Noise, Music, and "Klezmer"

We are so inundated with sounds, noises, music, and so many kinds of screeches, thumps, and bangs that we have become immune, and we don’t even notice them any more.

The sirens from ambulances and fire trucks, car brakes, horns, busses, loud talking, and musical sounds ooze out of all openings, doorways, elevators, even bathrooms - sounds, sounds, everywhere.  We can’t escape them.  Even if we wanted to, where would we escape to? The parks are filled with boom boxes carried on shoulders, and these too jar our senses.

This is how it is here in America, but it wasn’t so in the shtetel.  A horse drawn wagon on unpaved ground doesn’t make much noise.  There were no ambulances or fire trucks, and there was no television, or even radio, when I grew up in the shtetel.

There was hardly any music either.  Some religious choral sounds emerged from the Catholic Church every Sunday, but it was forbidden for Jewish people to even listen to it.  We had to cover our ears and run away.

Life was very hard for us,  and there were few reasons for songs – even lullabies.  There were only two ancient, hand cranked, steel needled, phonographs in the entire village.  They played old, worn out, and sometimes cracked, records; often near the open windows.  People would stand around listening to the strange sounds, which occasionally included opera singers. 

A little later, Dr. Talanda acquired a piano, and for the first time we heard the sounds of Chopin.

We knew nothing of music or musicians.  We lived in a quiet region of the world, devoid of artificial sounds.

This was all to change, and it did with the liberation of Poland in 1918.  When the village had been occupied by the Russians, they had built a large military base in the nicest part of town  -  between the river and the school.  Ugly barracks of unpainted wood and stone were constructed in a wooded area, and the overgrown bushes and fallen trees were left untouched.  It was a nightmarish sight.

When Poland was liberated, teachers were desperately needed, and the decision was made to establish a "Teachers Seminary."  This was to be built in the area where the Russian military had been housed.  Some buildings were torn down, and new ones were built.  The park was restored, and hundreds of young men came to our town to become Polish teachers.

They brought new life, and new culture, to our little town.  They also brought music, and a good music school.  Suddenly we heard the sounds of violins and other musical instruments.

I became charmed with the sounds of the violin.  I watched the students practice.  It looked so easy.  The left hand on the strings, fingers touching gently, and the right hand holding the bow going up and down.  What could be easier?

I felt I must get a violin.  I began to pester my mother and grandfather.

"Buy me a violin," I begged again and again.

Ultimately my grandfather not only took me to Zamoscz (a nearby big town) to buy an instrument, but he also engaged a young student to teach me to play.

I was anxious to start playing, but I was initially forbidden to touch the violin that was resting in its case in a locked armoire.

First I had to learn to read music.  It was not easy for me, but I learned the basics.  Later, I would be instructed how to hold the instrument, and finally, how to play some notes.

The sounds that emanated from my violin were not sweet pleasant sounds.  My fingers were even then wide and thick, and when I attempted to place one on a single string, I actually pressed down on two of them.  I held the bow too heavily, producing harsh sounds; screeches actually.

I tried, I practiced, and drove the listeners to distractions, but in time I managed to produce some recognizable sounds from a well-known waltz.

I wasn’t the only one to acquire a musical instrument; several other young villagers did also.  I envied my friend Benjamin, the cobblers son.  He was able to play beautiful music without any lessons.  He learned simply by listening to others.  He was said to play  "by ear."

He showed off with his playing.  He would keep his windows open, stand up, almost leaning out, and  play waltzes and other melodies that we heard the seminary students perform.  He even tried to teach me - this after my instructor gave up on me.

This gave us an idea.  Why don’t we organize an orchestra?  We could get together with the other young men who had musical instruments (some had horns, even a drum) and we would all play together.

I liked this idea.  I knew that in a group of players my own less than stellar musical efforts would not be so noticeable.  I could sit in and charm the young girls I wanted to look at me.

Our repertoire was very limited.  We really knew very little about music, or musicians.   We copied (badly) some melodies that we heard the students playing.

Our group was just about ready to disband, to fall apart, when a new source of music came into our lives, and opened up our musical vistas.  Radio had come to our town!

For weeks we saw people attaching wires to the tallest trees and highest posts in the park adjacent to the college.  We speculated on this activity, not ever hearing of, or observing, such strange behavior before.  At last an announcement was made that musical concerts and world news could be heard twice a week for a fee that was  approximately equivalent to 25 cents.

On Wednesday and Sunday nights from 8:00 PM to 11:00 PM, we would be able to listen to programs coming through the air from far away places such as Warsaw, Krakow, Berlin, and Vienna.

We always rushed to make certain that we would be admitted, and we were seated at long tables, facing the wall.  A listening device was put over our heads; actually these were early version earphones.  A wire was plugged in, and someone manipulated and adjusted the various radio knobs until the music could be heard loud and clear.

This was all new and strange for us.  We heard the works of composers such as Brahms, Beethoven, and Tchaikowski.  We learned new terminology: symphony, concerto, and rhapsody.  We listened carefully and sought more musical knowledge.

We bought books about composers and music.  Paderewski, a great pianist, became president of Poland, and we heard his playing, live and from recordings, coming to us from all over Europe, even great cities such as Rome and Moscow.

All these sounds were new and intoxicating to us, but they were also beyond our abilities. Our group couldn’t write down the notes, nor play these complex melodies.

Not until there was a big Jewish wedding in our town with musicians coming from Lublin to play and entertain, did we learn of a strangely named type of musical group.  They were called "The Klezmer," and their music was called "Klezmurim Music."

We loved their sounds.  These were interpretations and blends of Chasidic, folk, gentile, and even some classical music. They had their own Jewish "Kwetch" humor and rhythm.  It touched our hearts.  We could, and did, copy all their moves.  We also like the "Badchen," the master of ceremonies, who had a good singing voice, and a matching sense of humor.  He entertained the crowd, but mostly sang to the bride, and made her both cry and smile.

