Baumanbook Final Lores

From Our
D Angle of
Repose
From Our
Angle of
Repose E
a M E M O I R by
Irma & Mordecai Bauman
P R I VA T E L Y P U B L I S H E D F O R O U R F R I E N D S & F A M I L Y
New York City, 2006
Copyright 2006 by Mordecai and Irma Bauman. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without the
express permission of the authors.
All photos are property of the authors.
Designed and produced by Scott-Martin Kosofsky (IH 6770)

at The Philidor Company, Lexington, Massachusetts.
www.philidor.com
pr inted in the united states of amer ica

First edition, 2006.
Contents
Introduction
vii
chapter one:
Mordys early years
chapter two:
Irma Commanday
27
Paul Bunyan
65
chapter four:
The USO and the U.S. Army
83
chapter five:
After the War
111
Cleveland
121
chapter seven:
Indian Hill: A Vision
155
chapter eight:
Indian Hill
193
Tausendsassa
263
Woodys Wife, Arlos Mom
281
The 13th International Congress

of Historical Sciences
305
Indian Hill Stories
319
chapter thirteen:
Enter Brooklyn College
379
chapter fourteen:
Bread and Roses
393
chapter fifteen:
The Northleigh Story
401
chapter sixteen:
In Praise of Learning
429
chapter seventeen:
The Stations of Bach
xx
Afterword
xx
chapter three:
chapter six:
chapter nine:
chapter ten:
chapter eleven:
chapter twelve:
vii
Introduction
T
HE MEMO I R we have written is for our family, former

students, and friends. It is the story of our lives and our
professional activities from 1941, when we met, to todayalmost
to today. We are in our nineties, having reached a quiet moment of
repose, when periods of strain and pain are forgotten and we have
time to remember and record how we came to this peaceful period.
Together Mordy and I founded Indian Hill, a summer workshop in
the arts in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. We directed it for twentyfour years and it is a source of pride that a number of our students
have become high achievers in their chosen careers and allied
professions. Our last project was the documentary lm, The Stations
of Bach, for PBSTV, rst broadcast nationally in May 1990. It was
funded by the National Endowment for the Humanities. We donated
it to CUNY, whose television station broadcasts it occasionally.
Mordecai Baumans career was as a singer and teacher; I have
always been a writer. I have published book reviews, edited material,
and have been working on this joint memoir for the past six years.
What is it about? The way weve worked together, weathered all
sorts of trials through thick and thicker, still loving and actually
liking each other as we grow old.
Our story is told by both of us, fairly chronologically, sometimes
illogically. It starts with Mordecais story about his education, early
career, our meeting at a rehearsal of the BrittenAuden opera Paul
Bunyan, how composer Hanns Eisler inuenced and shaped our
viii
F r o m O u r A n g l e O f Re p o s e : A M e m o i r
aesthetic and political insight. Mordecai writes about his years in

the USO and US Army in World War II; teaching at the Cleveland
Institute of Music, as Education Director of the Essex County Young
MensYoung Womens Hebrew Association; and as director of the
program Bread and Roses at Local 1199 of the Hospital Workers
Union in New York. A section tells personal stories of my family,
my rst marriage and divorce, and my work with Louis Untermeyer
and Marjorie Guthrie.
Our most important enterprise was Indian Hill. We explain
why Mordy was determined to create it, how it grew and ended.
Included are special sections about Northleigh Yorke Lodge,
Marjorie Guthrie, Arlo and the Garbage, Jimmy Waring, and
others. We remember anecdotal stories about the Indian Hill sta
and students.
Angle of Repose was the title of a book by Wallace Stegner. He
explained that the angle of repose is a geological term: when a
stone rolls down a hill and stops, thats the angle of repose. Our
lives have been full of exciting challenges that we have met with
energy and humor. We approach the end of our lives with a sense
of accomplishment.
EF
From Our Angle

of Repose
Chapter One
Mordys Early Years
Y SCHEDULE as a ten-year-old was a busy one. I went

to an elementary school in the Bronx and to cheder (a
small religious school) after public school, ve days a week.
The rabbi taught me to read and write Hebrew and about Jewish tradition. I studied violin and had a lesson every Saturday.
The kids on the block where I grew up talked about good Jews
and bad Jews. The good ones had no accents, talked like Americans, and played baseball in the streets, yet they observed all the
Jewish holidays and the boys studied for their bar mitzvahs. The
bad Jews were still looked on as foreigners. Their dress and manner identied them, and they didnt accept American customs.
Because of this distinction, I was clearly aware of anti-Semitism
during my childhood.
Carl Sotscheck was my best friend. His father was an interior decorator who manufactured custom-made furniture. I was welcomed
into their home and enjoyed Mrs. Sotschecks cooking. Her cuisine
was dierent from my mothers, who cooked dinner in the mornings so that supper should be on the table when my father, Allen,
came home after work. That was her understanding of a wifes role;
by nighttime the food was inedible.
Mrs. Sotschecks family had roots in the Democratic Party in the
city, and they were close to the political leaders of that period. I
remember how sensitive Carls mother was to my feelings; she even

asked if I was allowed to eat the food she served. I was comfortable
in my community, but I do remember that on Halloween nights,
Jewish kids stayed o the streets.
Mrs. Sotscheck admired my ambition and surprised me by giving me Carls violin because Carl wasnt really interested in music.
I kept that violin carefully wrapped in its old case and nally gave
it to our granddaughter, Susanna, who used it just as carefully and
became an excellent violinist, graduating to better instruments
over time. She is well on her way to a ne career, having received
her M. A. from the New England Conservatory, studying with our
friend James Buswell, and she is now concertmaster of the Memphis (Tennessee) Symphony.
My fortunate choice of a high school was James Monroe in the
Bronx. It was a fairly new school when I entered in 1925, and it
attracted young, gifted, and dedicated teachers, many of whom
were no more than ten years older than the students. They eagerly
volunteered their time after school for extra-curricular activities
unheard of today. My participation in these activities is my fondest
memory; my high school teachers were the most important inuences shaping my life.
However, on November 13, 1993, a New York Times headline read,
Bad Times Get Worse at Bronx High School as Closing Looms.
Those were dicult times; the area was in trouble. The article
describing what was happening bore no resemblance to my life in
the Bronx of the twenties. In 1995, James Monroe High School celebrated its seventieth birthday. The Monroe Alumni Association
yes there is such an organizationplanned a reunion for all Monrovians in the spring: a homecoming day at Monroe, alumni athletic
events, and a dinner dance. Under todays conditions I did not want
to go.
Some of my teachers names wont mean a thing to later generations, but they were important to me. One name may still quicken
C h a p t e r O n e : M o r d y s E a r l y Ye a r s
interest: Franz Pop Mankiewicz, who was chairman of the German and French departments. His sons, Herman and Joseph,
became Hollywood legends. I remember seeing Joe at school saying
goodbye to his father. He was going to Europe for a year, his parents college graduation present. Joe held out his travel tickets to
show his father, the cascade of vouchers dangling crazily from his
hand. It seemed to be an endless chain of passports to fantasy. I had
never seen anything quite like it, nor could I imagine anyone going
to livejust livein Europe for a year.
Pops daughter, Erna, who also taught in the Language Department, often invited students to her home for musical evenings. Perhaps it wasnt unusual at that time, but I cant imagine a high school
teacher in New York taking students home today! I was an active
and frequent guest at Ernas apartment. At school I had leading
roles in the annual Gilbert and Sullivan performances: Pinafore,
The Mikado, The Pirates of Penzance, and Patience. Even after all
these years, my high school friends may still hear my voice in their
ears, singing . . . as I walked down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily
in my medieval hand!
In addition to musicals, I also participated in dramatic theater
productions and played Hardcastle in Oliver Goldsmiths She Stoops
to Conquer. I was well known in the school because of those appearances and was elected president of my senior class. In my last year
at James Monroe, I won the New York City medal for excellence as
the outstanding citizen in the class.
Other teachers were part of my life and remained friends for
years. One was the beautiful and brilliant Judith Rosow who directed
Patience. It was Judy who wrote a verse congratulating me on my
election to the class presidency:
They tell me youre elected
Its more than I expected!
The good are oft neglected,
And virtue oft is hid.
Neer before Ive noted
The student body bloated
Intelligent has voted.
Hurrah! Im glad they did.
Lillian de la Torre Bueno, whom we visited in Colorado Springs

during a trip west in the fties, was not one of my teachers, but
she was interested in my singing and followed my career. She wrote
successful mysteries set in 18th century England; Samuel Johnson
was her detective-hero. Lillian is memorable because of her warm,
enthusiastic, and encouraging personality. The annual Christmas party held at her home in White Plains over seventy years ago
remains a cherished memory; Westchester was far from my milieu.
Her surprise graduation gift to me was the novel South Wind, by
Norman Douglas; the encouraging inscription she wrote on the yleaf still touches me.
Another good friend among the teachers was Helen Ann Mins
Robbins; she adopted me into her New York family of left-wing
intellectuals. She and her husband, the distinguished medievalist
scholar, Rossell Hope Robbins, oered me weekend use of their
13th Street apartment in 1953 when they were at their Saugerties
home. That gesture started my devotion to life in Greenwich Village.
The most valuable teacher in terms of my musical development
was Anna Homan, who conducted the Boys Chorus at James
Monroe. She arranged for me to enter a competition organized by
the New York Music Week Association and was my coach. I won the
gold medal in my division when I was eighteen. The award led to an
appearance at the Town Hall, May 4, 1931.
MORDECAI BAUMAN IS SOLOIST AT
ORCHESTRAL CONCERT AT THE TOWN HALL
For the rst time these popular sponsors proudly starred a single soloist. He was Mordecai Bauman, baritone, who earned
Music Week honors a year ago with the Boys Chorus of James
Monroe High School. His accompanist at the piano, Miss Anna

Homan, had been that choruss leader, and it was with her
help that he now holds a musical fellowship in Juilliard Graduate School. The singer showed his advanced training in airs of
Handel and Donaudy, an English ballad by Edward German
and the song Invictus by Bruno Huhn.
The New York Times, May 1931
[The song was dedicated by Huhn to my teacher at Juilliard,
Francis Rogers, who introduced it at the rst performance.]
I enrolled at Columbia in February 1930. The college was where

it still is, of course, at 116th Street and Broadway. When I won the
Juilliard Fellowship, it created a commuting situation that is a classic New York City story. At that time Juilliard occupied a private
mansion, known as the Vanderbilt Town House, at 49 East 52nd
Street between Madison and Park Avenues. I spent at least four
hours every day in the subway, a great place to do homework. It
cost ve cents each trip. I have often enjoyed describing those daily
journeys, especially when one of my children complained about
commuting to school or work.
Each day provided an interesting series of transportation plans,
the determination made by where my rst class met. The normal
day began with classes at Columbia: I would take the Third Avenue
El at 200th Street and Webster Avenue. It was always crowded,
and even at that early hour I had to stand all the way. The smell of
garlic was overpowering.
Those elevated trains no longer exist. In the twenties there were
Els on Sixth, Eighth, and Ninth Avenues on the West Side, and,
in addition to the Third Avenue line on the East Side, there were
also elevated lines on First and Second Avenues. We lived at Marion Avenue and 200th Street, which was also referred to as Bedford Park Boulevard. I had to transfer from the Third Avenue line
at 149th Street for the Seventh Avenue downtown subway, get out
at the express stop at 96th Street, dash across under the tracks to
catch the Seventh Avenue Broadway subway to go uptown to 116th

Street.
I always had classes at both Juilliard and Columbia on the same
day, so that, for instance, after morning classes at Columbia I would
race down to Juilliard by taking the Broadway Seventh Avenue subway to 42nd Street at Times Square, the shuttle to Grand Central
Station, and the local Lexington Avenue subway uptown to East 51st
Street. Frequently I needed to return to Columbia to use the library,
so I reversed the trip once more. To go home I took a dierent
route. I would transfer again at 149th Street, this time taking the
Jerome Avenue line, and get o at Bedford Park Boulevard.
Lunches cost thirty cents for the same menu every day. If I chose
a sandwich on a large roll, that cost fteen cents, dessert ten, and
coee a nickel. A comparable cafeteria meal today would obviously
cost much more.
By the fall of my second year at Juilliard, the school moved into
a new home four blocks from Columbia, on 120th Street and Claremont Avenue. (As Irma tells the story, the move was made so
my commute would be easier.) Not too long after that, my parents
moved to 157th Street and Riverside Drive, simplifying the daily
routine. Now I ran from one school to the other and did homework
on the dining room table, my two younger brothers trying to stay
out of my way.
Juilliard policy did not permit any student to take classes at
another institution. However, I was not about to give up my college
education. Dean Herbert Hawkes was the remarkable administrator at Columbia. He was always available, ready to drop what he was
doing to discuss a students problem; his door was never closed. I
was already beginning to be a personality at the college, singing in
the Glee Club and participating in the annual Varsity Show. The
dean was aware of my activities . . . his response was immediately
supportive. He told me that I could adjust my class schedule, taking as few or as many courses I felt I could handle, and postponing
graduation as long as was necessary. We just wont mention it to

Juilliard, he suggested.
I graduated from Juilliard in 1934; it took longer to complete the
degree at Columbia, placing me in the 1935 class. Later, Juilliard
nally allowed students to take courses for credit at Columbia. In
2000 there were approximately twenty students in the joint Juilliard-Columbia-Barnard performance exchange program.
Columbia awarded me two Kings Crowns, small medals my
mother wore on a gold chain for years. They were given for my
appearances as soloist with the Glee Club and for my many roles
in the all-male Varsity Shows, one of which was High Ho Pharaoh.
The annual satirical musicals were usually presented in hotels such
as the Waldorf Astoria or the Astor. Martin Manulis, who became a
Hollywood producer, was the leading lady opposite me in Home
James and Laugh It O. Those librettos were written by Herman
Wouk, author of books such as The Caine Mutiny, Marjorie Morningstar, The Winds of War, and Hope.
After I graduated there were more performances presented
under the aegis of Columbia by The Morningside Players. I was
Macheath in John Gays The Beggars Opera, on which the Brecht/
Weill Three Penny Opera was based.
BAUMAN IS OUTSTANDING
If the Morningside Players are amateurs, they are only a short
distance away from professional rating. At any rate, they play
The Beggars Opera as unaectedly as you might expect of
a well-trained group of amateurs. But if any theatrical manager is in quest of future musical comedy star material, he is
directed to the performances of Miss Helen Marshall as Polly
and Mordecai Bauman as Captain Macheath.
Bauman 34, of Varsity Show fame, stands out as Captain
Macheath, a gentleman and a crook; he is given full rein and,
together with Helen Marshall, a pleasing musical combination
is obtained.
Columbia College Paper
10
Macheath, especially, seemed to possess and easily express a
pleasure in the swaggering role of that villain, and the Polly
oered an amiable characterization.
The Herald Tribune
At Juilliard I soon was given leading operatic roles: in Helen

