“But where will they perform? We don’t even have a theatre of any size.” It was 1958 and barely ten years since Northern Greece had returned to peace after a half century of Balkan Wars, two World Wars and a devastating Civil War. Four hundred years of Turkish occupation had left its indelible impact on the national character. Things could always get done avrio, tomorrow. But now it was happening. One hundred musicians were descending upon our provincial port city in a month’s time.
“Why don’t we invite the Bernsteins to stay here at the Farm School? We have a whole trustee house ready for guests.”
I had come from America ten years ago as a bride and was still new to Greek ways. My husband had been raised in Greece and for the past four years had been Director of the American Farm School, a school, a farm and a community on a 350 acre campus. It was a scenic, green oasis 12 kilometers out from the city center.
“I can’t believe Bernstein will want to be separated from his orchestra, but we can at least extend an invitation,” replied my husband.
In two weeks’ time we had our answer.
Yes, they would be delighted to stay at the School. There would be four of them: Bernstein, his wife, the actress Felicia Montealegre, and David and Sylvia Keiser. Mr Keiser was the President of the Philharmonic and an occasional violin soloist. We had a week to shine and polish the cottage.
On September 21 we joined the official welcoming committee on the iron-grated tarmac at the airport as the musicians disembarked from their chartered plane led by their bounding leader. All eyes focused on Leonard Bernstein with his flowing hair, huge smile and wide open arms.
“Hello, Mr Bernstein. Welcome to Thessaloniki. We are your hosts, Bruce and ‘Tad’ Lansdale. If you need anything in the next few days, just whistle.”
A long whistle pierced the air: “I’d love to have some water skis.”
Already we were thrown for a loop. As far as we knew, there wasn’t a pair of water skis anywhere in northern Greece.
We introduced ourselves to the rest of the party, especially taken with the slim and composed figure of Felicia Bernstein who was wearing a summer suit with a tight-fitting cloche hat covering all her hair. When we met them later in the day for tea, she looked totally different in a sun dress with her hair drawn back in a pony tail. My husband introduced himself again and she smiled as she said, “But of course, we met at the airport.”
Still later that evening we joined them for cocktails before the concert. Felicia came down the stairs in a flowing chiffon dress with shining blond hair arranged in the latest bouffant style.
“May I introduce myself?” asked my husband.
“Come on, Bruce,” she laughed. “I’ll have to tell you my secret. I love to and swim and my hair’s always a mess. So to be ready for the evening’s festivities I have to carry a wig with me.”
The six of us sat around the coffee table in the living room and discussed the evening’s program. Bernstein announced, “We’ll play Shostokovitch’s 7th Symphony, a Samuel Barber piece and a new composition I’ve just finished on poems by Auden.”
Bruce and I looked at each other wide-eyed.
“Well, you know, we have a bit of a problem here in Thessaloniki,” Bruce began.
“We have no symphony orchestra as of yet and not even a large theater. To accommodate your group the only possible location is the outdoor basketball court of the YMCA. The local council had to build a special platform for the musicians, and to augment the bleachers, fill up every available space with folding canvas chairs. All of Thessaloniki wants to attend, but I think they’ll be expecting more familiar music.”
“You’re right, of course, Bruce,” Bernstein responded.
“But we have a problem, too. This is our last chance to play together before our performance at the Salzburg Music Festival, and from there we fly directly to Moscow. But I think I have an answer; don’t you worry.”
Leonard Bernstein always seemed to find a possitive solution. His whole presence exuded authority and optimism. He would certainly need these qualities as the challenges of the evening unfolded. The first setback came as we were entering the concert area at dusk.
A portly musician ran up to him in a state of panic.
“Maestro, Maestro! Its a terrible. You don’t know whatsa happened.”
“Calm down, Luigi. It can’t be that bad.”
“O, Maestro. Itsa worse. Look at whata happened.”
There, behind him, was his man-sized bass viol – with a huge hole in it.
“I trip on the pipe and falla through.”
The villainous pipe lay exposed where it had been set up as a makeshift arrangement to bring water to the temporary dressing facilities.
Leonard Bernstein laughed his deep belly laugh. “Don’t you worry, Luigi. We’ll get you another.”
Little did the Maestro realize it was just the first of a series of unexpected events.
