From Prague to the Promised Land

Prologue

In 1933 the Bartok family lived on an estate not far from Prague, the capital of Czechoslovakia. Prague is also known as the Golden City due to its many golden roofs on its old ornate buildings, and the golden statues lining the thirteen bridges that span the Vlatava River.

In order to find the Bartok estate, you have to join me on a drive out of Prague to the northeast. We drive through small villages on the outskirts of the big city before we turn into a country road that meanders through a copse of trees. A sign marked “BARTOK” points us onto a well-kept road to the right. This road is flanked by tall poplar trees. It leads to a massive cast-iron gate which is closed. A tall black-mustached man emerges from a country cottage connected to the gate by a small door. He inquires about our business, then announces our coming by telephone to the big house. After he opens the gate, we continue on a curved road inside the park, passing a large poultry yard, a well-kept orchard, and tall hedges that seem to hide a horse stable.

Seeing the Bartok mansion the first time, I was impressed by its size and its architectural beauty. I had come from the railroad station with Francois, the chauffeur. He stopped by the side entrance, and explained, that it was easier to unload the luggage there. Both Mr. Bartok and Madame were not at home. Bela the butler, Raika the head cook and Tirza the maid would want to welcome me. He also told me that Mr. Bartok was not expected home until the following day, being on a business trip. Madame was still at rehearsal where she was preparing for her debut as “Aida” in the Verdi opera.

After being welcomed by Bela, Raika and Tirza, Francois led me through the spacious veranda which resembled a greenhouse. Hundreds of exotic plants seemed to have found a home here. Some were in bloom, others in vibrant foliage. Adjacent to this gardener’s paradise was the music room. Here stood the grand piano. A harp with a golden frame was positioned in the corner. On shelves around the room violas and violins were displayed. I counted at least five. There were also cases that held flutes and recorders. Files for music sheets were arranged along one side of the lovely room. The shiny parquet floor was covered with rugs in the shape of instruments. These rugs seemed to be of a lustrous silken quality in a warm golden brown. I made a mental note to ask Cornelia, where she had found such unusual floor coverings. “Who plays all these instruments?” I asked.

“Mostly Madame, but Mr. Bartok accompanies her on his fiddle whenever he has an occasion,” offered Bela. While continuing into the hall, he added, “I have to lead you through the house, Sir. The staircase is being repaired.”

Later I found out that the staircase in question was a wide, rambling affair leading from the foyer to the two upper stories. As it was blocked by drop cloths and tools, we took a small elevator, hidden under its arch, and reached the bedroom floor where the Bartoks, their babies and their guests spent the nights. Bela explained that the top floor held the servants quarters.

I followed Bela to a spacious room at the end of the upstairs hall. The view from its large windows was spectacular: there were mountain ranges in the hazy distance, the Vlatava River beyond a meadow, and the tree tops of the Bartok park directly beneath. Bela, pointing to the distant ranges, offered, “Beyond these mountains lies Germany, our troubling neighbor.”

Placing my luggage on a decorative bench, Bela withdrew, saying, “Feel free to rest, Sir. It will be at least two hours before Madame returns. Refreshments are available in the kitchen. If you care to take a walk in the garden, or visit the horses – everything is at your disposal, Madame instructed me to tell you. The children she wants to introduce to you herself. They are napping at this time.”

I had come to admire the new babies which were about ten months old, according to my reckoning. Cornelia Kahn Bartok was a dear and longtime friend and colleague. We had worked together for several seasons at the National Theatre of Prague in the opera division. We both had been accepted into the ensemble straight from the music conservatory where we had studied together. We both had been gifted with exceptional voices. I sang basso roles; her voice ranged from lyrical to dramatic soprano. Cornelia also was an exceptional violinist. In fact, the violin was her first love, she told me once. But one of our professors had discovered her voice, and suggested, she pursue to develop it, promising her greater success than being one of many violinists in an orchestra pit somewhere. We had enjoyed a special friendship that included her beloved Frederic, whom she married late in her twenties. He was a successful banker who also had holdings in other countries, as far as I knew. Although I had accepted a contract with the Vienna State Opera a few years ago, we had remained good friends, and corresponded frequently. A year ago she announced that she was pregnant. Later came the happy news that twins had been born in the lovely month of May. With her Hanukkah greeting had come the invite to visit, and see Romi and Irmi of whom she and Frederic were very proud. It had taken a number of months to get a sequence of days off. Finally I was here. Theatre schedules were hard to live with, if one had other interests or obligations.

I must have napped after stretching out on the comfortable bed. A knock on the door awakened me.

“Are you decent, Raoul?” through the cracked door, and already Cornelia was entering, her expressive eyes quickly assessing the situation.

“You still like your naps, dear Raoul! O, it is so good to see you again.” Then she ran into my arms with, “Thank you for coming!” She had hardly changed. Her dark curls bounced when she moved fast, her black eyes sparkled, and her figure was as slim as I remembered it. Quite an asset, when most of the world’s well-known sopranos are over-sized. That she had given birth to twin daughters barely a year ago, seemed hard to believe. She kissed me on both cheeks, then pulling me to the door, she said, “Raoul, you just have to see our two darlings while they still sleep. Once they wake up, they are a handful.” We were heading down the hall by then, when she stopped in front of a large door, decorated with fairyland figures. Very quietly she opened the door, and beckoned me to follow her. We stepped into a large, airy room that appeared to be bathed in sunlight. Every wall was painted with yellow roses that climbed up to the ceiling where a sizeable sun spread his rays into all directions. A little too much yellow for me, but no doubt attractive for a child’s room.

Cornelia led me to an oversized crib. It appeared double the usual size. In it rested a dark-haired baby, eyes closed in peaceful slumber. Rosy cheeks were contrasting the yellow sleeper she was encased in.

“This is Romingarde,” whispered Cornelia, “but we call her Romi. We consider her the first-born, although she was only eight minutes earlier than Irmingarde.” We waved a greeting to a pleasant-looking young woman who sat with an embroidery near the window.

“Bernie, meet Raoul, a colleague and good friend who now sings opera in Vienna.” To me she said, “Bernie watches over Romi when I have to be gone so much during the theatre season.”

Bernie responded with a lovely smile, and nodded in my direction.

Next we stepped across the hall, and entered the other baby’s room. Here green vines seemed to grow along the walls, extending up to the ceiling. The curtains had green motifs, and the baby’s outfit was green. A small reddish-haired girl was lying diagonally in the large crib, guarded by a young woman who sat next to the crib, doing a crossword puzzle.