Retires, by George Antheil; Jack and the Beanstalk, a little-known
work by Louis Gruenberg; Xerxes, by Handel; and The False
Harlequin, by Malipiero. I had a small role in Puccinis one-act
opera, Gianni Schicchi. Jack and the Beanstalk was so successful
that Juilliard presented it on Broadway as a two-week Christmas
special for children. In my last year I played Figaro in Mozarts
The Marriage of Figaro. With the Morningside Players at Columbia University, I sang the role of the Impresario in Pergolesis The
Music Master and the lead in Mr. Pepys, by Cliord Bax and the
English composer Martin Shaw. The Music Master was recorded
later.
Anti-Semitism aected my life at both institutions. At that time
there was a quota for Jewish students at Columbia, limited to only
20 percent of each class. Today I was told, Jewish enrollment is
limited to 50 percent. And there was similar bigotry at Juilliard.
The wife of the dean, Ernest Hutcheson, organized an unocial
program to support talented students. During my second year Mrs.
Hutcheson and Lucille Lawrence, the wife of harpist Carlos Salzedo, called me to their private oce. A sponsor was interested in
helping advance my career, but I would be required to change my
name! Instrumentalists were not subject to the same pressures as
singers; everyone accepted the fact that all the best violinists were
named Jascha, Misha, or Tosha.
I had great respect for my voice teacher, Francis Rogers, and
told him the story of the obvious prejudice. Rogers agreed with me,
remarking that my name looked ne in the headline of a newspaper
review of my appearance at Town Hall. Proudly, I took my teachers advice and refused to change my name. One of the voice stu-
11
dents changed his name to Charles Hayward; his original name was
Andre Cibulski. He looked like Cibulski, sounded like Cibulski, and
behaved like Cibulski. Eventually he became a professor of music at
Queens College, devoting himself to the study of ethnic music. He
made his career as an academic, not as a singer, and neednt have
changed his name.
One day, after what I thought was a particularly successful
lesson, I looked to my friendly teacher for praise. We were in a
crowded elevator in the rst Juilliard building. I asked Mr. Rogers,
What kind of a voice do you think I have? He smiled as he said,
Common garden variety, but I felt foolish for asking the question, especially in such a public space.
Rogers was a tall, handsome gentleman and a Harvard graduate.
A vigorous man, he played squash regularly at the University Club;
he was probably in his late sixties. His gracious townhouse on East
62nd Street was the scene of many student recitals at which Rogers presented his pupils to possible patrons. The music faculty at
Columbia was outstanding: Paul Henry Lang, Douglas Moore, Daniel Gregory Mason, and William Mitchellall inuential in my drive
toward a musical career. My repertoire always included contemporary songs; teachers and friends had written many of them. Moore
and Mason attended my later recitals, although probably not those
when I sang at Madison Square Garden for left-wing causes. Mason,
who was part of the famous Mason and Hamlin piano building family, tried to be friendly and invited me to lunch at the Columbia
Faculty Club. In the middle of an innocuous conversation it slipped
out: . . . tried to Jew me down . . . . a never-to-be-forgotten remark
from a sophisticated upper class gentleman.
My parents paid what was due at Columbia, although some years
it was a hardship. A four-hundred-dollar balance was still owed six
or seven years after my graduation. On the whole, those years spent
walkingmore often runningbetween 116th and 120th Streets,
were not only productive but also incredibly happy.
Top: Mordy (center) in Gilbert & Sullivans

Patience.
Above left: Mordy in Columbia production of
Home James.
Above right: Mordy as Macheath.
Bottom: Mordy as Mr. Pepys.
13
Anna Homan, my high school teacher, continued to be concerned about my career. During my senior year at Columbia, she
opened the door to an incredible opportunity when she suggested
that I audition for the chorus of Sean OCaseys Within the Gates.
In rehearsal for a Broadway opening in October 1934, the play was
about political activity in Hyde Park, London. Lillian Gish, the
legendary silent movie star, played the prostitute; Melvyn Douglas, stage and screen star was the director. Lehman Engel, whom
I knew at Juilliard, conducted. He chose me as a member of the
chorus, one of the Down-and-Outers. When it became obvious
that the male lead, Bramwell Fletcher (a British actor), couldnt
sing the Salvation Army hymn in the second act, Engel gave me the
solo. OCasey watched me as I sat at the back of the theater during
rehearsals, studiously working on my class assignments as I waited
to be called to the stage. He wondered how a college student could
be in a Broadway show.
That led to long conversationsmainly about how much OCasey
missed his beautiful wife, Eileen. She was twenty years younger than
he, at home in Ireland awaiting the birth of their child. I longed to
meet Eileen. I didnt get the chance until years later. After OCasey
had died and Eileen had written revealing books about their life
together, Irma and I were invited to meet her when she visited
Yale Drama School. I was not disappointed: she was as beautiful as
OCasey had described her.
Within the Gates was closing in New York and going on tour,
opening in Boston. Although I would have to go out of town during
nal exams, I wanted to stay in the show. I went to Dean Hawkes
once more. The dean suggested that I discuss the problem with my
teachers: they might make special arrangements so I could take nal
tests and graduate. I visited each professor in his oce, explained
the circumstance, had pleasant half-hour discussions, and got my
grade. One of my music professors, Paul Henry Lang, invited me to
tea, and said that the interview would suce as my exam.
14
Professor Odells book on the history of New York Theater is a

classic. I remember that he always entered and left the class with a
dramatic ourish. He announced one morning that he had gone to
theater the night before and lo and behold, one of my students was
on the stage. It was Mordecai Bauman! I do not remember if I took
a bow at that moment.
As it happened, Within the Gates did not go to Boston. The Catholic hierarchy was scandalized by the subject matter: a story of a
Salvation Army worker trying to save a prostitute. Instead, the play
moved to Philadelphia, where it had a short run. I never took a nal
exam at Columbia.
Our seven-year-old granddaughter once told us she worried
about us. How do you have money if you dont have a job? We
tried to explain about Social Security and income from the sale of
our Stockbridge house. When she heard the question, Irma remembered many times when she, too, wondered how I made a living; I
had no visible means of support when she rst knew me.
I had summer jobs from the time I was fourteen: the rst was as
leader of a band, the Moon-Glo [sic] Orchestra at Evans Kiamesha House in the Catskill Mountains, located in the same village
as the famous Concord Hotel. There were four young boys in the
group: a pianist, a saxophone player, and a drummer, while I was
the violinist-singer. All four of us slept in a room behind the bandstand, in two double beds! We were supposed to play for dancing,
but there really was no dancing. Husbands left their wives and children there on Sunday evening and went back to the city to work,
leaving no dance partners in the hotel. Everyone just came to listen
when the band played after dinner. Some of the married women
would remove their wedding bands and go to the Concord looking
for adventure.
The boys in our band went to the Concord whenever we could,
hoping to play there and earn more money. We were promised $60
each by the Kiamesha House, plus room and board for the entire
15
summer. After the Labor Day weekend, we each got a check for $50
and were told, Thats enough!
During the summer when I was sixteen, my cousin Phil Davis got
me a job ushering at the Strand Movie Theater on Broadway and
47th Street. Phil was the head usher, a job he held while studying
at Fordham Law School. Talking pictures had just been installed.
After a few days, we ushers knew each new movie by heart and
reenacted the story in the locker room. We wore military-type uniforms, starched collars, and white gloves. Every Sunday morning
we reported for drill before the theater opened. I rewarded myself
for sticking to the repetitive job by buying chocolate-malted oats
at Walgreens drugstore before I took the subway home. Phil also
arranged for me to usher at a memorable Army-Navy football game
at Yankee Stadium. Phil organized an annual reunion of the ushers, and when he opened his law oce, some of them became his
clients.
When I was eighteen I worked at Camp Scopus, an adult resort
at Trout Lake in the Adirondacks. Cliord Odets was director of the
theater program that summer. An aspiring young actor who eventually joined the Group Theater, he became one of the countrys leading playwrights. Anne Rosow, my teacher Judys
sister, was a close friend of Odets and suggested
that he hire me as his assistant. Max Slavin, an
attorney, was one of three owners of Scopus;
the other two were Hebrew School teachers. All
were ardent Zionists. They had never undertaken this kind of summer program, and hoped
to get support for the project from their Zionist
friends.
Odets made an appointment for me to meet
the owners. We met in Max Slavins law oce,
at 11 West 42nd Street; the building is still Cliord Odets at
there. I had just nished my rst semester at Camp Scopus, 1930.
16
Columbia College and had been accepted for the following year at
Juilliard. I told the directors that I was a singer-actor; they wanted
to hear me sing. As the oce was not suitable for an audition, they
chose the stairwell of the large skyscraper. I sang Old Man River!
The situation was pleasantly ludicrous, but the echo in the stairway
was enough to convince them that my voice would carry.
Margaret Brenman-Gibson interviewed me in connection with
her biography of Cliord Odets, published in 1981. I reminisced
about my summer with Odets, and Brenman wrote:
The eighteen-year-old Bauman, seeing Romain Rollands
Beethoven under his arm, decided that Odets saw himself as
the great and suering romantic composer. [Actually the reference should be the book Jean-Christoph, based on Beethovens
life.] He was as protective of me as if I were a younger brother
or even Beethovens nephewI think he liked the idea that I
was a singer and had won a scholarship to Juilliard.
I recalled Odets:
as a brooding loner with a friendlysometimes knowing
smile, but never a laugh. He was always watching and listening. He had a notebook in which he copied conversations he
overheard or comments of the Scopus guests and sta. Those
words undoubtedly showed up in his writing. Years later, when
we met again in Mexico in 1939, he seemed to me to be lost,
unconnected, with no commitment to anyone or anything. That
is when I introduced Odets to Hanns Eisler, the beginning of a
long productive relationship between those two artists.
The next summer, in 1934, I had my rst and only childrens

camp job at Camp Wigwam, a boys camp in Harrison, Maine.
Abraham Mandelstam and Pop Lehman were the owners. Mandy
was a school librarian. Mandy and Pop ran an outstanding summer program with a distinguished sta. Irwin and Ralph Freundlich, Charles Jae, and Isador Gorn were actively pursuing careers
in music. Georges Schreiber, a recent immigrant from Belgium,
17
taught art. The head counselor was Bernard Sobel, who became
director of the Franklin School in New York. The famous pianist
Josef Hofmann was a regular visitor, and his son, Anton, was in the
tent where I slept as counselor. So was Fannie Brices son and the
son of Job Fuchs, who owned the Boston Red Sox baseball team.
Mandy gave me the title Director of The Wigwam Players, an
exalted name for a childrens theater program. Mandy was a great
promoter who had a air for exaggerating the success of his camp.
I put on a series of programs that included A. A. Milnes Make
Believe, The Mikado, and something described in the printed summer program as A Revival Meeting, a Mordecai Bauman Production. I taught the boys a group of spirituals, and dramatized
them.
Mandy used his music sta to entertain distinguished visitors
in his cabin. He was proud of his membership in the Bohemians,
a musicians club in New York, although he wasnt a musician. It
was obvious that he didnt know much about music when he asked
me to sing for his guests: Sing a Brahm, he demanded. Certainly
not more than one! Although Mandy continued to ask me to work
at the camp, that was my only summer there. I put what I learned
from Mandy to use at Indian Hill, our summer school established
eighteen years later.
For seven summers, starting in 1935, my most important source
of income was Green Mansions, one of the early adult summer
resorts in the Adirondack Mountains. At rst I was hired as a singer
by Harold Hecht, a theatrical agent who later produced most of the
Burt Lancaster movies. Soon after Hecht left, I took over his role
as program director and became responsible for hiring the sta,
planning all the programs, theatrical as well as musical, and performing in them. The owners, Sam Garlen and Lena Barish, were
surrounded by progressive people whose interests were reected in
the programs. They invited speakers and performers with a radical point of view. Harold Rome spent three summers there writing
18
musical shows; his association with the sta and guests led to the
ILGWU production of Pins and Needles.
I often sang Hecky Romes songs of social signicance. One
that has particular resonance to me is his satirical song, Gee,
Mom, I want to be a G Man, and go bang, bang, bang, bang. John
Latouche wrote lyrics for the weekly musicals. He also wrote the
words for Earl Robinsons Ballad for Americans, which I introduced for the rst time at Green Mansions. I sang it many times
over the years. In the fall of 1942, in a Broadway revue called Let
Freedom Sing, I introduced Earls The House I Live In.
Performers at Green Mansions included Lloyd Bridges, J. Edward
Bromberg, Ruth Ford, Ruth Nelson, the Compinsky Trio, Artur
Balsam, Charles Lichter, and Norman Dello Joio. I chose most of
the sta, subject to management approval.
In August 1947, an article, Backdoor to Broadway, appeared in
a post-war magazine, Salute, written by one Pat Flaherty, who was
really James Dugan, an old friend. Jimmy often made a facetious
allusion to brothers who were promoted as Twin Cantors: Were
twin cantors, too, he used to say, an indication of his brotherly love
for me. He wrote many of Cousteaus scripts, but before his work
with Cousteau he was a freelance writer for various journals. He
wrote an article about me in Salute, implying that I had discovered
Danny Kaye. Everybody in show business claimed to have discovered Danny Kaye. Jimmy told the story:
In the spring of 1939 the managers of Green Mansions, a summer resort near Lake George, New York, were sitting in their
Manhattan oce interviewing a stream of young theater hopefuls who wanted to work on the hotels entertainment sta
that summer. Mordecai Bauman, the concert baritone, made
a pitch for a friend of his. This girl, Im telling you, writes
wonderful songs and sketches.
Weve still got a writers job open, said Sam Garlen, manager of the resort. Whats her name?
19
Sylvia Fine, said Bauman. Shes a very clever girl from

Brooklyn and she has a funny guy with her to do her material.
Were not hiring any packages. If she does songs and
sketches, thats all we want.
But this guy is terric. You mightve heard of him. Names
Danny Kaye.
The managerial force exchanged tolerant smiles. Sam Garlen said softly, Mordy, that Danny Kaye has been around the
mountains for maybe ten years now and he isnt getting any
place. Why dont he quit? If this Fine girl is any good, why does
she saddle herself with that Danny Kaye?
Well, they only want $800 for the season. Give them a
break, Sam.
The casting directors looked sorrowful. If its a case of
love, said Sam, we will take them both for $500. But thats
a lot of money to pay for a lyric writer, what with room and
board. $500 wasnt enough to satisfy Danny and his wife. Sam
Garlen found himself in the unique position of not having discovered Danny Kaye.
Jimmy sent us a copy of the magazine. We decided that a letter to

the editor was the best way to set history straight.
NO DISCOVERER HE
Dear Editor:
In my role as program director for Green Mansions summer
resort for seven summers, I engaged many performers who
later became well known in the theatrical and movie professions. However, I never think of myself as one of the many
discoverers of Danny Kaye, because from the very beginning
his talent was obvious to everybody. But I do think of myself as
that unfortunate fellow who turned down Lauren Bacall.
Mordecai Bauman, Cleveland, Ohio
I did hire Carol Channing to perform during a Decoration Day

weekend. She had just entered Bennington College. I thought she
was gorgeous and talented. Although the audience agreed she was
20
a terric performer, the Garlens didnt like her work and refused to
keep her on for the summer! They made many smart choices, but
certainly missed a few.
I met thousands of guests during those seven summers at Green
Mansions. I sang at concerts every week, played tennis with guests
and sta, and planned entertainment and memorable programs.
Years later, one very busy Sunday, we interviewed six potential students for Indian Hill in our New York apartment. Most surprising
in retrospect was the refrain, Are you the Mordy Bauman whose
records I still have? Or, Are you the Mordy Bauman I knew at
Green Mansions?
In 1940 David Hall published The Record Book, a collection of
record reviews that is still a classic resource. He chose to review
my Album of Shakespearean Songs (a Columbia Record Company
album) by writing about two songs: Take, O Take Those Lips Away
and No More Dams Ill Make for Fish. He wrote: The recording
is good . . . well sung and excellently recorded. About a similar
album of Shakespeare songs produced by Victor, he wrote: The
Bauman-Ernst Victor Wol disc is easily the better of the two. Harold Schonberg reviewed the record in The American Music Lover:
The singing is marked by good diction, intelligent phrasing, and
good taste. This set is denitely one to be recommended.
Articles about me and my recordings appeared fairly regularly in
the Daily Worker. Martin McCall (a pseudonym for Max Margulis),
also reviewed the Shakespeare album:
The singer, Mordecai Bauman, needs no introduction to these
columns. He belongs to the seldom encountered company of
thorough artists who view their art as one living whole in history, who make no fetish of specialization in the present or
the past, but whose discoveries and rediscoveries of signicant
music cause us to reevaluate the whole living eld. Bauman,
more than any other musician in America, familiarized us with
21
the international action song, the music of Hanns Eisler and of

