A Song for Summer

She didn't believe him but he spoke the truth.

It was now, in the spring of 1929, that he went to Berlin, with its pompous architecture, its vile climate--

and its superlative cultural life.

In Vienna he had been absorbed in his affair with Brigitta--now he made friends, and one friend in particular.

Isaac Meierwitz was a violinist, well known as a virtuoso soloist--but known too as something more: a true musician who continued to play chamber music, sat at the first desk of the Berlin Akademia and taught needy students without charge. Marek had met him at Professor Steiner's house. Outwardly he looked like everybody's idea of a Russian Jew: small, pop-eyed and splendidly neurotic. Meierwitz was allergic to egg white and sopranos, saw ghosts, and kept his grandmother's pigtail in the case which held his Stradivarius, but he had the heart of a lion. He drank vodka like mother's milk, needed almost no sleep, was a first-class swimmer and a repository of unbelievably awful jokes.

Isaac was only a few years older than Marek but he know everybody. He introduced Marek to Sch@onberg and Stravinsky, took him to Wozzeck at the Kroll, and to hear Schnabel play Beethoven sonatas at the Volksbuhne, wearing a lounge suit so that the workers would feel at home. He found cellars where the gypsies were not graduates of the Budapest Conservatoire but true Zigeuners, and cabarets where the chicanery of politicians was

blisteringly exposed.

One day as they were walking through the Tiergarten after an all-night party, Isaac said he thought it was time he had his concerto.

"I have my immortality to think of, you know." "Good God, Isaac, surely your immortality doesn't depend on a violin concerto by somebody like me!"

But Meierwitz was serious. "You're almost ready. And remember, if anyone but me gets to play the premiere, I'll haunt you to my dying day!"

Soon after this Marek was offered a two-year contract at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia, the Mecca of all musicians and a true honour for a man still in his early twenties.

He had loved America, become completely absorbed in the music making there. At the end of his stint he took six months off and went to live in a hut on the Hudson River. One day, walking by the water, he heard the theme for the slow movement.

Violin concertos have a distinguished provenance. Beethoven, Sibelius, Brahms, all wrote only one but they were written in blood. When he had finished it, Marek sent the score to Berlin.

Meierwitz cabled at once, full of superlatives. A premiere was arranged with the Berlin Akademia for the following spring, with Marek himself conducting. The year was 1933. Marek now took off for the Mato Grosso in Brazil to study the native music there. He was out of touch with civilisation for the whole winter--

even so, later, he was amazed at how naive he had been.

He sailed for Europe in the spring of 1934: the South American papers had made light of Hitler's doings and Meierwitz had written to say that he'd been promised permission to give the premiere and was staying on in Germany to do so. The Bremen ran into a storm. Marek arrived a day late and went straight to the concert hall to start rehearsals. He found the new music director waiting, full of smiles and affability.

The premiere was attracting much attention, he said; to have Herr von Altenburg back in Germany was an honour.

Marek took little notice. He was waiting for the

soloist. He had phoned

Meierwitz's flat when the ship docked and left a message.

Then a young man, blond, friendly with innocent blue eyes walked on to the platform with his violin.

"I'm Anton Kessler, Herr von Altenburg," he said, bowing. "I have the honour to play your concerto.

Believe me, this is a great day in my life."

There was a dead silence in the concert hall. Then: "No, Herr Kessler, you do not have that honour. This concerto is dedicated to Isaac Meierwitz and he and he alone will play the premiere."

The members of the orchestra shuffled their music; Anton Kessler flushed.

"Surely they told you ... Meierwitz has been ... Meierwitz is a Jew; there is no possibility that he should appear as a soloist."

Marek turned to the director. "I was told that Meierwitz would be playing. I had a letter to that effect before I sailed."

The director smoothed his brilliantined hair. "I think there must be some mistake. Meierwitz has been taken ... Meierwitz has left. He refused the chance of emigration. He made difficulties and this is something that the Third Reich cannot allow. I assure you no harm will come to him, and Herr Kessler is an excellent musician. Please, Kessler, show Herr Altenburg."

The blond young man moved to the front of the platform and the theme which had come to Marek out there by the Hudson River sang out over the hall. He played well.

"Stop," said Marek.

Now he looked around the hall more carefully. Other faces were missing: the first horn, a man called Cohen, the second flautist ...