"Oh dear girl, say goodbye to the free life, you will be taken over by your husband to do his bidding. It will be bad and good. You will have many children with a lot of worries and pleasures," and on and on it went.

We decided to become a Klezmer band.  We improvised, created sounds, made our instruments "talk". I t sounded great, crowds came to hear us, and soon we had our own Badchen.  One funny young man in our group had learned to mimic the antics of the Lubliner Badchen, and he was perfect in this role.

After much discussion, we decided to try and become professionals and earn some money.

Since I was a poor violin player, but had the gift of gab, they appointed me to be the "Impresario" and manager.  I started to look for a "gig."  I heard about a wedding to be performed in Bilgoray, about 40 miles from us.  My grandmother’s sister and her family lived in Bilgoray.  We saw them often – two cousins had married each other.

I went to their town, found the bride’s father, described our Klezmer group, and sold him on the idea of hiring us.  We agreed on the fee, and I happily returned to my musical group.

It was winter, and I hired a horseman with a big sled to take us to Bilgoray and back the next day.  Early in the morning, with all our instruments packed in the sled and our spirits high, we left for our first moneymaking adventure.

The wedding was to be held in a large prayer house, or outside if the weather would permit.  We unpacked our gear and started to rehearse.  We attracted many small children.

The ceremony started early, the snow stopped falling, and we (including the Badchen) performed perfectly.  People danced; mostly women with women.  A few couples also danced, but most just listened to our lively melodies, and some even sang along.

By eleven, the wedding was over and the guests dispersed. The Klezmer huddled in the corner where the wood burning stove was lit, and we tried to keep warm. The Bible students came back; some studied all night, dozing on and off.  More students returned in the morning.

I went to see the bride’s father to collect our fee.  I found an unhappy man.  He cried.  Not enough presents were collected, and he couldn’t pay me the agreed upon price.  I threatened to take him to the Rabbi.  He explained that the wedding had cost him everything he had, and now he had nothing left.

After threats and some fighting, he agreed to pay us half of the promised fee.  I reluctantly accepted. We had just enough to pay the horse owner for the transportation.

We got ready to go home.  I was tired and hungry.  I went to visit my mother’s aunt. They owned a large produce store.  I was sure that they would feed me, but no food was offered.  The store was full of barrels and sacks of potatoes, beans, peas, grain and flour – nothing substantial for a young man to dig into.  After a while, they gave me a big bag of dry mushrooms to take home.

On the way home, hungry and dejected, I dug into the bag and started eating the dry mushrooms.  By the time we arrived home, I must have eaten half of the bag's contents.  As I got out of the vehicle the food came up, and I emptied my stomach on the ground.  My mother witnessed this, and she soon had a large dish of chicken soup with dumplings ready for me.  I swallowed the hot delicious soup, and mother put me to bed, where I slept for 20 hours.

After resting, we decided to keep on with our rehearsals and improvisations.  We soon got our second "gig," and this time it was in our own home town.

We were invited to play at a prestigious wedding.  We were a great hit, and without incident we were paid exactly the amount as set out in our agreement.

We had money!  Even so, we decided to stay together strictly as a pleasure band, and leave the professional work to others .  We took the money and gave ourselves a banquet in the only restaurant in town. We invited friends, and blew all the earnings away in one great party.

Soon, very soon, we began to lose some of the musicians. The poor economic conditions, and the rampant anti-Semitism, drove many of the young people to emigrate.  A few smuggled themselves into Palestine; some went to Belgium to work in the diamond industry, some to Canada, and some to the United States.

We (I and my immediate family) started to prepare ourselves for our coming trip to San Francisco where my father had preceded us.

The violin was put aside in the armoire.  One day coming home, I heard music, marvelous sounds coming from my room.  It was hard to believe what I saw.

My little brother Leon, 5 years younger than I, had gotten a duplicate key, taken out my violin, and was practicing his playing.  I then learned that he had been listening when my instructor gave me lessons, and he had been playing this instrument for some time without my knowledge.

Leon looked at me with his large, shining eyes, wondering what I would say and do. He looked so funny that I had to laugh.  I took the violin out of his hands, and then gave it back to him.

"It’s yours brother, take good care of it. You play well."

From then on, wherever Leon went, the violin was also there. On the train to Gdynia, on the boat to Antwerp, on the ship to America, and on the train to California, my little brother played the fiddle.  People thought that he was a gypsy and gave him money.  When we arrived in San Francisco, all his pockets bulged with money, not just coins, but folding money too.

In the 1930’s he went to New York, married, moved to New Jersey, and became a poultry farmer to provide for his family.  With his own labor he built his home and many chicken coops.  All the while he pursued his real love and talent; painting and sculpting. There was no time for the violin, which had been tucked away on a shelf in a closet.

Leon also became a father of two children.  Eventually, his daughter married a British scholar, and they live in London.  She too has children, and the youngest, Amy, plays the piano. On a visit to her grandfather, she discovered the old violin resting in its case on a now dusty shelf.  She examined it, and decided that she wanted to play this instrument.  She took it home and has restored it.

Two years ago, I got a call from London.  It was Amy.

"Philip, someone wants to talk to you."

"Who? Who?" I inquired,

It was not a human; it was the voice of a violin singing.  Amy was playing a melody (Tzigainerweisen) that I could never master, and she was playing it on the violin that was once mine so many years ago.

I bent my head down and tears flowed from my eyes.  The shtetel is gone, all my friends are gone, my brother Leon is dead, and I am now an old man.

The old violin lives, and is in the capable hands of a member of my family.  It has come back to life, and will live on.