the long-neglected American composer, Charles Ives.
He inspired among some of the most gifted of young composers an intensive and far-reaching revival of interest in vocal
composition. Mordecai Bauman is a musician with a rare sense
for the poetic image and the evocative power of its forms.
Max interviewed me many times, not only about my singing, but

also about my teaching methods, and wrote a long article in the
Daily Worker (March 17, 1939). John Sebastian (a pseudonym for
Goddard Lieberson) also wrote an article referring to my concert
debut. The recital was presented by New Masses magazine and promoted with various notices in the magazine:
Out of the thousands of people who attended the Daily Worker
meeting at Madison Square Garden on February 24, there were
many who called out Encore Bauman! as Mordecai Bauman nished a stirring song. . . . If the reception he received
[there] is any indication, tickets for the Town Hall concert will
be scarce within a week.
Town Hall seats about 1,500, and I remember that it was almost
full for my debut recital. Milton Kaye was the accompanist. The program included three Schubert songs, Muth, Der Lindenbaum,
and An Schwager Kronos; two songs by Hugo Wolf, Der Tambour and Seemanns Abschied; two songs of Moussorgsky, After
the Battle and Love Song of the Idiot; four songs of Charles Ives,
Evening, The Greatest Man, Two Little Flowers, and Charlie Rutlage (the last number my biggest hit!). I sang two Eisler
songs, Song of Supply and Demand and In Praise of Learning.
Goddard Lieberson wrote the program notes: Many of the songs
were written especially for Mr. Bauman, and all are the works of
young men who are at present actively engaged in the New York
musical scene. What Lieberson didnt mention, mainly because
for the New Masses audience it wasnt necessary, was that most
if not allof the young composers were also actively engaged in
22
progressive causes: musicians such as Marc Blitzstein, Earl Robinson, Alex North, Herbert Haufrecht, Norman Dello Joio, and Lan
Adomian.
I had asked those composers to write special songs for the Town
Hall concert. Liebersons song was set to a poem by C. Day Lewis
from A Time to Dance, a recasting of Christopher Marlowes
The Passionate Shepherd to My Love. When Lieberson became
an assistant to Moses Smith at Columbia Record Company, he suggested that Columbia record me singing the album of Shakespeare
songs.
In 1934 I recorded Strange Funeral (in Braddock, Pennsylvania), a poem by Michael Gold, a columnist at the Daily Worker
and author of Jews Without Money. A review of the record called
it explosive music and praised the wonderful declamation and
singing of Bauman. It is a dissonant work about a steel mill worker
who fell into a bucket of molten steel and was buried in the hardened metal. Anna Sokolow choreographed a dance based on the
poem; I sang it many times.
Henry Cowells New Music Society printed the music and produced the record, with Siegmeister playing the piano. I sang
Strange Funeral at Irving Plaza on June 17, 1935. Mike Gold was
on the program to participate in a discussion about workers music.
Ashley Pettis wrote in New Masses: The audience, as well as the
performers, were equally spirited and enthralled. I remember,
however, that Mike Gold, author of the poem, rose and said: I hate
it! Irma understands how he felt. She agrees: Its dicult music.
For my 83rd birthday, Irma surprised me with a CD transferred
from three fty-year-old record albums: Shakespeare Songs, Songs
of American Sailormen, and George M. Cohan Songs. Later we
transferred a private recording of the concert celebrating Charles
Ivess 85th birthday, along with excerpts from the recording of Pergolesis Music Master and songs from the collection Songs for Political Action. And even later we transferred to CD other recordings,
23
including two Schubert lieder, the narration from Paul Bunyan,

four Handel and Scarlatti arias, and other recordings from radio
performances. Those were transferred by Andy Heermans, with the
considerable help of Anthony Heilbut, author of The Gospel Sound
and Thomas Mann, Eros and Literature. Tony has been our great
friend since we read his wonderful book, Exiled in Paradise, about
refugee musicians and artists who lived in Hollywood in the thirties, including Brecht and Eisler, who were of particular interest
to us. Tony is a well-known gourmet, who has taken us to the most
extravagant restaurants in this city.
On January 28, 2003, an article in the New York Times announced
that the Library of Congress had established a Registry of Recordings. In the list of fty items, number 21 is Henry Cowells series
of records: New Music. Included are two of mine: the original Six
Songs of Charles Ives, from Cowells recording, and Elie Siegmeisters Strange Funeral.
Siegmeister was partly responsible for the start of my career as
an interpreter of contemporary songs. Elie knew that Hanns Eisler
needed a soloist to accompany him on a United States tour and he
recommended me. We traveled together to ten cities. I sang Eislers
songs many times during my career. Elie also introduced me to the
songs of Charles Ives and Modeste Moussorgsky.
In 1935 Leo Waldman, who was in the insurance business, set up
a small recording company he called Timely and began to produce a series of six ten-inch records of Labor and Protest songs,
with me as soloist. The rst was a set of three records of songs by
Hanns Eisler, with words by Bertolt Brecht. The New York Post of
June 12, 1937, reviewed the original Timely set:
The sentiments are not likely to please Tories, but these workers songs contain in them folk music that has not yet taken
on the quaintness of antiquity. They are sung simply and
eectively. The solo baritone of Mordecai Bauman merits special praise for clear tone, vigor and lucid enunciation which
24
make the most of the pointed words. Casey Jones is a gem.
Furthermore the discs have labels by Russell Limbach that add
to them an amusement value which records never had before.
The six labels were designed by well-known artists. William

Gropper was one of them. His 1948 cartoon of Hanns Eisler standing before J. Parnell Thomas, Chairman of the Congressional
House Un-American Activities Committee sitting on several phone
books to be visible above the desk is a classic, reproduced in many
books about Eisler. In May 2005 our friend Jrgen Schebera sent
us a new copy made from the original in the Eisler Society archive.
In the drawing, Eisler is portrayed as a revolutionary composer.
He is holding a copy of his revolutionary Brecht poem, In Praise
of Learning. In the background are revolutionary composers of
the past: Chopin (The Revolutionary Etude), Beethoven (Fidelio
Symphony [no such workhe probably meant the Eroica]), Verdi
(Garibaldi Hymn), Rossini (William Tell), Pierre Degayter (The
Marseillaise), and Tchaikovsky, Marche Slav. They were all revolutionaries in music!
In April 1996 a German company, The Bear Family, digitized
nine recordings I made in the thirties. The long, devastating
Strange Funeral is also included in the collection of ten CDs:
Songs of Political Action, 1926 to 1953: Folk Music, Topical Songs of
the American Left. Those CDs are handsomely packaged in a box
that includes a large book of pictures and articles about the songs
and performers. Two photos of me are included.
A video documentary about Bertolt Brechts life in America was
shown on PBS in December 1989. One of the original record labels
appears on the screen. The documentary was produced, written,
and lmed by two talented lmmakers who live in Berlin: Norbert
Bunge and Christine Fischer-Defoy. Albrecht Dmling, then director of the Hanns Eisler Society, suggested that I might know people in the United States who remembered Eisler and Brecht; some
of them were interviewed for the lm. I appear in it, singing an
25
Above: Hanns Eisler standing before

Rep. J. Parnell Thomas and the House
Un-American Activities Committee.
Cartoon by William Gropper, 1948.
Right: Hanns Eisler
excerpt of Eislers In Praise of Learning at the New School for

Social Research, across the street from our present apartment on
12th Street. I suggested that friends who remembered Eisler might
add comments about him to the documentary. In gratitude for my
help, Bunge oered to lm cities in West Germany for our then
soon-to-be- produced PBS/TV program about the life of Bach. In
exchange we paid a research bill for him in the United Statesnot
an unusual quid pro quo in creative endeavors.
In 1995 Larry Weinstein, producer and director at the Rhombus
Company in Toronto, came to talk to me about my tour with Eisler
in 1935. Larry was producing a documentary about Hanns Eislers
26
life. During the summer he lmed me on our roof garden. Solidarity Song was released in Germany, Holland, and Canada in
September 1996, and was nally shown on PBS Channel 13 in New
York. I am featured in several scenes. At the close of the documentary, our friend Jrgen Schebera comments:
The tragic thing about the life of Hanns Eisler and many of his
generation, for me, is that they were ready to sacrice everything for their communist ideals, but those responsible for
turning their ideals into reality didnt have the practical or the
intellectual capability. What was left of the communist ideal at
the end was a grotesque distortion.
In 2002 a German company produced a lm about Kurt Weill in

which I make a brief appearance, commenting on Weills inexperience in the nature of American rhythm. Jrgen Schebera was the
spokesman for the documentary.
When we lmed The Stations of Bach in the German Democratic
Republic (East Germany) in 1988, Jrgen acted as our liaison and
translator, taking two weeks from work to travel to all of Bachs
stations with us. We couldnt have managed without his energetic
help.
27
Chapter Two
Irma Commanday
HOTOGRAPHS OF ME as a young girl show an unhappy

child. I look at my baby picture, showing me in the arms of my
pretty mother when I was about a year old. Mother giggled as she
showed the photo to me, saying that she had to hold a piece of sugar
between her lips, bribing me to kiss her. If you look closely, you can
see the sugar in my hand. Perhaps I didnt feel loved; is that why I
was unwilling to be kissed? Is it because I was the rst child, and
female? Harriet Beecher Stowes father said he would give a hundred dollars if he could change Harriet into a boy and her brother
Henry into a girl. Having a son rst was very important to all ethnic
groups. My mother thought the sugar cube story was cute.
When my brother Maurice was born, I instinctively realized that
the male child was more important. I was almost three, a ticklish
age to be displaced. My relationship with our baby brother Robert
was very dierent because I was almost seven when he was born. I
took charge of him; he was mine. I loved him and still do. He was
the rst person I truly loved, uncritically, protectively.
Another unsmiling snapshot of me was taken on my fourth birthday. I am standing next to a doll, which is almost as tall as I was.
When the dolls arm came o in my hand, I was inconsolable. My
father promised to take it back to the store and bring me a new one,
28
but the doll never reappeared. A second childhood memory is of

falling out of the big double bed in my room. I woke up on the oor
crying, with a broken collarbone. My father came to my room, and
I screamed: Dont touch me! No parent could refuse to pick up
a fallen child, but it hurt more when he moved me. I never really
trusted him after that. So my earliest memories are of a dolls broken arm and my own broken shoulder. I can imagine how my father
felt when I fell from a horse at nineteen and permanently damaged
my right elbow, on the same arm. He was at his golf club; the story I
heard was that he broke a wooden putter over his knee in anger and
distress, adding a damaged golf club to the list of earlier breaks.
My father emigrated to the United States from the Ukraine at
an early age, arriving with his parents and an older brother at Fall
River, Massachusetts, then moving to the Boston area. He was
proud that he had attended the famous Boston Latin School. He
always told us that he supported his entire family from the age of
ten by selling newspapers. He was the second oldest of ve boys
Matthew, Frank, Victor, Charles, Josephand one girl, Rose.
My cousin Janice, Matthews daughter, insists, Not your father!
My father supported the family when he was ten. Frank learned
how to play the trumpet in high school and played in a local orchestra as a young man. Music was an important adjunct to his life. He
learned linotyping and moved to New York after he married my
mother in 1914. He started what grew into a thriving direct-mail
printing business: Commanday-Roth Company. He subsidized and
supported an adjunct linotype business for three of his brothers.
Charles died as the result of World War I gas attacks. Rose, one
of my favorite aunts, was with my mother when I was born, and
I always felt close to her. She never moved from the Boston area.
When years later Mordy and I lived in Massachusetts, I visited her
often, accepting her strong personalityrather admiring it.
My father (whom I always referred to as Frank to myself; it
was impossible for me to say dad or daddy to him) became
Above: Mother and

Irmabuying a kiss
with a sugar cube.
Right: Irma and doll
with a broken arm.
30
more proper than any proper

Bostonian, very particular about
our diction and grammar. How
many times we heard him scold my
friends, Stop saying I mean. Why
do you stutter you know when you
know I know? We would cringe in
embarrassment, but how right he
was! I now do the same thing to my
family, even to others. I cant stop
myself.
My brother Robert and I have
always been close; poor Maurice
Frank Commanday.
was always in the middle. He put
model airplanes together in his top-oor room, and made radios.
His experiments left his room messy. I have a sad memory of my
father whacking Maurice with the earphones of his small radio;
welts appeared on his back, round circles with indentations from
the metal grommets connecting the earpieces to the headband. As
a teenager, Maurice (then called Sonny) maintained our various
cars; his nails were always black. He crawled under the cars, learning to repair them, and grew up to be an engineer, continuing as
his hobby the renovation of second-hand Mercedes cars. I practiced
the piano, and Robert played ute. My younger brother and I have
similar interests; Maurice remained our other brother until his
death in July 2002.
I went to kindergarten when I was just ve, my father having
convinced the principal that I was already reading and that I was
mature for my age. So mature that I remember sneaking out through
the outside door of the cloak room and walking home up the hill by
myself. How did I cross the street, I wonder? My father spanked me
thoroughly. I graduated from Yonkers High School at sixteen, not
unusual in 1931.
C h a p t e r Tw o : I r m a C o m m a n d a y
31
My claim to fame began in Junior

High School, when I was chosen to be
the lead in the eighth-grade play Peg
o My Heart. The annual play was an
important event at Nathaniel Hawthorne Junior High School. I never
thought the director, Mr. La Fleur,
would choose me. My father, a frustrated actor, coached me for the audition. Smile with your eyes, he said.
I had a crush on Herman Rosenblum, the boy who was chosen for
the male lead. I remember nding it
Eighth grade: Peg o My Heart.
dicult to satisfy and please my father
and to control my adolescent longing for the nal happy-ending kiss
on stage, which we never dared rehearse. I also worried about performing a spontaneous dance and song at the end. I felt awkward
and self-conscious about dancing. Enthusiastic applause wasnt
enough. I kept asking my father, How was the song? Was the dance
graceful? It must have been memorablealthough everyone in the
school knew my real name, after the play some friends called me
Peg for years. Herman did kiss me as the curtain fell. As it was
raised for our bows, he was tugging at his crotch, to the delight of
the audience.
I was born on 155th Street in New York City, August 10, 1915. We
moved to Rollins Street in South Yonkers, near McLean Avenue,
a few months after my birth. Four years later my father bought a
house at 18 Ridge Road, halfway up Park Hill. Yonkers, the story
goes, is built on nine hills, like Rome. I trudged up that hill thousands of times. We realize as adults that hills loomed as mountains
when we were young. Now Park Hill is a low-rise slope, hardly the
exaggerated hill I remember.
We moved to Yonkers because my mothers sister, Anna Ruben-
32
stein, lived there higher up the hill.

