Jascha Spivakovsky Poem Poem by Eli Spivakovsky

From out of the shivering, black forest
comes a man playing barrel organ
young Jascha feels the music go through his sinew
into his bloodstream
his pupils illuminated

He plays it note-perfectly on
his family piano
with left hand accompaniment
his father embraces him and gives
him a toffee apple

Practice is a game of getting closer
to receding pale cumilo nimbus
and darkened storm clouds
black keys and white ones

'a child prodigy' he is declared
and tours with his father watching
Much later, he thinks of his brother Tossy
and how the house is so full of musicians
he has to practice his violin
in the bathroom

And something is on its way
the gypsies go first
then it is time for Jews
He hides for days under straw
his piano is smashed
thrown out a window
it's keys like broken teeth
His Papa calls them 'wolves'

'Why are they wolves, Papa? '
'because we are lambs, my son'

The black keys are the enemy
the white are Jews
poison and purity:
his keyboard

And now, with nothing, they go to Germany
he plays Liszt and Mozart
He wears a suit
They squeeze his cheeks
He learns German
again, by ear
(he will learn 3 more languages)
he dazzles them
surprises himself

With warm tones, crystal texture
exquisite phrasing and charismatic passion
he wins over Europe
plays for royalty
plays for aristocrats
plays for celebrities
people ask for and sell his autograph

In Italy they wait outside
his hotel
then mob him when he leaves it
He meets adoring ballerinas, like Anna Pavlova
exuberant opera singers like Dame Nellie Melba,
and even Albert Einstein
they call him one of the best living pianists in the world
the daily telegraph says he's
'one of the foremost pianist of our time'
He almost forgets he is a Jew

He plays Brahms and Chopin
Rachmaninov and Debussy
but he doesn't play 'Claire de Lune'
not for the audiences
only for her
he buys her diamonds
and violets
furs and sapphires
and pink tulips
and white roses
and floods their room with them
and he plays it in Czechoslovakia
(where they elope)
On a borrowed piano
Claude becomes their witness

He's an illuminated, brilliant man, but he can't stop the wolves
with his sustain pedal
And they are flying swastikas this time
Richard Strauss, the great composer and his friend
sends him a melodic coded note
telling him to get out now

His hands shake
He sits down to practice
and they still shake
It's time to flee again
His hair is short without side-curls
His dress is a Berlin gentleman's
He has glorious stories
and cultured jokes but
he is still a Jew
and always will be

That night
the trio come up with a plan
'Tell them you're touring Australia'
And he makes a wish
when they cross the equator
for all 6 of them

Much, much later, he will play Carnegie Hall
then years after that,
he sends her pressed flowers from Jerusalem

His playing
is a pulsating crystal sparkling in his mind
but all he can do are home recordings
in this country
and when he dies
mist settles on his talent
moss settles on his reputation
And he is close now to the forests of Ukraine again
with its silver birch trees - black on white
(eventually he will be cremated without even a plaque)

the metronome finally quickens
the home recordings are restored
45 years after they were taken
I can hear my Grandfather
play Beethoven, Chopin, Tchaikovsky

And its like in Autumn when
the leaves turn yellow
except they are laced with real gold
and you are with your beloved
and a kiss travels by itself to your amour
without you actually touching their lips