About 3000 people were packed into the chairs and surrounding bleachers. They were trying to read in the waning light the Greek translations of Auden’s poems which had been distributed. Outside the stadium another four or five thousand less fortunate people had gathered hoping to hear the magical sounds of the Philharmonic waft out over them. One hundred metres away, the darkened, castle-like YMCA building stood silhouetted against the sky, a backdrop to the bustling sounds of downtown Thessaloniki.
Leonard Bernstein stood on the jerry-built platform in his frock coat and extended his arms to his audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is a great honor for all of us to be here in your historic city. Because this is our last concert before our performance at the Salzburg Festival, we are offering the program we’ll play there. However, to honor you especially, this is the first time in the history of the New York Philharmonic that we shall begin with an encore: Beethoven’s Leonora Overture.”
The crowd roared its approval and there was an instant bond between the audience and the orchestra. As the orchestra started to play, it took several moments before the audience outside realized the concert had begun, and several more before they quieted down. Another unforeseen setback occurred about one third of the way through the program. As darkness came, the city’s night spots began to awaken. From a nearby taverna the rising strains of bouzouki music wafted over the invisible divide and mingled, like an unkempt and uninvited guest, with the purity of its classical neighbor.
Heads began to glance about uneasily, disbelievingly. What a terrible insult to these distinguished guests! But the orchestra played on as if totally unaware, although perhaps just a tad louder. It took what seemed an age before some of the concert organizers managed to quiet the local interference.
When the concert ended the crowd rose as one, and when Bernstein responded by announcing as an encore the pizzicato movement of Tchaikovsky’s sixth Symphony, the reaction of cheers and applause tumultuous.
The orchestra was still taking bows when the lights went on again in the nearby YMCA building like beacons in the night. It was only a matter of seconds before all the lights in the outside stadium blew out, unable to take the overload. There was gasp of disbelief as the audience tried to gather their belongings in the dark and grope their way through the narrow exit to the reception hall. There was a good half hour of bedlam and confusion. Cries of “Yianni, where are you?” and “Paterouli, come this way,” filled the air.
In the meantime, the perspiring conductor was trying to find his changing room. Well wishers turned on their cigarette lighters and eventually someone produced a candle.
“I thought we were doing a concert, not Macbeth,” grinned the unflappable Bernstein. Felicia dug into her handbag for a deodorant stick. “I guess this will have to do the trick. There’s no water pressure.”
We made our way over to the reception hall where hundreds of guests were mingling by long tables of Greek mezedes and airing their responses and reactions to the unique concert.
“I loved the violin section.”
“I couldn’t make out a thing about the Auden poems.”
“What must they think of our facilities?”
All of a sudden, across the hall we heard the immediately recognizable and stentorian voice of Katina Paxinou, then Greece’s foremost actress; she had driven from Athens to be with her friends the Bernsteins. “Lahnsdayle!” It was like a long drawn-out foghorn warning that shook the walls. “Come here!” It was a summons not to ignore. We had first met Katina Paxinou on shipboard crossing the Atlantic. And the roar of her voice was like the roar of the sea.
“You know these people here. You must get Lennie out of here. He’s exhausted. He can’t stand in line shaking hands and jabbering like a monkey. Go ahead now.”
“Lahnsdayle, run ahead and organize the cars,” she commanded.
Within ten minutes we were in three cars heading for the sea. Accompanying us was the Director for the US Information Service and a relatively unknown friend of his, Manos Hadjidakis. A long table for ten was set up on the bluff overlooking the Thermaic Gulf where a full moon’s reflection danced on the waves. Tall pine trees sighed in the breeze. Few could speak since the evening’s two extroverts were euphorically and endlessly reminiscing.
“Katina, do you remember your last visit to New York when Tallulah had just opened on Broadway?”
“Yes, and we went to La Traviata, too. Do you remember how lovely the duet was in Act 1?”
“Do I? I know it in Spanish.”
“I can sing it in French.”
Off they went in a variety of languages singing, laughing, joking and telling stories.
For us, it was better than front row seats for an evening at the theatre, the kind you want to never end, even at 4 am.
For us and for our school, it was the beginning of lasting friendships. Leonard Bernstein became a member of the school’s National Committee, and David Keiser became an active member of the Board of Trustees.
Every year since we have been Sylvia Reiser’s guests attending a concert whenever Leonard Bernstein conducts the Philharmonic.
Last year at the end of the concert she took us for a brief visit backstage to call on the maestro.
Invariably a big broad grin burst out on ‘Lennie’s’ face. “Will you ever forget the night that Luigi slipped through his bass fiddle and all the lights went out on the basketball court?”