Up the hill became the signal that
we were going to Aunt Annas house
for Sunday dinner, or to be with my
grandfather Jacob Krieger, called
Lampoo. No one knows the origin of
that nickname, but my oldest cousin
Adele, called Teddy, claimed she made
it up. We adored Lampoo. He lived on
the top oor of the Rubenstein house
and played classical music for us on
their wind-up Victrola, mostly opera
arias. My mother took many photos
Lampoo with Irma
of us sitting on his knees or hugging
and Maurice.
himmaybe posed, but hardly forced.
He never mentioned his wife; we never asked. I was twelve when
he died, and it devastated me. For the rest of my life, Ill remember
the grief I felt then. Knowing he was ill, I left Sunday school and
climbed up the back hill to get to Aunt Annas house, singing to
myself all the way: God help me to get up this hill, God help me to
get up this hill. That was the last cry to God I ever prayed. When
I arrived, my cousins, Teddy and Norma, told me that Lampoo was
dead.
As one walked farther up the hill, the standing of residents rose
too: lumpen proletariat at the bottom (mainly Irish); middle-bourgeois half-way up; haute at the top where the Bennetts lived.
Their gorgeous girls, Constance and Joan, went o to Hollywood,
where they became stars. Our Ridge Road house, two blocks up the
hill, was a three-story, conventional stucco building. On either side
were larger wooden houses; the one on the right where the Coopers lived was grander than others on the block, with a large formal
garden in back. One year, Leo Cooper won the lottery in the Irish
Derby$10,000, as I rememberwhich made it possible for him to
33
start a business making nurses uniforms. He became a millionaire

during World War I.
One day as I walked by the house, Leo and his wife Frances were
kissing passionately in the hall behind the open front door, startling me. I had never seen my parents show any aection for one
another, much less passion. Leos son Bobby Cooper was my brother
Roberts age. Bobby remained Bobby and Robert Robert; thats how
we knew the dierence between them when my mother or Frances
called the boys to come in.
My adolescent years were xated on my dicult relationship
with my father, but I always had a serene sense of my own identity.
I was an iconoclast, dierent from my girlfriends, unwilling to be a
conventional participant in their small-town lives. I refused to join
the high school sorority until I was the only one left outside the
group. And even then, I would not allow my sisters to haze me.
Carry your books to school, Marion! Not me.
I played the organ at Temple Emanuel, where my father was president of the congregation. It kept me busy and out of Sunday school
classes, avoiding rigid Hebrew study, creating my own niche. Even
as a child, my unique name made me feel like a special person. I
always knew that no one else could be Irma Commanday. In the
ninth grade I was assigned a part in another play, nothing like the
Irish lass of Peg. It was the part of an adult, which I performed
poorly. But the success of Peg o My Heart encouraged me. I wanted
to study acting, and I was the only one among my Yonkers High
School friends who focused on a career.
I had enough credits to nish classes in February of my senior
year. I was free during the spring, so my father enrolled me in the
American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York, trying to support my dreams. He drove me to town almost every day; we argued
all the way. On days he was not able to take me, or I refused to
ride with him, I walked a mile to the trolley on Broadway to the
Van Cortlandt Park subway station. It was a normal commuting
34
pattern at that time; a nickel for the trolley and another for the
subway. Sometimes I came home by train from Grand Central to
Ludlow station to gossip with my friend Mildred Blumberg, who
lived near the station. I walked home from there, more than a mile.
Millie and I have remained close for the rest of our lives. She had
a distinguished career as executive director of the Bergen County,
New Jersey, Oce on Aging. It was the rst government agency for
the elderly in the country under the Older Americans Act of 1965.
When we encounter problems as we age, we consult Millie.
I was much too young to meet the drama school requirements
after the rst semester. I enjoyed knowing some of my classmates.
Martin Gabel teased me. We met one day on Fifth Avenue; he was
with Julian Schnabel, who became as well-known an artist as Martin was an actor. They stopped me, and Martin said Irma Commanday! When are you going to do something about your hair? I
had no clue what I should or might do with my hair; my high school
classmates used to call me the girl with the hair like straw. Now
that its white its my crowning glory! Garson Kanin, who became
our most famous classmate, directing and writing lms in Hollywood and plays on Broadway, was so small and unassuming that I
was sorry for him and chose him to be my Romeo in our assigned
Shakespeare scene.
But, more important, my stern father was determined that I go
to college. He had more condence in me than I realized. I had
done well in high school, although I dont remember working hard.
Yonkers High School hadnt really prepared me to apply to college,
and I think I was more interested in having a special boyfriend,
which I didnt. In a later generation I would have been a dropout,
hanging out for a year or two until I matured. At that period and in
my milieu, it was unheard of.
Since I refused to apply to a traditional college, Frank found a
school in New York that he could persuade me to go to. New College
was an experimental undergraduate section of Teachers College at
35
Columbia University. But I wouldnt nish that school either; after

three years I got married instead. I fought continually with Frank,
about politics, about dating, about my allowance. We never did
agree about anything throughout his life. My mother tried to intervene; my brothers kept their distance.
Janice, a psychologist and lifelong friend as well as rst cousin,
told me she has always thought of Frank as the Commanday family tyrant. She visited my parents as a young girl with her sister
and fatherher mother had died early of cancer. (I remember that
Lenas doctor overlooked a lump under her arm; perhaps that would
not happen today, a lesson for us all.) Janice reported her fathers
uneasiness in our house, which Matthew tolerated because it was
important for him to stay in Franks orbit. My father had set three of
his brothers up in business, on the oor above Commanday-Roth:
Matthew, Victor (we called him the rabbi) and Joe; our favorite.
They depended on his printing business for their livelihood.
My mother was an even more outspoken critic of family visitors,
greeting adolescent Janice with, When are you going to get that
mole on your face removed? You know your mother died of cancer.
And to Eileen, Where did you get that dreadful dress? You have no
taste at all.
Our father was a successful businessman; he would have been
successful at anything he tried. During my college years he decided
to study law; he went to school at night and, as far as I know, nished the course. He was a self-taught musician who was a member
of a Boston orchestra in his youth. When the trumpet bored him, he
learned to play the French horn, because he felt the horn repertoire
was more melodic. He joined the Westchester Symphony orchestra,
and was active in that group for years. When my brother Robert was
studying ute, Frank also tried to master that instrument; it made
him feel close to Robert. Funny enough, I dont remember that my
parents ever went to concerts in New York.
The Commanday-Roth Company was unique in many ways. Frank
36
hired an art director long before other printing companies did, and
the executive position was lled by a womaneven more unusual
at that time. There were four four-color presses in the plant. The
employees were members of the printers union, which Frank had
to tolerate. His partner, Lou Roth, was in charge of the plant; Frank
supervised the content and design of the printed material.
In what became for me somewhat ironic, long after I left home,
Frank and his friend Alvin Silverman (as Alvin Austin) created
Fathers Day. In a June 1999 article, The New Yorker gave the credit
to Alvin, but we know how much Frank contributed to the project.
He established the Fathers Day Council and printed all the material connected with it: posters, yers, and advertisements.
Frank was ever the boss, both at his printing plant in lower
Manhattan and at home. When he arrived at our Park Hill home
each night after exasperating days at work, the rst thing he did
was glare at the hall table, growling his displeasure at the clutter:
homework books, magazines (Look, Life, The Saturday Evening
Post), maybe even a lunch box. He swept it all o the table to the
oor. Maurice would run to rescue his belongings, grumbling and
complaining.
Robert was able to mollify the electric moment. Not me. Sullenly, I would take my books, retreat to my room and shut myself
in. Leave Irma alone, was my mothers constant admonition.
Our bedroom doors were always shut, the upstairs hall silent and
empty. I was spoiled, having had my own room since early childhood. Sleeping in the same bed with anyone, my snoring husband
especially, has taken considerable accommodation on my part.
Franks obsession for keeping the top of the hall table cleared
became symbolic of his life. After he died we had occasion to go into
his oce, a large corner room overlooking Varick and King Streets,
south of Greenwich Village. His desktop was empty, spotless except
for a calendar and pen set. But ah, when I opened the top drawer!
There was the same mess and dust we had tried to hide in the nar-
37
row drawer of the hall table, which he never opened. Everything

neat and ordered on the surface, but all messed up underneath.
Golf was another of Franks passions. He was an excellent athlete, a member of the Metropolis Country Club in White Plains. He
hit golf balls against a canvas curtain in the garage and practiced
the French horn at night. I can hear the thwack of the golf balls
against the curtain and the famous horn passage from Till Eulenspiegel to this day.
My brothers refer to his kind of obsessive activity as the Commanday compulsion. We three spoke ruefully about watching our
father run behind the lawn mower, on our two by four front yard.
He never seemed to relax or enjoy himself. Even on the golf course,
he pushed himself relentlessly to improve his score. My brother
Robert writes about our father:
It was the depths of the Depression, and he decided to go
to night law school because of his everlasting drive for selfimprovement and education, and to keep himself sane, Im
convinced. There was no point in his putting more time into
Commanday-Roth because there wasnt the business, so he
escaped by plunging into something that kept him studying
late into the wee hours of the morning every night. Commanday-Roth was on the ropes, but he was determined to keep the
men on the payroll and keep it going. Somehow or other, our
neighbor Leo Coopers accountant, a highly regarded man,
was brought into it, and he looked over the books and recommended that Commanday-Roth pay o ten cents on the dollar,
under Chapter 11. Frank thought that was dishonest, unprincipled, whatever, and certainly Lou Roth took the same position. They managed to pay everything o, and I suppose the
war business saved their hash; they survived. He graduated
38
law school. He never intended to practice law, always said that
it would make a better business man of him. There was talk of
his taking the bar in another state where it would be easier,
but he never did.
A few family tales from this time continue to amuse us. My

mother loved to make fudge, and we loved eating it. I learned
the secret recipe and often made candy for my brothers when our
parents were out. Mother realized what we did, and took to hiding
the cocoa before she left. But she often forgot where she put it,
so she decided to conde in Robert, her baby. One night after our
parents had gone out, she came back briey, having left her purse.
What she heard was Roberts voice as he opened his door and sang
out a message to me in the empty hall: I know where the cocoa
is! Robert and I also remember the only time we were pummeling
each otherabout what I cant imagine. Maurice came to separate
us and we both turned on him, punching and scratching the one
between us.
Mordy calls my mothers personality smart-alecky. Betty was a
master of the appropriate put-down. Some of her relatives thought
she was cute; her children were all too often abashed at her behavior. Her older sister, Aunt Anna, tolerated, or perhaps enjoyed,
Bettys tart comments. Because Anna went to Palm Beach, Florida,
in winters, thats where Betty went. In summers she followed Anna
to Ogunquit, Maine. When that was no longer stylish, they chose
Kennebunkport.
Until my brother Maurice went to Elizavetgrad, where Frank was
born, to search for our ancestry in the synagogue, I always thought
that Commanday was a made-up name. I never really believed
Franks bobbe meisse that his name proved his Sephardic roots. It
was a surprise to me that Maurice found our great grandfathers
name still in the synagogue records: Matthew Koma, the
Spanish Jew. So, indeed, our forefathers emigrated from Spain
during the Inquisition, via Turkey to the Ukraine in Russia.
39
Commanday Family History

On July 6, 1991, my brother Maurice sent Commanday relatives
a letter about his research in Russia. An excerpt follows:
During the course of my communications with the municipality [of Elisavetgrad, a city near Kiev now known as Kirovograd] which has been a closed (to foreign tourism) city until
the rst of February this year, I had occasion to inquire about
Jews still living there. My correspondent indicated that there
were many thousand and that they had recently formed an association to re-establish their traditions . . . [He went with our
cousin, Marshall Aronson] on April 29, 1991.] As luck would
have it, we were probably the rst American visitors in over
seventy years, and our welcome was overwhelming.
Upon our arrival they presented me with copies of ten birth
records and one marriage record which they had painstakingly
gleaned from the surviving archives! They seem to completely
dene the family as it lived in Elisavetgrad. Earlier . . . they
supplied me with a fairly detailed history of the city. . . . Now
it is possible to dene the family with condence as it existed
in those days at that place. . . . Sometime around the 1850s,
Mathieu and his wife Chava arrived in Elisavetgrad. It is most
likely that they came from the Ottoman Empire, possibly
from Turkey (Istanbul), Bulgaria or Greece. In 1860 their son
Moshko (my grandfather) was born. In December 1862 daughter Genya was born; in February 1865 a son, Pinkus, was born.
Their youngest, Sarah, came into the world in July 1868. Of
these four children we know only of Moshko (Morris). It can be
assumed that the others either died without issue as adults, or
perished as children as no recorded marriage or births deriving from them were found. That would coincide with Franks
assurances that we left no relatives in Elisavetgrad.
Moshe and Zelda had eight children. This comes as a surprise as we only knew of six. Apparently they lost two girls:
Brana, born in 1883 and Esther Leah, born in 1888. Matthew
was born on December 6, 1884. Frank (then called Zelig) was
born on April 5, 1888 (and not on December 25th as he had
40
us believing). Victor was born on June 3, 1889. . . . In these
records Moshko is called Moise. In 1891 Charles was born. . . .
The 1890 U.S. census data from Fall River says that Morris . . . immigrated in 1890 and that Jennie (Zelda) and the
four boys arrived seven years later in 1897. It is perhaps more
likely that they arrived in 1893, as Frank said he was ve when
they arrived. [We might nd this information in ship passenger lists.]
In all of the Elisavetgrad records the name is spelled
Koma in the Cyrillic alphabet. This is exactly pronounced as we pronounce our name today! It is consistent
with what Frank told me: that the K was changed to C after
they came to terms with English pronunciation. . . . This must
have occurred after the 1900 census which shows the name
as Comminda. . . . there is no doubt now about our name in
Elisavetgrad. It was surely Koma, pronounced Commanday; Whether or not it was corrupted from Camondo is
another story. [The Camondo family was prominent in France;
a Camondo Museum exists in Paris.]
S tories about my mother are endless. One of her cousins, Lily

Miller, became a xture on Merv Grins television talk show.
Lily was an odd duck. She was a typist/clerk and lived in the theater district, near Times Square in New York. When she retired,
she frequented television programs, where her quirky personality
soon made her a regular. Merv Grin loved her, calling her to the
stage and payingd her the standard fee. Eventually she moved to
Los Angeles, and when the Grin show moved there, he was happy
to see her in the audience of the show.
One afternoon my mother, visiting Lily in L. A., joined her at
the TV program. Grin recognized her and called out, Hello Miss
Miller; Im surprised to see you. And who is that with you?
Thats my cousin, she told him.
And whats your name, cousin? Merv asked.
Mother answered in her fresh manner, Robert Commanday.
41
She was deeply involved with my brother and his career and could
only think of bringing him into the action. Robert was mortied.
Another classic Betty story took place the year after Mordy
came home from the war and we lived with my parents in Yonkers.
When summer began, my mother would move to Maine to be with
her sister. Boxes were loaded into my fathers enormous twelvecylinder two-seater Lincoln. Only two people could ride in it, but
it looked like a limousine. The trunk seemed to stretch on forever.
Mordy learned Bettys contrary style when he tried to help Frank
load the car for the trip. My fathers routine was to take my mothers
important household items to his shipping department and mail
them to Maine, so that he and Betty could ride in comfort, no packages crowding them out. My mother packed the kitchen utensils she
couldnt manage without, and linens, summer clothes, and all sorts
of my aunts necessities. Mordy carried cartons from the house and
handed them to my father as he stacked them in the trunk, then in
the narrow area behind the bucket seats. My father muttered under
his breath: When will this stop? Are we moving the entire house
to Kennebunkport? How many more boxes can I drag down to the
plant? The mutterings soon became tirades. It was inevitable that
Mordy would knock down one of the empty milk bottles stacked on
the front porch to be picked up by the milkman in the morning. A
bottle smashed on the concrete steps. My fathers face was purple.
He screamed at my mother. I will not take another box! When will
you be a reasonable human being? Now look what happened. How
much more can I get into this auto? Mother called out gaily from
the kitchen: Get a bigger car!
I remember that boys in Yonkers High School called me the
girl with the bedroom eyes. Im not sure I knew then what they
meant. I think now it was because of my rather heavy eyelids and
the way I looked directly at them. I was not extraordinarily popular, but I had enough dates. It was soon after I started at New College that I met Bill Schuman in the student loungehe was known
42
then as Billy. I was just eighteen, he was twenty-three, studying

