 Feb. 1995)
His dislike of confinement for practice is also increased by a weird apparition. When alone in the room for hours on end, a haunting image of an ugly, grinning face keeps popping out from behind the curtain and laughing at him hysterically, with a mouthful of disgusting yellowish teeth—a mocking laughter that the boy abhors. If only he could punch it in the face, for him never to be its laughing stock again!
It is on relaxed Sundays that life takes a more exciting turn—nose stuck to the window, the boy watches the street animated by gypsies’ rowdy, colorful processions, be it for weddings, christenings, or any other occasion qualifying for feasting, drinking, dancing, singing and music playing. As if spellbound by “the Flying Dutchman”, he would follow the crowd to the barren ground nearby, to listen to that lively or doleful music, never tiring of it.
On outings with the family, be it to the synagogue, or to everybody’s favorite restaurant, the Flora , on Kisseleff Boulevard, he wears a child-size suit, the perfect replica of his father’s. That easily invites the speculation that the son would, as expectable, take over and expand the profitable business of the family. With his sleek hair parted on the side, he tries hard to be perceived as the spitting image of his father. Sometimes he is sporting the latter’s tie, irrespective of its hanging out of one of his breeches’ legs and tickling him—of course, an irrelevant detail, completely disregarded by him, though discreetly acknowledged by those around. The ceremoniousness of his posture and the seriousness of his expression, in contrast with his small figure, would make one think of an accidental dry-cleaning shrinkage of an initially regular-size dignified gentleman.
He is the apple-of-the-eye of Fraulein Mitzy, who has been in the family for quite a while, having dutifully raised his sister, Milly, close to school age already. With Mrs. Comissiona’s unplanned second pregnancy, it is she, the governess, who, trying to assuage the unprepared mother’s perplexed concern with raising another child, immediately and wholeheartedly greets the prospect of a new baby, “Hopefully a boy, this time, God bless him!”—a heartfelt blessing which will seemingly accompany Sergiu all along his life.
It is on June 16 th , 1928, that indeed, with the business prosperity in the family, with Aristitza helping in the kitchen, and Fraulein Mitzy already committed to taking care of the new addition to the family, Sergiu’s entrance into the world is quite smooth—actually, not disturbing at all his artistically minded mother’s regular outings to concerts, recitals, and the Opera.
At the very beginning, when the newborn baby has just been brought home, even little Milly is trying to help the cause. Thus, one sunny day, when the baby is annoyingly crying—of hunger, she would assume—Milly thrusts a piece of bread into the baby’s demandingly open mouth. Fortunately, on the watch, as always, Fraulein Mitzy jumps to the rescue and saves him from choking. The whole end-of-the-world hullabaloo following the incident would discourage Milly’s noble intentions towards her brother, for years to come. (Actually, a peaceful co-existence between them will finally fully settle—and gradually turn into an exceptionally close brother-sister relationship—only when she unknowingly does him a good turn by getting married to Victor Barbalat. He will be to Sergiu, not just a brother-in-law, but the ideal “big brother” and confidant that any thirteen-year-old boy would dream of having and trusting in matters of manhood initiation and other worldly aspects of life . . . .)
For now, the political sky is still clear. Jewish business prosperity is, as always, envied, but not aggressively attacked—neither physically, nor verbally. Besides, the Comissionas are perceived as a generous, respectable and open-minded family, whose children can play in the street if they choose to, provided the homework and music practice have been done for the day. In summer time, when not practising the violin or taking drawing lessons, Sergiu would joyfully ride his bike to the Bragadiru public swimming pool and go fishing with friends. (One day, when casting the fishing line, he even manages to hook up his friend, Constantin Musha, by the upper lip. A rush to the closest hospital, lengthy explanations, heartfelt apologies to no end . . . .)
Growing in an overprotective home, among the “many skirts”, Sergiu will develop the long-lasting expectation of women’s comfortable, nurturing, and definitely stimulating full attention. Fraulein Mitzy, a fervent Catholic who would fall asleep with the rosary beads rolled around her forefinger, a woman of remarkable honesty and loyalty to the family, would protect and try to spare Sergiu any effort, big or small. With her heavy gait, she would follow him to school and stoically wait there for recess, to feed him “properly”. A mother-hen is she—always there, when needed or not (especially not, later on, in his adolescent years). Whatever the time or the place, lovingly and discreetly, she would keep an eye on him, just in case. Sergiu, precociously resourceful, would still figure out ways of freeing himself from his self-anointed “guardian angel”, by taking different routes on his way back home from school. Together with a classmate, he would walk by the girls’ school on Anton Pann Street and have fun pulling and undoing girls’ uniform waist strings. Not just any girl’s, though—Cora Goldenberg’s, for instance, would do. Selection principles would always be at work, already heralding Sergiu’s highly demanding aesthetic criteria regarding the opposite gender.
Sunday would be the most eventful day at home, as the pretty, elegant hostess, Jenny Comissiona, with canto velleities, would organize musical “soirées”. Relatives and gifted guests would show up with generously assorted cartons of French pastry and chocolate cakes, from “La Parizianu’” (“The Parisian”), on Calea Vacaresti. A rich range of goodies, out of which, the éclairs would be the quick target of joyful greedy grabs. Gourmet treats drowned in select wines are, as usual, followed by the real treat—classical music performed by skilled singers and musicians. The hostess eagerly contributes, singing favorite lieds by Schumann, Schubert or Mahler. (“I would fall asleep crying because of the dramas in the lyrics of [my mother’s songs].” [Claudiu Ionescu, “Famous Romanians—Conductor Sergiu Comissiona”, Masonic Forum Magazine No.16 16 Sept. 2003 http://www.masonicforum.ro]) Proudly included among the performers, young Sergiu plays the violin, delighted with the centre-stage attention. He will never be “cured” of basking in that soul-uplifting joy . . . .
