24 ❧ chapter one
On fi rst arriving in Frankfurt at night I was puzzled by the curiously sinister
character of the crowds milling through the dimly lit streets that led to the
railway station, until I realized that nearly all these people were black marke-
teers of some kind or other. The Goethe House exists only as a pile of rubble
extending about halfway up from ground fl oor level.
From Frankfurt we took off by car for Hamburg, where I played a con-
cert sponsored by the same friends who had sponsored my fi rst recital there
before the war. Although one of the most heavily bombed of major German
cities, Hamburg has remained suffi ciently intact in its central core to pre-
serve the character of the town I previously knew. From Hamburg, I have
returned to Berlin to play in the Eastern sector with the Berlin Philharmonic
at the Deutsche Theater where, in 1937, the audience at a performance of
Schiller’s Don Carlos had greeted with frenetic and long applause the Marquis
von Posa’s supplication, “Give Us Freedom of Thought.” In the meantime,
the Russians have asked the American cultural offi cers if I could be brought
to play in Leipzig with the Gewandhaus Orchestra. I have reason to believe
that the Russians have confused their terminology (cembalist as opposed to
cellist) but the mistake, if it existed, has not been admitted.
Yesterday I arrived for my rendezvous with my Russian military escort at the
House of Soviet Culture in what is none other than the old Singakademie,
which I still knew as it looked in the days of Mendelssohn and Zelter. All
traces of its former German Protestant modesty have been obliterated by
characteristic Russian extravaganzas of red velvet, shiny gold leaf, and blaz-
ing crystal chandeliers.
We then set out for Leipzig, driving through the ruins of Potsdam on the
way. My Russian captain speaks reasonably good German, but conversation
was a little halting, partly because of my extreme reluctance in any way to
risk saying the wrong thing. Apolitical as I am, I have realized that I have
been thrust for a few days into the almost unique position of representing
one of the few remaining examples of successful Russian–American coop-
eration. Presently, on orders from our captain, our car drew to a halt in a
secluded spot, and a blanket and picnic basket were arranged on the ground.
I thought, “Here comes the vodka, the last thing that I can possibly afford to
touch, considering what I have to do.” To my great relief, the picnic basket
proved to contain only a few unspeakable sandwiches and a bottle of some-
thing labelled “Französischer Rotwein.” Since there were only two of us (the
chauffeur apparently not being counted as one of the true proletariat), the
number of toasts was kept to a reasonable minimum.
As we approached Leipzig, I became aware that my captain had never been
there before and that, furthermore, he had not the faintest idea how to fi nd
his way around. Although I know Leipzig well from before the war, I was not
too sure what the bombs might have done, and I decided to withhold any
indication that I knew anything about it whatever. For hours we drove around
the city and its outskirts, with the result that I was able rather completely to
assess the extent of the damage. Finally, having hit upon the Russian com-
mand post, we were directed far out into the country to an Intourist hotel,
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rick simeone
(Rick Simeone)
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