Education at Teachers College. Our mutual infatuation lasted for
years, always exciting, never requited. I was about eighty when an
acquaintance mentioned Bill during the intermission at a concert
of Hanns Eislers music. She wasnt very interested in contemporary music, she told me, but a friend of hers was an old girlfriend
of Bill Schumans,and used to talk about his music. I did know that
there was a gaggle of those women. And she added: She told me
that he said he had broken his engagement to his ance because
of her. I couldnt say a word; he had said the same thing to me! By
that time I had decided that in spite of our longstanding aair, I
didnt really like him very much.
The climax of my poor relationship with Frank came in the summer of 1934. In previous summers I had worked at the switchboard
in my fathers printing plant. That summer I moved on to clerical
work at school, working for Dr. Thomas Alexander, the president of
New College. The arrangement was casualnot exactly 9 to 5, with
minimal pay. Alexander was writing his memoir, emphasizing his
educational theories. As I typed the manuscript, I began to make
editorial suggestions; some nerve, I think today. But Dr. Alexander accepted them, and soon I was editing as I went along. Alexander was inuenced by twenties German educational philosophy,
now understood as authoritarian. Today some of us might call him a
neo-conservative, but the sta at New College was progressive, and
I learned about radical politics from other students.
Frank continued to drive me to New York from Yonkers, taking
me to the city on his way downtown to his printing plant. We were
still arguing: Sometimes for entire days, even weeks, I refused to
talk to him. He read Republican papers, voted for Hoover. I read
PM. (The paper was called PM because it came out in the afternoon, as we remember; it was a ne paper, progressive politically,
and well-written. Most of our friends read it.) Frank hated it when I
went out at night, although I never dared come home late. I didnt
43
drink and may have smoked as much as one full pack of cigarettes
in my entire life. He would have beaten me if he saw me smoke! But
I couldnt make him happy, and he often made me miserable.
One night I came home at 10:30 p.m. which, for some reason,
made him crazy. I was already in bed when he came into my room.
Woman of the streets, he screamed at me. My mother tried to
drag him away as he shook me and put his hands around my throat,
threateningly. I was eighteen, and had I been more daring I would
have left home. But where would I have gone? I only knew Yonkers.
What I did was tell my singing teacher, Betty Rustigian, that my
throat hurt; it really did. I was not able to sing a note. Betty reported
that to Dr. Alexander, and he said that I had to leave home, and that
he would arrange it. He called Frank, serious discussions must have
ensued, agreements reached. I was shipped o to the college summer program in North Carolina.
New College community was unique at the time, and was at rst
a breath of fresh air to me. It was in a farming community not far
from Asheville. During summers the group was quite large; it dwindled in the winter to about a dozen of us. The summer program was
camp-like. New College students were counselors to younger children. I accompanied the Gilbert & Sullivan musicals we put on for
the campers and local hill people. I made birthday cakes, copying
my mothers recipe of plain white butter cakes. I was sure I could do
it and managed to disguise many disasters. One I couldnt hide was
a frosting calamity. I added too much liquid and used I dont know
how many boxes of confectioners sugar to soak up the coee and
milk. I buried the mess, feeling like a criminal.
In the winter we worked the farm between classes. I cleaned the
chicken house and learned how to milk a cow. Those particular
skills have been of no further use to me. I read a lot, played the
piano, found a hill-billy North Carolina boyfriend, went to revival
meetings at the local church with him, and sang I wonder as I wander, out under the sky. I loved the landscape and the view of Pisgah
Mountain from my window.
44
It wasnt a completely salutary experience. My roommate was

sexually involved with her boyfriend in our room. I dont know that
I was shocked exactly, but it made me uncomfortable to nd the
door locked, worse when it wasnt. Finally everyone knew about it;
the dnouement was that they married, briey.
A serious tragedy at New College Community aected us all. It
was the second time the use of a gun aected me personally. The
rst occurred when I was still in high school; we learned that the
doctor father of one of our friends aborted the pregnancy of a young
girl and she died. Her lover was a policeman; it became a newsworthy scandal in Yonkers. Shortly thereafter, as I was walking past my
friend Estelles house she came outside, crying. Her father had shot
himself. This shocked us all and aected me personallyI swore I
would never have an abortion. The problem never arose for me, but
I was deeply pained and couldnt forget it. Every time we saw Estelle
we shivered, sad for her and frightened for ourselves.
The North Carolina tragedy was a mountaineer murder story, but
quite dierent from todays news items. My local boyfriend, Earl
Kuykendall, was a handsome backwoods boy who probably went on
to the city and a professional career. He was bright and interested
in what went on at our college community, not only in necking with
me. I used to visit his family cabin, where he was the caretaker of
two younger sisters. It was with them that I went to church meetings, and it was in their home that I witnessed Appalachian poverty:
water carried from the river, strange food, and only an outhouse
toilet. Earl used to go hunting with his friend Moody Pless, whose
father, Luther, owned the farm the college rented. I felt very close
to the Pless family; they let me ride their horse, and I thought of
their dog, Joe, as my own.
After a futile hunt one day, Earl and Moody leaned their similar
ries against a tree and sat down for some sandwiches and coee.
When they decided to go home, each picked up what he thought was
his own gun. One, it turned out, was still loaded, the other empty.
45
They arrived at the Pless farmhouse, where Moodys girlfriend was

sitting in the sun with Luther. Bang Bang, Ill shoot you, joked
Moody. And thats exactly what he did. He had picked up Earls stillloaded rie instead of his own. It was a dreadful experience for the
entire community. We all attended her funeral.
Earl was stunned, Moody in a state of shock. I had never touched
a gun and never could subsequently. We talked about it all the time.
There was a lot of crying. Golly, Trick (thats what Earl called
me), Golly, what can I do? I saw him rarely after that. I have no
idea what became of any of them.
Finally at some point in the spring I decided I had been on a farm
long enough. Although we had teachers and classes, I wasnt learning much of anything except that I didnt belong there. In my confusion I wrote to one of my earliest boyfriends, an intern at Mt. Sinai
Hospital. He answered my plea for advice and convinced me that it
would take as much courage to quit as to stay. That was the impetus
I needed; I went home in the spring. Shortly after coming home, I
began to develop large sores on my face and neck; the condition was
diagnosed as a withdrawal symptom from saltpeter, the depressant
secretly added to our food. Supposedly it limited our sexual appetite. I dont think it worked, but dependency must have resulted in
a chemical imbalance in my system.
My mothers famous doctor, Dr. Herbert Chase, was a wonderful diagnostician, and hed had experience with children of his
wealthy patients after they came home from private schools, hopefully force-fed the same sexual depressant. He gured it out, and I
was quickly cured.
My only remaining friend from that school was Milton Stern.
Milton developed the continuing education program at New York
University (NYU); later he was dean of the extension school at the
University of California at Berkeley. His contribution to the eld is
an important one; he traveled all over the world speaking about the
need for adults to continue learning. When Milton lived in Berke-
46
ley, he often read my brothers music reviews in the San Francisco

Chronicle. One day he decided to call Robert and ask, Are you
related to Irma Commanday? We were in close touch until he died
in 1996. Milton appears with the rest of the small winter group in
Franks 1935 lm, taken during my parents visit to North Carolina:
There I am, riding Luthers horse, milking a cow, gathering eggs in
the hen house. What strange activities for someone who grew up in
middle-class suburbia.
After I came home, on the Fourth of July 1935, I went to a dance
with my parents at the Metropolis Country Club and met Carlos
Israels. He was my fathers occasional golf partner, the subject of
Franks rare tease: Mrs. Judge Israels, he called me. Why Frank
thought hed make a good husband for me Ive no idea. Later he
denied matchmaking or teasing. When Carlos asked me to dance,
I challenged him with, When are we going to be married? What
puzzles me today is not only wondering why I made that sudden
impetuous remark, but why Carlos responded. Perhaps I did what
I sensed Frank would approve. Perhaps Carlos, at thirty-one, was
ready to marry. Less than three months later on September 25,
1935, we were married in my parents house in Yonkers.
I knew before the wedding, however, that I was making a dreadful mistake. I ed one day to Tibbets Brook Park and sat in the
woods crying. I had no idea how to get out of this commitment.
An important inuence was Carloss stepfather, Henry Moskowitz,
with whom I had rapidly fallen in love. I knew him for only a year
before he died, so in love may be an exaggeration, but I know I
admired him more than anyone I had known. He was terribly nice
to me. I never wanted to disappoint Henry, and I tried to hide my
unhappiness in my marriage from him.
Carlos and I spent our wedding night at the Waldorf Astoria. I
walked out on to the balcony and thought about jumping over the
railing. I mused over it, but I was never seriously suicidal. I carried Roberts baby picture with me, although he was 13 years old.
47
I put it on the dresser as a sort of

icon. Carlos must have thought
me batty. We went to bed, and
I experienced intercourse for the
rst time. We were both surprised,
but it was not a dicult sexual
beginning. Next day we went to the
theater and somehow missed dinner. Our honeymoon was a boat
trip through the Panama Canal to
California. The rst thing Carlos
did on the boat was to shout at the
Chinese steward because he had no
Irma and Carlos.
food to oer us. I was so upset by
his upper class behavior that I ran to the stateroom and locked
the bridegroom out. An inauspicious beginning of what was supposed to be an auspicious marriage.
We went to Hollywood, where we stayed for a week in Edward G.
Robinsons glamorous Rexford Drive mansion. In his youth, Robinson studied at the Educational Alliance on the lower East Side of
New York where Carloss mother, Belle Lindner (later Israels and
then Moskowitz) was in charge of the drama program. She had only
recently died, and Robinson still mourned her loss. Neither Carlos
nor Henry ever talked to me about her.
Henry arranged for Eddie (as we knew him) to invite us to spend
our honeymoon in his house. I was just twenty; my husband, thirtyone, was a lawyer in a prestigious Wall Street law rm, White and
Case. He was the token Jew in the rm, accustomed to being
with judges, politicians, actors, and journalists. We met his mothers friends and colleagues, Hollywood lm stars, and important
producers, and went to grand movie openings. My head swam.
Two memorable events especially come to mind. We went to a
studio to meet Aline MacMahon and Victor McLaglen as they waited
48
for their scene to be lmed. Big stars then, they are forgotten today,
although in September 2002 I saw a bronze bust of Aline in an
alcove at the Performing Arts Library at Lincoln Center; someone
must have remembered her as a wonderful and important actress,
fty years before. Aline took one look at me and wept; I reminded
her of Belle. Is that why Carlos married me, because I looked like
his mother? Not unusual, I suppose.
We also attended the opening of the lm A Midsummer Nights
Dream. Mickey Rooney starred as PuckIve forgotten the others.
We were guests of William de Milles daughter. She reported great
praise for the actors and the music, and complained that no one
mentioned the author. Seemed funny at the time.
I looked at Robinsons marvelous collection of French Impressionist and Cubist paintings as I walked down the hall to our bedroom: Picasso, Matisse, Cezanne, and others. I must have been
impressed, but I knew little about the painters then except that
they must be famous! I was brought somewhat down to earth when
I tried to entertain the Robinson child, Manny. An expert with little boys after years of baby-sitting for Robert, I was shocked when
Manny hit me. Even at three he was disturbed, and years later his
life ended in suicide.
Eddie wasnt home much while we were in his house, but he
arranged for our entertainment. His wife Gladys did little more
than tolerate our visit. Long after Eddie died, she invited me to a
party in New York. What a lovely mink coat, I said, stroking it as
she put it on the bed.
Thats a sable, she snapped.
After our honeymoon we went back to New York by train via the
Grand Canyon, where we rode on donkeys down to the riverbed.
It was shortly after I met Carlos that I had broken my elbow in a
horseback riding accident and it was nerve-racking to get back on a
large animal and ride down that steep trail. My arm was still painful, but I held on. A few pictures from that period remind me of the
49
trip: the Chinese steward on the boat; donkeys following us down

the canyon path; Manny Robinson on a swing in the garden, scowling at me; Aline MacMahon and Victor McLaglen in costume on the
Hollywood movie set for Tug Boat Annie.
When we returned, we moved into Henry Moskowitzs town-house
on West 94th Street, between Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues.
I became his hostess. Henry sat me down at his desk and gave me
the household checkbook; Ive been keeper of accounts ever since.
He had a cook, chaueur/butler, and housemaid. Carloss mother,
Belle Moskowitz, had died before I met Carlos; however, she had a
strong inuence on my life. Belle was prominent in New York State
politics as Governor Alfred E. Smiths political strategist. When my
daughter Elisabeth wrote a ne book about her grandmother many
years later, I began to understand Belles strength, her position as
public person, and the eect of her busy political life on her three
children.
Henrys career was also a public one. He was a labor mediator
for the printing and clothing industries. He was the rst director
of the League of New York Theaters. Because of those associations,
his home was the meeting place for well-known personalities. He
held open house every Sunday night. The German cook prepared
a spread that always included cold roast beef, a green salad, potato
salad, and apple pies for dessert. Henry enjoyed his routine of mixing salad dressing every night, a formality that was new to me. I
must have been bewildereda twenty-year-old exposed to New York
intelligentsia.
I loved talking to Henry. Carlos and I developed the habit of
stopping in his second oor bedroom before going to our third oor
suite. Henry liked to gossip about the people he had been with or
those we had met, analyzing people, commenting about current
politics, laughing a lot. I wasnt prepared to be so challenged, and
I never anticipated that I would so enjoy living with anybody; it
was a new life. But I was an unhappy twenty-year-old bride. I com-
50
plained a lot to Carloss cousin, Louise Lindner, about his smoking

