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May 20, 2005
Summer of unexpected education
SHULA KLINGER
Just as I was about to start my last year at university, I spent
a month in Italy. My undergraduate degree was in English language
and literature and since I was attending a traditional university,
they meant this very literally. No literature was to be read in
other languages, even in translation. An exception was made for
Anglo-Saxon, of course, which we dutifully translated ourselves.
I loved languages, though and needed a break from the endless
procession of canonical English works. I'd read a number of Robert
Browning's poems at school and knew that I wanted to see Michelangelo's
David, visit the Uffizi and soak up the ambiance of the city that
had inspired E. M. Forster. There was no doubt in my mind. It had
to be Florence.
I booked into a course at one of the city's many language schools
and determined to spend the month of September 1991 in Italy. I
arrived in Florence at the end of the summer and found that I would
be sharing an apartment with three others. There was another young
woman about my own age, a Hungarian woman living in Germany and
her partner, who was an American pianist.
In my first week, I was excited to make new friends. I wanted to
get to know my roommates and asked them about their homes, jobs
and interests. The other young woman was occupying the noisiest
room in the apartment. I commiserated with her over the loud arrival
of the market vendors, setting up stalls and wares at 5:30 a.m.
I was intrigued by the opera director. He was American, he said,
but told me that his family had moved to the United States from
Germany. He had returned there by choice.
The opera director was keen to play house. He established a kitty
for the apartment and determined that we would all contribute equal
amounts each week, eating and drinking together every night. I told
him that, with regret, I did not wish to join in citing the
fact that I wanted to eat out some nights and my unique dietary
needs.
To this, he replied that I was very independent and made it sound
like a criticism. "Yes," I said. I was independent, but
I still cared what he thought of me. Not wanting to cause trouble,
I joined the kitty. He returned with the groceries that night carrying
red wine and a huge joint of ham.
During the next couple of weeks, the young woman, whom I had befriended,
confided that our fellow housemate was complaining about me. He'd
said he didn't like living with me. I never cleaned up in the bathroom.
I was dirty, he said. She asked him why he didn't tell me himself
if he was so upset by this. He explained that there was a language
barrier. This confused her he was, after all, American
but she said nothing. I explained to her that some people hated
Jews. She told me I was overreacting.
Since I already spoke French, I picked up Italian relatively quickly.
I enjoyed my classes a great deal and was thrilled at seeing the
world around me come into focus with my growing understanding of
the language. My enemy, as I now considered him, was troubled by
my affinity for the language and grumbled to my comrade at the house
about this.
Annoyed by the "ham incident," I reminded my flat-mates
of my need to keep kosher and informed them that I was out of the
kitty. It caused quite a ripple, but there I was free from
the shackles of the household bully.
Later in the month, we were given the option of taking extra vocabulary
classes. I wasn't sure that I wanted them, but it did mean I'd become
more proficient.
The most lasting instruction came during one of our small vocabulary
classes. We were gathered, three of us from the apartment, with
one of the Italian language teachers. I do not know how the conversation
arose, but I found myself listening to the expression of a sentiment
I could not rightly name. I listened as my foe told the assembled
company that he was sad to see how Germany had changed. In his halting
Italian, he told us that Germany had lost the spirit it once had,
during the 1930s.
In an instant, the instructor turned straight to me. "And what
are your origins?" she asked. I looked across the table at
my enemy. "I am Jewish," I said in Italian but
not to her. The conversation paused.
Soon afterwards, the school announced that there would be a performance
to celebrate the completion of the month-long course. Those of us
who played instruments or sang were welcome to claim a spot on the
program.
I wanted to be good. I aspired to be a forgiving person, one who
was able to learn from the past and make her own decisions, not
be a slave to the prejudices of an earlier era. I also had some
music with me and was eager to perform, but found myself engaged
in a painful moral battle. Although I could certainly play a solo,
unaccompanied flute is much less interesting than a piece accompanied
by the piano. And so it was that I approached my enemy with Gluck's
"Dance of the Blessed Spirits." He agreed to play and
there it was. He and I were to perform together.
The night of the concert I was nervous, but not for fear of performing.
Just picture it. It's almost material for an oil painting: young
woman plays flute by grand piano, at which is seated a mature gentleman.
Scene: Florence. Windows open out onto the street, just steps from
the Giotto Tower. Well, that is how it looked, anyway. The Jew and
the anti-Semite playing sweet baroque music together.
So there I was, my hands trembling over a piece I loved and knew
well, with the instrument that has now travelled with me to Australia
and back accompanied quite expertly on the piano by a man
I was trying really hard not to despise and whom I knew despised
me. I knew that his contribution to the evening was pure public
relations. I also knew that he was probably the most talented pianist
with whom I had ever been fortunate enough to perform. I played
to the end of the piece with great passion and the overwhelming
hope that I would never see this man again in my life.
We completed our joint contribution to the farewell concert. The
relief was tremendous. I had been good. I had shown willingness.
I had been forgiving. The month was almost over. In a few short
hours, I would be on a flight home, where I could breathe deeply,
complain about this nasty man to my friends and stop pretending
that I kept a kosher home. Thank goodness.
He rose from his piano seat and kissed me gently on the cheek.
Shula Klinger is a Vancouver freelance writer.
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