The encouragement to pursue a career in music comes from his mother, who seems to be projecting in him her own dreams of accomplishment. Jean Comissiona, a tender, understanding husband, has always supported her artistic inclinations. However, now, with the boy, it is a different matter. He should definitely follow in his father’s steps, by taking advantage of the solid business ground the latter has created after taking over the MINERVA factory from his father-in-law. Its dyes and other chemical products are in high demand now. With his Academy of Commerce training acquired in Berlin, Jean Comissiona, a gentleman of imposing presence, has skillfully expanded the little factory, gradually reaching the stage of hiring between seventy and ninety employees and using it to full capacity.
What helps the smooth running of the business is the family’s living on the grounds of the factory property. It includes not only the family home, but also the office wing, the warehouse, the stable for the horses used in the transportation of materials, the rooms for rent—all in all, a self-contained industrial estate of moderate proportions. The location is far away from the kind of glamorous neighborhood fit for a well-to-do family. However, it ensures the permanent control of the business by the owner and also the convenience of his enjoying his lunch in the middle of the family, as well as his undisturbed daily siesta nap afterwards. A loving, dutiful, well-respected father he is, who wishes the best for his children, and within this “very best”, his son’s prospect for a comfortable future should be linked to the family business.
It goes without saying that Jean Comissiona would occasionally feel thrilled about the boy’s promising signs of small-business resourcefulness, as when he diligently collects old newspapers that are desperately needed for wrapping at the nearby market. On delivery, he would get half a pack of butter from Mr.Nitza, the greengrocer, for as heavy a paper roll as the provider can carry. (One might say that he started by earning his “butter”, not just “his daily bread”, from the very first attempt . . . .) Later on, while in high school, the entrepreneurial ambitions would take grander proportions, such as in the case of his buying all the chewing gum packages from the corner drugstore and then re-selling them for higher prices on the school grounds. He would also paint Easter eggs (plenty of free dye at hand!) and sell them for a pretty good profit, at the moment of high demand.
Judaism and Christianity would not conflict in the house, since the parents would conduct themselves more according to Jewish traditions than to Jewish religiousness (though customs would be dutifully respected and holy days celebrated.) Thus, for the sake of the general festive atmosphere, there will be a Christmas tree in the house every year and the traditional countryside pork delicatessen fit for the occasion. Besides, what child in his right mind would not put his shoes at the door on St.
Nicholas’ Eve, in anticipation of the goodies to be found in them the next morning? To say nothing about the visit to Aunt Fanny’s paid by her niece and nephews at Easter time, when she would have baked her famous fluffy pound cake, her home filled with the same Easter baking aroma present in any Christian home. As for hard times at school, Sergiu would unhesitatingly invoke St.Anthony, the children’s protector, in occasional prayer.
No wonder then that, trusting the open-mindedness in the family, Fraulein Mitzy, who has taken eight-year-old Sergiu with her to her native village, Vishnitza, in Bucovina, for the holiday, serenely follows the local pastor’s suggestion to ask the nicely groomed town-boy’s parents a goodwill question, “Would they allow their son to help with the Sunday Mass service as an altar boy, among others of his age?” Mr. and Mrs. Comissiona have nothing against this, and for the duration of his stay there, Sergiu conscientiously does the assigned job every Sunday morning, in altar boy’s angelic attire, chanting Dominus vobiscum, to Fraulein Mitzy’s tearful delight. This is how Sergiu meets music-loving Father Kaing-Ba, of Japanese origin, whose story would be later revealed by himself to Sergiu, during a long-lasting friendship that followed, mostly through letters. He had been abducted by Russian soldiers during the Russian-Japanese War, and then abandoned on the way, in Romania, in that forgotten corner of the world—the village of Vishnitza. October 1944 will bring the cold-blood sellout trade amicably negotiated by Winston Churchill and Joseph Stalin as “our affairs in the Balkans”, as if they were dealing in personal assets or business shares . . . . The result is the after-war estrangement and re-distribution of that northern part of Romania, the county of Basarabia being “awarded” to Russia, while Bucovina becomes part of Poland, circumstances in which Father Kaing-Ba can no longer profess priesthood. Just one of those countless war casualties . . . .
At the Comissionas’ residence, the two children’s respectful and disciplined conduct would be persistently under the scrutiny of the parents. Dressing up for occasions, going to the synagogue on Saturdays and occasionally playing music there (accompanied by the dedicated pianist Nelly Vertenstein), were expectations to be obediently fulfilled. From the synagogue gallery, with Milly at her side (adorned as if for a window display), Jenny Comissiona, with a coquettish little hat, would lovingly watch her “men”—her presentable husband, in an elegant black suit, and her son, dressed alike. On ordinary days, the children’s outbursts of sibling rivalry would sometimes need round-the-clock mediation from the parents, the young “brat” being usually favored, to Milly’s obvious discontent. The gap would deepen, consequently, for all sorts of major reasons. For instance, why would “Freckled Face” poke his nose into his sister’s business whenever she and her girlfriends would have a chat? Moreover, is he “nuts” to stand in front of the radio and swing his arms like crazy, eyes closed, as if possessed by whatever music-making forces from beyond? Is he picturing himself as dressed in a tailcoat with a baton in his hand? With his freckles? Just fancy that!