and other personal habits that disturbed me. He wont even empty
his smelly ashtrays, I told her.
Louise was Belles favorite niece; Belle left Louise ve hundred
dollars in her will, her only personal bequest. The small inheritance, not so small in 1935, may have helped Louise decide to leave
Cleveland, where her father was an executive in a large department
store. She came to New York to work in the garment industry, then
married Lee Epstein and moved to Westchester. We occasionally
met for lunch.
When Lee graduated from Harvard Law School, he came to see
Henry for a heart-to-heart talk. I was with Henry in the library
when Lee arrived; I wonder now why Lee didnt ask me to leave.
But it wasnt a big secret: Lee was planning to change his name
from Epstein to Eastman, because he had realized at Harvard that
a Jewish name would be a drawback in the legal profession. I think
he was uncertain and needed Henrys acceptance and continued
friendship. Henry was the moral arbiter for us all.
Henry shrugged, I havent done so badly as Henry Moskowitz,
he said. My name is really Henry Joseph, which might have been
easier for me and Belle in politics. (In Robert Caros book about
Bob Moses, the chapter on Belle is titled: Mrs. M.) When I came
to Ellis Island, they renamed me Moskowitz because that was my
sponsors name. So thats my name. You do what you want, Lee. I
have no comment to make. Of course he had made the comment
already.
The sad coda to this tale is that some years later, Louise was
killed in a plane accident. Her daughters were very young. The
only time I saw the girls was for a brief moment when we met on a
train. My son Joshua and I had visited Elisabeth in Los Angeles; on
the return ight I recognized Lee sitting behind us with their two
young daughters. Bad weather closed the New York airports. After
circling around endlessly we nally landed in Philadelphia and took
51
the train to New York; we all sat together. Lee was still shaking with
anxiety about the plane trip, traumatized by his wifes recent death.
Mordy met us at Pennsylvania Station; it must have been two oclock
in the morning, so we quickly said goodbye, and I hugged the girls.
One of those daughters, Linda, became Mrs. Paul McCartney.
When we moved in with Henry, Carloss brother Josef Israels II
was in Ethiopia, where he was public relations director for Haile
Selassie. I assume Belle had arranged that job through her contacts.
Joe Israels was a peculiar man. His great-uncle was the famous
Dutch painter, Josef Israels; Joe was named for him and was always
known as Josef Israels II. When Carlos announced that we were
engaged, Joe listened in the library at 94th Street, sitting like a
huge, fat Buddha, saying nothing. No one told me much about him;
he was away in Ethiopia the year we lived with Henry. I saw him
only that once.
Joe and his wife Aileen had lived with Henry, butwe were told
while we were on our honeymoonshe had moved to be with her
mother while Joe was away. I didnt nd out until we got home that
Aileen had been thrown out by Henry, who discovered her having
breakfast one morning with a male friend of Joes. Henry was a kind
man but a nineteenth-century moralist. As it turns out, Aileen was
an adulteress with a timeless sense of justice. The large bedroom we
planned to live in on the top oor was locked. When Henry called a
locksmith to open the door, we found the room completely trashed.
It had only recently been redecorated. Aileen moved her furniture
out, then did what she could to destroy the room so that we couldnt
use it. She chopped out the glass bricks that framed the replace
and tore the wallpaper to shreds. The only possibilities for us to live
in were two small back bedrooms with a passageway between. Nothing to do but for me to move into Joes single room in the middle of
the oor. Neither room had space for a double bed. Carlos moved
back into his former tiny back room while the main bedroom was
renovated.
52
What I soon discovered, very soon, was that Joe owned one of the
largest collections of pornography in the United States. What can I
say about sleeping in a room alone, taunted and tormented by hundreds of sexy books? Thats what educated and entertained me until
I grew exhausted and bored. When the front bedroom was nally
emptied, Lucian Bernhard redecorated and refurnished it, and we
added a modern bathroom between the bedrooms; Carlos and I
nally moved in together. The rst night we slept in our own room
I discovered that the wall behind our beds touched the thin wall of
the rooming house next door. I was awakened early every morning
by the radio of the tenant behind us; sound from a neighbor still
feels like an invasion to me. It was the cause of many arguments
between Carlos and me when I begged him to say something to
the man behind our shared wall.
Years later, when Elisabeth was writing her book about Belle, we
made an appointment to visit the 94th Street house. Most of the
brownstones on that block had been razed for apartment houses;
a few are still rooming houses, even fewer are private homes. The
young woman living in number 47 was fascinated to hear stories
about my year in that residence. It was only a year, and that seems
strange to me, because so much happened then thats still so clear.
As I told the current resident, the house was modernized before
Belle died in 1933. The front living room was furnished in 1930s
contemporary style; the dining room beyond was more traditional.
When I lived there we ate grandly, served by the chaueur/butler,
Henry presiding over the meat-cutting and salad-dressing-making
rituals.
In the basement were the kitchen and the room where the cook
and her husband lived. The second oor front room was the library;
in the back was Henrys bedroom and bath. It was in the library
that I spent most of my time, behind Henrys desk signing checks,
listening to records, or reading. It was in that desk that I found a
telegram from Dr. A. A. Brill, a world famous psychiatrist and biog-
53
rapher of Freud. He warned Joes mother, Belle, not to frustrate

Joe, to give him $75 a week for allowance or he, Dr. Brill, could not
be responsible for Joes actions. I never talked to anyone about what
I read, rst hiding the telegram and eventually tearing it up.
My interest in acting had no outlet during these years, although
I did play a certain role in the theater. Carlos knew John Houseman through his stepfathers theatrical connections. Jack was an
illegal alien living in the United States. Carlos arranged for him to
leave the country and come back with a proper visa. After the Federal Theater Project collapsed, Jack and Orson Welles decided to
establish their own theater. Carlos was Jacks lawyer and responsible for much of the legal work for the Mercury Theater. He assigned
the role as treasurer of the company to me, a corporate form-signing detail. I sat in on meetings with Jack and Orson, barely understanding what I was doing. I certainly had no clue that theatrical
history was being made.
I didnt like Orson. He was a big kid, just my age, and full of himself. He told stories about his past exploits; I couldnt separate his
fantasies from reality. One day in the early spring of 1938 when I
was in the oce, signing papers I suppose, he barreled in with Jack,
bellowing for someone to pay the taxi fare. He didnt carry cash;
money held no interest for him at the age of twenty-two. I remember hearing about one screaming controversy during the production of the Harlem Macbeth. Orson had ordered forty enormous
and expensive telephone poles for the Birnam Woods scene. It may
have been gossip, or perhaps Jack told me: The poles were never
used.
The rst Mercury production I saw was Julius Caesar. Orson, as
Brutus, stood behind an enormous lectern, lit like a fascist rally.
He was truly larger than life. But the scene that is most vivid in my
memory was Norman Lloyds brief appearance as Cinna the Poet.
He was chased by the mob, mistaken for a politician named Cinna.
His frightened cry, I am Cinna the Poet, I am Cinna the poet! was
54
more memorable than Orsons Brutus speech, which was, one must
recognize, brilliantly delivered.
A big blow to my pride was when Carlos met with those two brilliant directors to discuss his fee. I was there as treasurer. He had to
have known how little money the Mercury Theater had; Carlos was
more than usually discomted.
I support my family with the salary from White and Case, he
said. However, I must charge $500 for outside professional work,
like the corporate organization of the theater. There was a long
pause while Jack and Orson looked down at the table between us.
Perhaps they had expected Carlos to donate his time; indeed, he
had spent a good deal of time on their complicated legal aairs.
He repeated, I dont need to depend on this work for our living expenses, and added, but I do need the fee for things like
my wifes fur coat. I was humiliated, sitting there with the coat
around my shoulders. I never wanted to wear it again. When we
were divorced, I wanted to sell it, but my mother was furious and
stopped me. She said that she had paid for it; I no longer remember
who actually did.
I didnt see Orson after that. I did see Jack, but that was much
later, after things really fell apart with Carlos.
One November evening we were with a group of Henrys friends
at Sam Jaes house. He was already well known from his acting roles
in Lost Horizon and Gunga Din. He sensed gloom in my demeanor
and asked me what was wrong with my marriage, only two months
old. Why dont you have a child? That will make you happier, he
said. What a strange thing to say! And what is even stranger is that
we went right home and made Charles Henry.
Early in my pregnancy I suered a brief (if there is such a thing)
nervous breakdown. I was not only miserable in my marriage, but
I had a nasty confrontation with my sister-in-law Aileen that devastated me. As I was outside walking the two cocker spaniels, cheerful additions to the household, Aileen happened by and shouted,
55
shocking me, I hope you have a miscarriage. Aileen blamed me

for her dismissal from Henrys fascinating household, although I
certainly had nothing to do with it. She hated the fact that I would
have a child and never spoke to me again.
I was distraught and went home to Yonkers for some days. My
mother took me to see the same doctor who had helped me when
I left New College Community. He scolded me, Dont you know
this is the time you are forming your childs nervous system? What
do you think you are doing to him? I calmed myself down, and
went back to live with Carlos for four more years. Charles (who later
changed his name to Chuck) was born on my 21st birthday, August
10, 1936, while Henry was in England visiting Carloss sister Miriam. When Henry came home in September, it was obvious that
cancer in his jaw had progressed; he would not live long. Henry
didnt smoke cigarettes, he chewed them. It was a hard time for us
all. Henry died on December 17, 1936. I was bereft; I had lost my
best friend and a wonderful teacher.
The desk! Elisabeth has it, calling it the Belle desk, although
she knows that it was made for Henry. He was president of ORT
(Organization for Rehabilitation Training), a worldwide organization established in Europe to teach trades to Jews after World War
I. Shipped to Henry from an ORT workshop in Poland, the desk is
elaborately carved with biblical symbols.
In his will, Henry left me the rst choice of anything of his. The
desk was the only item he owned personally, and it reminded me of
Henry every time I sat at it. One day, years later, I was talking to an
acquaintance, recently elected to the presidency of the ORT, and
told him about the desk. You have that desk! He was astonished.
The organization had been looking for it for years. Two were made
in the same period, exactly alike: one is in the Geneva ORT oce,
but no one remembered where the other one had gone. Once in
a while I try to count how many times weve moved itperhaps a
dozen, and its travels are not yet over.
56
Lucian Bernhard said that when he designed a room or house,

it often led to disaster. When Henry died, Carlos and I moved out
of the room we had so recently renovated to an apartment on West
79th Street. As I had once fought with Frank, I now battled with
Carlos. We were never on the same wavelength; there was no way
our personalities could mesh. A marking-time period, it could not
have lasted. I was determined, however, that my son would not be
an only child, so we conceived Elisabeth, one of the happiest intuitive decisions I ever made. She was still only an infant when Carlos
and I had a nal argument. If Henry had lived, perhaps I would not
have been able to make that break with Carlos.
As I struggled to convince Carlos, also myself, that a divorce was
inevitable, we had dreadful middle-of-the night arguments. You
are neurotic, Carlos said sadly one summer day. He persuaded me
to have an emergency interview with Dr. Brill, with whom Carlos
was a patient as his brother also had been. We met during Brills
lunch hour, and I tried to explain my predicament to him. Having
no idea what to say, I suddenly brought Bill Schuman into the equation. This was years before Schuman became president of Juilliard
and later of Lincoln Center. I had invited Bill to my wedding; he had
appeared in tails and white tie. I fantasized that he would carry me
away. It was a Grade B movie idea, which existed only in my mind
and not in Bills, but our mutual infatuation continued for years.
As he munched on his sandwich, I told Dr Brill, I dont get
along with Carlos, and I think I am still in love with Bill Schuman.
I certainly knew full well that my passion about Bill had nothing at
all to do with my need to get out of the marriage.
Brill scolded: Everyone in New York knows about your infatuation with Schuman. He put his sandwich down and shook his nger at me. Why dont you just have an aair with your lover, keep
it a secret, stop talking about him, and save your marriage?
But Dr. Brill, I remonstrated . . . and before I could get another
57
word out he shouted, Dont you try to dominate me! I enlivened

lots of dinner parties with that tale.
It is perhaps unnecessary to say that I was pregnant and vulnerable. I was pregnant for almost half of our marriage. But physical discomfort was not the cause of our divorce; there were truly
irreconcilable dierences between us. Carloss background was
so dierent from mine. Although his home was the scene of large
and frequent gatherings, social relationships made him uncomfortable, and that embarrassed me. Now that more than sixty years have
own by, I recognize that he tried to understand my personality and
give me interesting things to do.
It wasnt easy to gure out how to escape from an unhappy marriage. One of my cousins had been divorced; no one in the family
talked about it, for it was scandalous in those years. Somehow, I
managed to make Carlos so miserable that he nally realized we had
to nd help. It is still a puzzle why our friend Irving Graef agreed
to be our marriage counselor or why I went along with that plan. I
suppose I had no choice.
Irving was a pathologist, not a psychologist, and had no training
as a counselor that I know of. I discovered much later that Irving
had betrayed my condences to Aunt Annas husband, Uncle Jack,
my condante during my adolescent years. There was little about
me that Jack didnt already know, but Irving also told Carlos what
I said to him. One of Irvings rules was that we were to have no
sexual relations while he was in charge. Some months passed, and
we were still ghting. I remember that I did a lot of yelling into the
wee hours.
One night we went to the theater and had late dinner at Arnold
Reubens Restaurant. (Arnold was a friend of my parents and had
catered our wedding). I had a cocktail, a new experience for me,
and when we came home I felt sexy. I persuaded Carlos to get in bed
with me; it wasnt hard to convince him. But Irving was right. In that
stage of our marriage sex could only lead to a bitter battle. When
58
Carlos asked me to get up and put in my diaphragm, I reminded him

that there was a condom in the night table. You get it, he said.
Since Im supporting you, the least you can do is to be responsible
for precaution. Or words to the same insulting eect.
Deeply outraged, I packed a small bag and went to nd Arnold
Reuben at the restaurant. I wondered what the elevator man thought
of my 4 a.m. departure. I really dont know how I did it. I was not an
active feministindeed, I doubt I knew the word. But instinctively
I felt that Carlos would now realize that the marriage was over.
He was not a bad or abusive man, just poor at personal relations. I
knew the restaurant would still be active, Arnold supervising. Visibly worried, he put me up in a hotel room across the street. By
the next morning Irving advised Carlos to leave our apartment and
convinced me to go right home. He did not want me to be accused
of abandoning my children.
When I told Frank, his response was, And on my birthday! It
was Christmas 1940; I was twenty-four, alone with two children.
Carlos stayed in a hotel, and I was in the 79th Street apartment
while we worked out a divorce agreement. I tried to keep busy and
out of trouble. One night I went to a concert at Juilliard; it led to
my long-lasting friendship with Walter Rosenblith. In the Moskowitz household, I had met a German refugee, Heinrich Simon, whohad been the music critic for the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung.
He left his non-Jewish wife, Irma, in Germany, and he was very
lonely. Of course my name reminded him of his home and wife. He
invited me to his concert, The Neglected Clementi, at Juilliard,
which was then at 120th Street. Simon played Clementi sonatas,
commented about the music, and then introduced a young violinist
to perform with him. He was very young, quite small. In front of me
was a middle-aged couple. I sensed that they were kvelling, proud
of that little boy. I turned to the young man sitting next to me and
pointed them out. Im sure those are his parents, I said. They
are, he told me, and Im his brother.
59
We talked a little during the intermission and again backstage,

where I met the violinist Eric Rosenblith. (Much later he became
a well-known musician and taught violin at our summer school for
three years.) Heading back to 79th Street at the end of the concert,
I climbed the steps of the trolley car and realized that behind me
was Erics brother, Walter. He reached out and paid the ve-cent
fare for me.
That winter he had supper with me and the children two or
three times a week. We talked and talked. Walter worried about
his French girlfriend and her underground activity with the Resistance. I worried about my children, especially concerned about
how they would get along without Carlos. That was the beginning
of a long companionship that I still cherish, characterizing Walter
Rosenblith as my only male friend with whom a lifelong intimate
relationship remained totally platonic. Sex had become uncomfortable for me. A couple of Carloss male friends unexpectedly rang my
doorbell, which was a shock to me. Walter was strictly faithful to his
French friend; it was not part of his personality to make a pass at
me, but not because he didnt think I was sexy. In fact, one of his
scientic colleagues shared his sexual concerns with Walter, who
sent his worried friend to me as his sexual surrogate. Nothing like
that had ever come my way. As it happened, I was no help. Later
that worried scientist married and sent his daughter to Indian Hill.
And even later he won an important science prize!
Walter and his psychologist wife Judy stayed in our lives; Walter made major contributions to science all over the world. He was
chair of the World Banks International Committee working to help
the Chinese reestablish and improve their universities after the
Cultural Revolution. In 2000 he was awarded the Okawa Prize by
the Okawa Foundation. The citation read, For outstanding and
pioneering contribution to the progress of biomedical engineering,
especially in the use of online computer analysis of brain activity,
and to auditory biophysics as well as to the promotion of interna-
60
tional scientic cooperation. Walter was named Institute Professor at M.I.T. in 1975, and served there as provost for more than
ten years. His international science awards make me dizzy just to
read about. He was one of few scientists to be elected to all three
National Academies: Science, Engineering, and the Institute of
Medicine. Sadly for us all, he died in May 2002.
I went to Las Vegas, Nevada, to establish the required six-week
residence for a divorce in the summer of 1940. I didnt want to go to
Reno; the corny connotation of a Reno divorce bothered me. How
could I have known what the ambiance of Las Vegas would become?
It was then a honky-tonk cowhand town. It was around this time I
saw Jack Houseman again; in fact, had a brief ing with him in
L. A., on my way to Las Vegas. Fling: a euphemism for what was
an unusual episode in my life. Although Jack was married three or
four times, he was thought of in theater circles as homosexual. He
surprised me, arriving unannounced and unexpected a few times
when I was living in Yonkers with my small children. He knew I was
getting a divorce and suggested that I call him when I was briey
in Los Angeles. His Hollywood apartment was furnished in movie
land style; I remember that the bed was round! Thats all I care to
remember. Maybe ing is the right word after all.
One of my New College friends joined me during the train trip to
Las Vegas. We made a weekend detour through Yellowstone Park,
where I met an elderly manor so he appeared to me then. In his
seventy-fth year, William Wallace was the former mayor of Salt
Lake City and the father-in-law of a famous Broadway star, Ina
Claire. I dont know if he was a Mormon, but he was what I called
old-fashioned nice. He knew Belle Moskowitz, and was dismayed
that I was the mother of her two grandchildren and wore no wedding ring. My ring had been Belles; Carlos asked me to return it to
him when we separated, and later told me he lost it. In Wallaces
pocket were a couple of gold rings, which he called Swedish friendship rings. He insisted that I take one, and its still on my nger.
61
Irma in Las Vegas, 1940.
Mordy and I used it when we were married in New Orleans four

