Music Alone Shall Live

When I was a child, Thursday afternoons meant Dalcroze classes: music through movement. For years and years, my Mom would drive me into Queens and wait while I learned rhythms by walking and skipping in musical patterns.  I still credit my musicality to these courses and the friendships I made there.

The drives home were in the dark, in traffic, in the winter.  And then, at this time of year, suddenly, we would notice that it was sort of light at 5:30.  What hope this gave me!  Even now, I cherish the later sunsets and remember those commutes.

I remember one particular drive home, when I shared with my mother a round that I had learned in class that day.  At the time, I was awed by my mother's singing voice and her ability to sing in harmony and maintain pitch.  She told me that day about her experience with Pirates of Penzance back in her own childhood, and I was so proud of her!  Those drives were such a great time for connecting with my parents, and I'm equally grateful for the strong education and for the deep conversations we had.

"All things shall perish from under the sky. Music alone shall live, never to die."

A few weeks after my time in Poland, I think about the tunes that I hummed or was driven to sing to myself when I was at historical sites.   

The song I hummed most was Oifen Pripitchik.  It's a traditional song, used often in musicals and movies about Yiddishkeit, and it sets the story of a teacher (rebbe) who sits by the fireplace with students as he shows them the Yiddish alphabet and teaches them the sounds of the vowels.  In some cases, the difference between Yiddish and German words is simply the pronunciation of a vowel, so this represents not only the passing on of culture and literacy, but also the celebration of a unique cultural identity.  

I also found myself comforting myself on the bus rides with Rozhinkes mit Mandlin, a lullaby that I've always loved.  The lyrics tell the sleeping child about how sweet tomorrow will be, with raisins and almonds.  They remind me of Papa's walnut ring cakes and cozy Sunday mornings at my grandparents' house.   I was very jarred to learn that a parody of the song was written as a rally song in ghetto uprisings.  The new lyrics (and the altered melody) tell of no raisins, no almonds, and a father who won't come home because he has gone to the world's end.    

One last song that really gave me strength on my journey was "Zog nit Keynmal"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzPShrawxLc

Basically, this is a song of hope and solidarity.  Never say that this is the last road.  We are here.  It was written in 1943 for the Vilna uprising but it is still used for strength today.  It gave me strength on my journey.

A special moment for me at the liberation commemoration was when Miljenko, a colleague from Croatia, began whistling Hatikvah in the row behind me, while we were waiting for the ceremony to begin.  I know it is the Israeli national anthem, but it is also a song of hope. Hatikvah means hope, and it is the hope of being a free people, of being able to be ourselves, of everyone being able to be themselves.  The more time passes, the more I am about hope and self-determination.

Now I am home.  Thank goodness for that!  And last night, I made music with a community of non-theatrical singers for the first time since my return.  Every so often, I am lucky enough to have the time to accompany church choir for a magnificent Unitarian community in western Hunterdon County.  I walked into the old building and just felt such a sense of social and musical harmony.  

On the trip, I sang alone.  Last night, my fingers danced with music, old music, beautiful music, Schubert, Vivaldi, Faure.  All things shall perish, but music shall live.  Music shall live, never to die.