impossible. I was choking and a vial of perfume was brought up to my nose. They stood me on a table—the better to see me. Some very tall dame accompanied me on the piano. The audience listened with great attention and rewarded me with a storm of applause.
As reward for the performance I was given a small bag of flour. This was considered a high honor, even for well-known artists. They also handed me an official paper declaring my participation in the concert and receipt of an honorarium. The document was signed by a commissar who was covered with machine-gun bandoleers from head to belly button. He spat on the seal and slammed it against the paper. Mother hurriedly removed me from the stinking hall where I could barely breathe.
Out on the street I greedily swallowed the fresh air and mother kept saying that “tomorrow we would celebrate my birthday in royal style.” She kept her
170
word. We ate
Suddenly, amidst the celebration there was a pounding on the door. Shouts and gunfire were heard. One would have thought that the regime had fallen and the Bolsheviks had been cleared from Odessa. But, unfortunately, that did not occur. A gang of drunken sailors burst into our apartment. They waved pistols and fired into the ceiling, shouting “mother f––ing this” and “mother f––ing that.” “What is this, the constituent assembly?” one of the enraged “guests” shouted. “The bourgeoisie is feasting during famine! We will crush all of you like bedbugs!” A sailor, who possessed a high, rooster’s voice was especially furious in his invective; he kept screaming, piercingly: “What did we struggle for, what did we shed our blood for?” “You’re traitors, counterrevolutionaries! Vipers! A conspiracy against the revolution! It won’t happen! It won’t happen!”
One of our guests discreetly disappeared during the confusion. He sensed that the situation might have a terrible outcome. These tyrants were merciless. They disregarded the screams of my sister and the weeping of women. They were ready to kill even a child. One of them ordered that all the food on the table be seized, and immediately a blanket was ripped from the bed and food thrown into it, not only the food but also plates, dishes, and flatware. Then they began pulling wedding rings off the women’s fingers and ripping the crosses from their breasts. “You’re all under arrest,” screamed the “revolutionary” in his piercing voice. “You’re all going to prison.”
Mother asked me to pick up the violin and play as loud as I could. One of the monsters tried to grab the violin, but mother stood in his way, shouting: “Stab me, kill me, but don’t touch the boy. Yesterday he gave a concert for the likes of you, and today, on his birthday, you want to take away his violin?! Here, read this official paper.” Mother proffered the paper, but the tyrants assured her that they were illiterate and would not read any high-fa-lutin document. The guests armed themselves with chairs. A sailor took aim at a guest, but the pistol misfired. No one was ready to go to prison for everyone knew that no one came out of there alive.
Suddenly there was insistent rapping on the door. One of the tyrants opened it. A whole squad of the Cheka [secret police] entered along with an officer. The discreetly disappearing guest had brought the squad. The appearance of an officer brought the looters into confusion. They saw that the officer was not sympathetic to them. The officer turned out to be a graduate of the private
171
to get to the bottom of things. My mother was permitted to speak first. She presented the official paper from the concert which stated that I had received a small bag of flower. The signature on the paper was rather impressive. Mother also presented my birth certificate with the date of birth clearly indicated. How could we not celebrate it with our family? Besides, my mother added, one of the looters ate the whole
The next morning our “savior” came with three sailors. He handed us the safeguarding document and told us that, if need be, we were to invoke the name of a particular commissar who was aware of our situation. Two small bags of American flour, expensive wines, chocolate and other edibles were placed on the table. And an invitation was proffered to perform at a concert. We had to consent.
It was a concert and a political rally. They stood me on a table and I had to play. I tuned my violin and played all three parts of a Vivaldi concerto with the accompaniment of a grand piano. When they asked me to play some more, I had nothing except for some etudes. But they wouldn’t let me off the stage. So I got really brave and played a revolutionary song, “We’re Blacksmiths.” The audience began to sing along. The success was incredible. Finally they let me off the stage. A commissar in black leather approached my mother, gave her gifts which were precious to us, and assured her that we were “under special protection.” A special directive had been issued about this. I was also asked to give professor Stoliarskii their heartfelt gratitude. But when I came for my lesson the next day, Stoliarskii had been informed of everything to the smallest detail. He was very amused that I had played an ordinary etude which was intended for the training of one’s fingers.
And then in all seriousness, Stoliarskii said: “You see how beneficial it is to learn etudes, especially by heart.” Stoliarskii knew that I would be invited to perform in the future and that to decline would be taken as a hostile attitude toward the Soviet regime. So, I had to consider my concert repertoire
172
and learn some other revolutionary songs as well. But I was able to play them by ear. Stoliarskii also gave me specific instructions as to which songs I should play. God forbid that I play a song of the White Army. And so I became a child virtuoso. I performed at concerts not only in Odessa but in places a great distance away. At one such concert Isaak Babel [the famous author] came up to me. That’s how our friendship began. Many years later Babel would recall our first meeting. He even meant to write a story about it. But he was not to realize his intention. His life was broken off prematurely. [He died in 1939 in a Soviet slave-labor camp.]