years later.
Another elderly gentleman took a fancy to me, competing for my
attention all weekend with Mr. Wallace. He was Valentine Winters,
known to his fourteen-year-old accompanying grandson, Jonathan,
as B. When he was a child, Johnny couldnt pronounce the nickname V. I corresponded with B for months; he sent me a typewriter so that I could write more easily and often. He came to New
York from Dayton and visited us in Mt. Vernon, bringing elaborate gifts for my children. He was seventy; although he was charming and funny he seemed like an old man to me, at twenty-ve. He
nally wrote, complaining that I rebued him, which I suppose I
did, and the correspondence stopped. His grandson Johnny inherited Bs humorous repartee, and became Jonathan Winters, the
famous comedian we all know and love.
62
I lived on a small ranch outside Las Vegas for the necessary six
weeks. In the summer of 1940 that ranch was far from the center of
town; now part of it is a historic site. A lovely room and very good
food cost $35 per week. I celebrated my twenty-fth birthday with
three young friends on the small sta. I missed my babies, who
were being cared for by my mother; when I came home, Elisabeth
hardly knew me. She was not quite one and a half.
What was most hurtful was to learn from Chuck that my mother
had told my children that I was a terrible mother. It was hard for
him to tell me when he was old enough to deal with it. I suppose
that I never dealt with it. When I was about forty, Mordy, tired of
listening to my tales of childhood trauma, said one day, Its not
your father who is the villain of the piece; its really your mother.
He reminded me of Franks frustration with my mothers behavior.
That was not pleasant to think about, when I remember those adolescent years when I told everyone I knew, I hate my father!
One of our friends, a psychologist, loved to hear stories about my
mother. I often described our adversarial relationship. Our friend
was amazed as he heard my never-changing teeth-gritting tone of
voice. Irma, how old are you?
Sixty-ve, I told him.
Dont you think you are old enough to make peace with your
mother? he asked me. He said it so kindly and aectionately I
began to tryat least to tryto think of my mother more objectively. He loved a photo of her on her hundredth birthday, cradling
a gift of Scotch in her arms. Betty lived alone for thirty-eight years
after Frank died in 1956. It wasnt a sad or hard life until all her
contemporaries were gone; she grew lonely when her sister Anna,
eight years older, died at ninety-four. Betty had always been dependent for her social life on Annas family, which consisted of Annas
sisters-in-law, her daughters, and my supportive Uncle Jack.
In later years she became Annas gofer, doing her errands and
shopping. I think Aunt Anna never moved from her chair unless it
63
was absolutely necessary. Mordy tells the story of visiting Anna and
Jack, usually at Bettys insistence, and sometimes arriving at the
dinner hour. Anna would say, in all seriousness, You can stay for
supper if you are willing to eat the dark meat of the chicken. She
was chintzy, despite Jacks wealth. Anna was Bettys only mother
image. Betty never spoke about her mother unless I asked a question about her. She told me that she only saw her mother Blume
as a small child. I gathered that Blume had spent some years in an
institution near Boston; I guessed that she suered a postpartum
depression. Treatment in 1890 was limited to hospitalization. We
dont know exactly how long Blume lived in the hospital, but we
do know Betty never really knew her mother. Only recently I investigated the headstone on my grandmothers grave, and found the
date of her death: 1914only a year before I was born. The stone
registers her age as fty; next to that stone is her mothers grave.
My great-grandmothers age when she died in 1915, according to
that stone, was seventy.
65
Chapter Three
Paul Bunyan
E HAVE to get together, Mordy and I, in order for this memoir to make sense. The rst time I saw Mordecai Bauman, he
was singing the title role in Mr. Pepys with the Morningside Players
at Columbia University. My voice teacher, Betty Rustigian, played
Mrs. Pepys, which is why I was there. I dont remember anything
about that performance. The next year Betty insisted that I try out
for a part in Paul Bunyan, the rst opera written by Benjamin Britten, with a libretto by W. H. Auden. I did auditionreluctantly, reticentlybut because of my teachers professional relationship with
the director, Milton Smith, I was accepted in the chorus.
That was in May 1941, almost a year since my divorce had become
nal. Mordy was the narrator; the three interludes he sang told the
story of Paul Bunyan, the American folk hero. Without that ballad,
the opera would have been even more puzzling than it was. Singing
parts include trees, wild geese, two cats, and a dog; Bunyan never
appears. His was an o-stage voice. We loved the work; the critics
werent so sure.
Mordy says that when he saw my small son and smaller daughter at rehearsal one day, he decided that two such beautiful children must have an exceptional mother. Carlos had brought them to
the theater after their weekend with him so that I could take them
66
home when the rehearsal was over. Mordy watched them admiringly, and they were indeed exceptional. They have since achieved
successful careers: Charles, a jazz musician now known as Chuck
Israels, was almost ve; Elisabeth, now a historian, also prominent
in her eld, was only two.
My version of the story of how I came to his attention is dierent
from Mordys. His brother Henry had a small role as a Western
Union Messenger. His solo, a syncopated ditty, was a message to
Bunyan: A telegram, a telegram, a telegram from oversea; Paul
Bun Yan, is the name, is the name, is the name of the addressee!
Henry could not get the rhythm quite right, and I could not sit by
and listen to him struggle. I didnt think it was so dicult.
During one afternoon rehearsal, I took Henry to the wings and,
hitting his arm on the syncopated beat, I nally taught him the
refrain. Mordy noticed me; I really believe that is when he decided
he wanted to meet me. Walking with Mordy around Morningside
Park, talking excitedly during rehearsal breaks, I told him that I
was divorced. He was not. He was married to Alice Garlen, the sister of Sam Garlen, owner of Green Mansions.
Some days later, still during rehearsals, Mordy said he wanted to
hear me sing, so he came home with me. I sat at the piano and tried
to sing Handels Ombra Mai Fu, an aria Mordy had sung many
times. I remember that I only sang a phrase when he stopped me
and sang it himself. I knew immediately that I could never make
that kind of warm sound. Despite accepting reality, I continued
to study singing, enjoying my sessions with my teacher Betty, telling her stories about my daily encounters and vocalizing happily.
I think it developed into psychological instead of musical therapy
sessions. I was not planning to be a professional singer or even fantasizing about my potential. When I was thirteen, my father bought
a Steinway piano for me. I played fairly well, was serious enough
about music to continue happily taking lessons in both voice and
piano through college.
C h a p t e r T h r e e : Pa u l B u n y a n
67
Auden had completed the libretto for Bunyan; musical rehearsals had begun, but Britten had not written music for the interludes.
About a week before the opening, Mordy asked Milton Smith how he
could sing the narration without music. Milton threw up his hands
and called Britten: Bauman is waiting for the music. It may have
been sitting in Brittens head, but he hadnt written it. Mordy went
to Brooklyn Heights, where Britten was living with Peter Pears in
George Davis house.
Mordy tells the story:
I went to the house. Auden and I sat near the piano, and Britten wrote out a lead sheet. I made a suggestion to change the
folkish tune for one of the interludes; Britten quickly created
an alternate melody for a dierent mood. There was no time
to orchestrate the work, so I asked him if it would be OK if
I arranged for some instrumentalists to accompany me. He
was amenable. Shortly before the opening I found two musical
members of the stage crew and they accompanied me on guitar
and bass. Thats how the narration was nally performed; it
worked very well. At the nal performance when a recording was made, the violinists, who knew the tune by then,
spontaneously began to play and then the rest of the orchestra
joined in.
The original performance recording may explain the pattern

of later accompaniments for the narrative. Perhaps some directors
assumed that Britten had planned a guitar to back up the singer,
but it was really only by chance that Mordy found those two musicians backstage. It has occurred to us that if he had come across
an accordion player, that instrument might forever accompany the
ballad singer. Thats how tradition is established. However, recent
performers assume a Woody Guthrie persona, singing the narrative, strumming on a guitar. I prefer it as an English ballad, the way
Britten wrote it and Mordy sang it.
In the summer of 1993 we were planning a trip to Bristol, England, for INPUT, a conference of public television producers. We
68
thought it was about time we paid certain homage to Britten. I

called the Friends of Aldeburgh oce to make a reservation, and of
course I told the director that we had been in the original version of
Bunyan fty-two years before. Our visit intrigued the festival sta;
no one from the rst production had ever visited the Britten/Pears
Aldeburgh Festival. We may be the only original cast members still
personally involved in this rarely performed work.
I promised the archivist I would have the old recording digitized
for his library. I found the 14" acetate record. Out of the sleeve fell
yellowed paper, the narration verses I had typed long ago, now
hard to read. The words are charming and amusing; I remember
audience response: chuckles and enthusiastic applause. As I compared the old text with the libretto from the rst recorded CD of
the opera, produced in 1988, I noticed that four or ve verses were
omitted from the performance. I read the libretto more carefully.
Why were some verses omitted? All of a sudden I noticed a phrase:
. . . from the Yiddish Alps to the Rio Grande. . . . I dont remember Mordy singing those words. I couldnt imagine why Auden used
that expression.
Catskill Mountain resorts were often called The Borscht Belt
(no longer), but we never heard them referred to as Yiddish Alps.
I hastened to fast-forward an old audiocassette copy of the original scratchy record, and heard Mordy sing, clearly, Western Alps.
That doesnt make much sense either.
I looked for our original mimeographed scripts, buried in our
les, and there they certainly are again, Yiddish Alps. Who
changed it to Western? Mordy doesnt remember. Did he? Did
Auden hear it? If Mordy cant remember any controversy, there
probably was none. But how did it happen? And why Yiddish Alps
in the rst place? We understand Auden knew the Catskills well.
Perhaps it was an in joke, one that Mordy didnt appreciate at
that time. We added this minor item to the Britten archives in Aldeburgh.
69
On July 15, 1995, the Glimmerglass Opera Company in Cooperstown, New York, mounted a new production, and we were invited
to the opening. The New York Times review (July 24, 1995) of the
Glimmerglass production was written by Anthony Tommasini, who
said,
A BRITTEN CURIOSITY IS RESCUED
Benjamin Brittens Paul Bunyan, his rst opera and the only
[operatic] collaboration with the poet W. H. Auden, is a theatrical mongrel . . . . The resulting work has elements of opera
with extended choral ensembles, much spoken dialogue, parody, Kurt Weill-like cabaret and even a rather incongruous guitar-strumming balladeer who acts as a narrator. . . . [T]he prestigious Glimmerglass opera in Cooperstown, N.Y. has revived
[it] in a handsome, vibrant and creative production that makes
a strong case for this virtually unknown work.
The ballad singer strummed his guitar and sang the ballad like a
country-western folk tune. He sang, From the Yiddish Alps to the
Rio Grande. When we met I told him that Mordy had changed the
word Yiddish to Western and that we hoped he would appreciate that some Jews would nd it at the least inappropriate, and at
worst, anti-Semitic, which we dont think Auden was.
In the New Yorker of May 1977, Andrew Porter had reviewed the
Manhattan School of Music performance. He wrote that the music
of the Prologue causes the heavens to open! The verse that continues to touch us:
Once in a while the odd thing happens
Once in a while a dream comes true.
And the whole pattern of life is altered,
Once in a while the moon turns blue.
I dont think that the moon actually turned blue. But Bunyan
had indeed altered the pattern of our lives.
In March 1998 we were invited to talk to the Conservatory Opera
70
Department at Toronto University as they rehearsed a new production of Bunyan. We told the cast about the premiere and Mordys
work with Britten. We saw four performances in one week: two
dress rehearsals and two performances (two dierent casts). If we
didnt know Bunyan well before, we surely do now!
The Glimmerglass production was repeated in April 1998 by the
New York City Opera Company, to positive reviews. The ballad
singer surprised us, singing From the New York Alps to the Rio
Grande. Someone convinced someone else that Yiddish Alps is
no longer an acceptable description of the Catskills.
For years, enthusiasts have been saying that Paul Bunyan should
be in the repertory. It was broadcast on the Live from Lincoln Center television program. John Goberman, son of Mordys old friend
and colleague, the conductor Max Goberman, produced the telecast. The coordinating producer was our own son Marc Bauman.
In New York magazine, Peter G. Davis reported that when Britten knew he was dying of heart disease in 1976, a friend played the
score of Bunyan for him. He heard Audens words once again:
The campre embers are black and cold,
The banjos are broken, the stories are told,
The woods are cut down, and the young grown old.
The music and words for that verse so touched Britten that he
revised the work somewhat and allowed it to be produced again. We
cherish the work, not only for the genius of Britten and Auden, but
also for the fact that it brought us together.
Paul Bunyan seems to improve with age. More than fty years
after its premiere, Paul Bunyan is in the repertoire, nally appreciated for its delightful Britten music and insightful Auden poetry.
The opera ends on a note of warning:
From a Pressure group that says I am the constitution;
From those who say Patriotism and mean Prosecution;
From a Tolerance that is really inertia and disillusion
Save Animals and Men.
71
I n the ear ly fif ties my parents moved from Yonkers to an

apartment in Manhattan, again close to Aunt Anna, at 44 East
67th St. Annas wealthy husband owned an apartment building on
83rd Street and Madison Avenue. My mother walked or took the
Madison Avenue uptown bus to Annas apartment almost daily. The
move from Westchester eased Franks daily commute downtown to
his printing plant on Varick St., but it didnt calm his high-strung,
type A personality. He had a heart attack in August 1956 and died
two weeks later. My brothers had come from California to New York
to see him and had to return for the funeral only two weeks later. I
came from Indian Hill to New York twice.
After dinner in Bettys apartment, on the Sunday immediately
following Franks heart attack, Robert and Betty took a taxi and
went to Doctors Hospital, later called Beth Israel North. Maurice
and I decided to walk. My stomach began growling. I wasnt feeling
well, and I could not control my bowels. Maurice found a taxi, put
the Sunday Times under my soiled dress, and we went back to the
apartment.
There was a big commotion in the lobby as we arrived. Mother
had rinsed the dinner dishes in the kitchen sink, left the water running with the stopper closed. The downstairs neighbors ceiling was
ruined. Neither Mother nor I realized how aected we would be by
Franks demise. She tormented him; I could not understand, appreciate, or agree with him. When Maurice and I went back to the hospital Frank greeted me with his last words, No more ghting!
It was almost a relief to me when he died. Or I thought it was.
Mordy sang at the funeral, Sea Fever, the John Maseeld poem:
I want to go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky.
Next evening my brothers and I sat around mothers apartment
as she made nonsense talk about our fathers sparse collection of
shirts and ties, trying to force them on Robert and Maurice. When
she came to the underwear we all began to laugh. I laughed, then
cried, and suddenly found myself in uncontrollable hysterics. No
72
one could calm me down. A neighbor came in to nd out what all

the noise was about. I wasnt embarrassed; it didnt seem to be me.
In 1978 the rent on that apartment on East 67th Street suddenly
tripled. It was in one of the most expensive sections of Manhattan,
ineligible for rent control or stabilization. It was now out of reach of
all but the most auent, which my mother was not. Whats more,
she had invested her small inheritance unwisely, and her income
could not support the increased cost of living between Madison and
Park Avenues.
My California brothers were in charge of her nances, and they
decided to move her. Logically, they chose Oakland, close to Robert, her favorite. Palos Verdes, where Maurice lived, was not convenient for Betty; no one walked on the streets in Palos Verdes, and
Betty needed to walk. Robert was the music critic for the San Francisco Chronicle, and lived in Piedmont, a suburb of Oakland. Betty
was eighty-eight, vibrant and independent. It may be apocryphal,
but I remember being told that after the furniture was shipped to
California, Mother borrowed a cot from a neighbor and slept in the
empty living room, unwilling to be displaced until the last possible
moment. Maurice ew to New York, packed her remaining possessions, and took her on the plane to Oakland.
Robert and his wife Mary found Betty a very nice apartment,
about one-half mile from their home. They set it up so that when
Betty arrived she moved into a place that looked almost exactly like
the one she had reluctantly left. This one, however, was larger than
the New York apartment: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a small
terrace, a tolerant landlord, and a congenial group of neighbors.
Nevertheless, it took almost two years before she felt at home; by
then every telephone inquiry I made, asking, Hows everything?
was answered with one word: Great!
And it was great. We made an annual trip for her unocial September birthday. We know the year of her birth, but not the actual
date. The Boston birth certicate states August ? 1890. Every
73
once in a while, we three siblings met to anticipate an eventual

physical crisis and made abortive eorts to nd a place where Betty
would be more protected and cared for in her very old age. None of
the places we suggested satised her, and indeed it was true that
she continued to manage quite well. She walked down the steep hill
to her haunts on Piedmont Avenue every day, taking a taxi back
with her bags of groceries. Local merchants began to recognize her
and enjoyed her abrasive, sharp personality. Her contrariness made
our collective hairs rise!
When I shopped with my mother, the manager of the Piedmont grocery said with a knowing grin, Oh yes, we know Mrs.
Commanday. We watch your mother, he said. The implication, of
course, was that they were aware of a certain amount of shoplifting.
I oversaw what went into the bags, and in my embarrassment corrected the managers pronunciation. In all my long life the family
name has been pronounced Commanday, and I dont like hearing
it mispronounced. When I heard Betty introduce herself as Betty
Commanday, I asked why. She would repeat: It sounds less Jewish that way.
The Boulangerie waitresses were tolerant of the loss of the straw
sandwich trays. Betty took hers home, adding to the pile stored on
the closet shelf in the second bedroom. They dont need them,
she responded to my brothers scolding. The drugstore clerks worried when she didnt show up regularly for her mid-morning coee.
I dont know what she carried away from that place.
And the Thrift Shop employees loved her regular visits. When
I asked her why there was a pipe on her dresser, for instance, or a
broken doll, assorted crockery, and piles of chatchkes, she would
shrug me o, Someone can use it. Her second bedroom became
the thrift shop annex, the living room was cluttered with papers,
family photos, and treasures Betty was sure had enormous collectible value. I counted fourteen chairs in the living room, plus
the large couch. Between the mattresses and box springs of the four
74
beds were hundreds of clippings, almost all of my brothers regular

music reviews. The mattresses were humped up, the bottom sheets
stained with newsprint. Betty was saving her sons timeless words;
frequent assurances that the columns were stored on computers did
not change her compulsion.
Eventually the rent in Bettys two-bedroom apartment was raised
beyond her budget. Betty herself convinced her landlord to rent a
one-bedroom apartment on the same oor to her, although it was
not as sunny or convenient as the one she was leaving. The friendly
landlord promised that if a sunnier apartment next door became
available, she could have it. That it would necessitate two moves
did not daunt her!
Since Mordy and I were in California at that time, we looked at
the new apartment. We decided to take all the stu back to the
Thrift Shop to facilitate the move and Betty agreedor we thought
she did. We certainly could not have accomplished it behind her
back. We packed everything into two old valises she had borrowed
from a neighbor in her New York apartment building.
We felt great about cleaning up the accumulation of her many
trips to the Oakland shopping area! Roberts stepson Chris helped
us pack the heavy suitcases, marveling at the kinds of things Betty
bought. We loaded our rented car and made at least two trips. Robert took a $200 tax deduction for his contribution of Bettys collectibles, now taken back to the Thrift Shop.
Some days later, after a trip to visit Maurice in Los Angeles, we
parked our car in her garage space. We happened to look into the
bin above it, expecting to nd it empty, but lo and behold, there
were the old, worn-out suitcases and trunks full of the supposedly
valuable antiques we had donated back to the thrift shop! On the
bedroom dresser we found the pipe, the doll sat in her accustomed
chair, and the tables held a jumble of junk. How Betty managed to
retrieve all that stu from the thrift shop we never askedand dont
want to know. Six weeks later, she managed to move herself into the
cheerier apartment.
75
Mother loved to shop at Macys. Even in her ninety-fth year

she took the bus from Oakland Avenue, across heavy trac on that
busy road, then the BART to San Francisco, then a local bus to
Macys, where she wandered and shopped contentedly. She continued her habit of returning purchases the following day. My brother
called one day, laughing gleefully, You wont believe it. Mother
went to Macys yesterday and got a permanent. Guess what. Today
she returned it!
Robert reminded me recently of another story. One day Betty
toddled down the half-mile-long hill on her daily trip to Piedmont
Avenue. She was in her nineties, weighing only about one hundred
pounds. Her purse was snatched; the loss of her expensive lowvision glasses was upsetting. Remarkably, however much the incident may have frightened her, she did not reveal that or discuss it;
she seemed to forget it quickly. This was consistent with her lifelong
habit of either denying or ignoring unpleasant or sad experiences.
She appeared to be content. Three granddaughters lived nearby.
Michal, Roberts daughter, was constant in her attentiveness, visiting her at least once a week during the 17 years of her Oakland
residence. Chucks stepdaughter, Sarah, worked in a bookstore on
Piedmont Avenue one year; Betty frequented that store, not to buy
books, but to talk to Sarah. A warm relationship resulted which led
to Sarahs developing interest in helping the elderly; she became a
social worker at a nursing home in Bellingham, Washington.
When Betty reached ninety-eight, weighing about eighty-ve
pounds, she really needed to be in a care facility, but no way would
she willingly leave her independent life. Find me a full-time companion, Betty demanded. She was certain someone would even
pay to live with her. Her daily meals on wheels were immediately
thrown into the incinerator. Her food intake consisted of coee ice
cream, bits of Hershey bars, and coee. She looked lousy, although
she was still fairly alert, unreasonable, and as demanding as she had
always been. But she was sad, sedentary, alone.
76
A family wedding in mid-January was a good time for me to go

west and participate in an attempt to nd an assisted living facility. Fortuitously, my cellist sister-in-law Mary had performed at a
residence one-half mile from her house and reported that it was
an unusually nice facility for thirty alert and ambulatory elderly
women and not too expensive. Whats more, they had an empty
room available immediately. It is the Matilda Brown Home, founded
more than a hundred years ago, supported by the Ladies Auxiliary
of Oakland, California.
I told Betty that she could take one of her twin beds and one
dresser, and one photograph of Bernard Berenson, the famous
expert on Renaissance art. After crying that she would kill herself
or run awayYoull never nd me!Betty settled in, and even
thanked me for moving her. I couldnt have done it without you,
she said. She became the resident character, and enjoyed close to
six years of comfortable, supervised, protected old age. She complained that no men were admitted.
Her room was small but pleasant, with her own furniture, family
photos on the wall, my brothers reviews still collected on the chair
or hidden under the mattress. No longer able to walk to Piedmont
Avenue and accumulate straw service plates from the Boulangerie,
Betty took packaged crackers and jellies from the dining room and
plastic glasses and toilet paper from the communal storage area,
and stacked them on her closet shelf: Someone can use them!
We celebrated Bettys 100th birthday in 1990. My two brothers
and Mary organized the party at a convenient date in June. Fifty relatives came from all over the country and gathered at my brothers
house for a pre-dinner reception. Cousins arrived from New York,
Connecticut, Massachusetts, Oklahoma, and both southern and
northern California. All ten grandchildren were part of the occasion, coming from cities as far apart as Nashville, Tennessee, Richmond, Virginia, Portland, Orgeon, Bellingham, Washington, and
New Yorkand one made a special trip from Paris. Two of mothers
77
nine great-grandchildren helped blow out the birthday candles.

Many of us had funny Betty stories to tell.
We showed movies Frank had taken when we were children,
while Betty stood there with champagne in one hand, a canap in
the other. So many of mothers generation now reach one hundred,
the NBC Today show can no longer recognize that achievement.
Betty had her fteen seconds of fame on NBC when she was 103.
Although I was not the only one having had an adversarial relationship with her, all of us wanted to show our admiration for her
long and energetic life. We moved to a nearby restaurant for dinner.
Mary had decorated the tables with signs reading The Stations of
Betty, referring to the lm Mordy and I had produced, The Stations of Bach. The signs read Dorchester, Chelsea, Yonkers, New
York, Palm Beach, Ogunquit, Kennebunkport, and Oakland. We
ended the evening telling more Betty stories, told and re-told
over the years. Marc lmed a video of the tall tales for posterity. I
dramatized, Get a bigger car!
Our favorite story is about Bettys correspondence with the
famous art historian Bernard Berenson. One day in 1949, my
mother was in the local beauty parlor for her weekly visit. It was a
small establishment on Lawrence Street near Broadway in Yonkers,
where she had lived since 1915. Sitting under the dryer, mother read
the current Life magazine. The cover story was about Berenson, featuring B.B.s early life in Chelsea (mothers home town), his career,
his patrons, and his art collection at his estate near Florence, Italy.
Betty was entranced; Berensons name was familiar only in certain
circles, and Betty had never heard of him. But still his name rang a
bell! Aunty Berenson was a relative of Uncle Jacks mother, Leah
Rubenstein, who had been a comfort to Betty in her childhood. My
mother wondered if Bernard was related to Aunty Berenson. Was
it possible that she was his mother? Pondering about a possible connection, Betty went home to her typewriter, dashed o this letter to
I Tatti, Settignano:
78
Dear Bernard Berenson:
Lifes magazine and Sketch for self portrait, has made us
pause, reminisce and enjoy! Many years ago when Chelsea
was in ower, and you know very well I do not mean Chelsea,
England, we lived opposite the Rubensteins. My sister Anna
married Jack and I became one of the family.
I adored Leah Rubenstein and met Aunty Berenson there
many times. I can see Leah and Aunty Berenson now, talking,
talking, talking, and Leah thrilled with her love and pleasure
she felt from her visits. I guess I must be near 84, writing you
all this [Betty was 65], and wanting you to know the Rubensteins are enjoying your book and recalling Aunty Berenson.
But will they write and tell you?
Betty Commanday April 26, 1949
So it began: the ow of thirty-six letters and a couple of telegrams from B. B. from 1949 to 1952, and fty-one more from 1952
to 1958. Heres one:
Dear Mrs. Commanday,
Some days ago I received a letter written by a perky, wishful,
nimble, supple young hussy of 18 ready for any [....] lark and
witty encounter to be a columnist for the New Yorker, for
Vogue, for Life. This letter however was signed Betty C.
who pretends to be 84. If Betty C. has written this epistle at
84 what has she done since 18? Has she been a steady contributor to above mentioned screeds and kept her pen sharpened?
And what about her tongue? I have read and re-read your letter
to make out whether you could be 84 really. I cant make it out.
You speak of a son 31. You must have remained fertile unconscionably long and be a prodigy among child-bearers. You keep
me guessing. I shall be grateful for clarication, but expect no
replies. I really am 84 and not only suering from all the ills
that [man] is heir to but burdened with all sorts of calls (cashcalls) on my ever diminishing energies.
Yours, B. B.
Betty C.s letters exploded with dots and dashes, full of family
gossip, pride about her children and theirs, and stories of Ruben-
79
stein activities. I would have bet that Berenson would toss the letters out, but obviously they charmed him, and he answered each,
two or three weeks after receiving it. Although we know that he
answered all his fan mail personally, its hardly likely that other
epistolary relationships lasted so long with so little substance. He
did write that he was indeed Aunty Berensons son.
B. B.s letters, scrawled on small paper and usually one page, were
a thrill for my mother, although
not easy to decipher. It must have
been a puzzle to Frank when she
nally showed him an early letter.
He was a printer whose work was
exceptionally ne, but he may not
have been familiar with Berenson,
who was already well known as an
authority on Renaissance art. I
cant imagine what Frank thought
about those letters coming to Yonkers from Italy.
When my parents moved to New
York City, we soon noticed books
Betty writes to Bernard Berenson.
by and about Berenson. Occasionally I would try to translate the handwriting in letters Betty showed
me, arguing about the salutation: Was it Dear Loony as I read it,
or Dear Lovey as my mother was certain he meant? One, dated in
her hand Jan. 15, 1951 (B. B. had left out dates and she was becoming aware of the importance of keeping the letters), is denitely
Loony:
I Tatti, Settignano, Italy
This, Loony darlink, is the address I want you to print on thinnest letter paper for air post if you are itching to waste your
hard-earned subsistence on an old prot-less investment like
ME. [Betty must have promised that Frank would print statio-
80
nery for him.] You and Stein, Gertrude yuh remain unknown
to fame, guiltless of corrupting your countrys language.
I thank you for your last jabber all its triumphant contents.
I cannot reply in kind. There is not enough sense in me to produce nonsense as a by-product as YOU do. I dare say, though,
what I am now writing or publishing is so nonsensical that I
cannot produce any for private correspondence. So you do get
rich quickly (and honestly what and how and where and when
is honestly.) Come and see me.
Yours, B. B.
What a fantasy Betty must have imagined, an intimate relationship with such a well-known personality! A Hollywood fantasy! How
it must have brightened her days and nights! Writing to B. B. was
a terric outlet for her, and she basked in the aura of his celebrity.
His books stimulated her interest in art, and she took courses and
spent time in the Metropolitan Museum. Her fantasy was justied
by B. B.s ohand teasing:
. . . almond trees in bloom, and bean elds exhaling a sweet
perfumelike your lips that I could would and must
KISS, B. B.
Yes, I am getting old and feeble and I cannot work no more.
And I can while esh and love . . . could caress, if you are in
fondling propinquity . . . when are you coming to fall into my
arms? Miraculous. I hold you in my skimpy arms and embrace
your luscious self. Your fellow idiot.
B. B.
Bettys letters were increasingly fresh and bold; she made B. B.

laugh. Frank mailed small packages from his Manhattan plant: hard
candies, vitamin pills, maple sugar, items from the 5 & 10necessities hard to nd in post-war Italy, even for Berenson. B. B. asked for
a photo. Although mother was pretty and knew it, her response was
mischievous. She sent a picture familiar to all of us: a youthful pose,
kneeling to kiss the beak of a stone crane somewhere in Maine.
81
Betty was sixty-six when Frank died. A couple of years later, she
had her face lifted and ew o on her rst and only trip to Europe,
with no announcement to her family. Her rst stop was I Tatti. She
knew that Berensons wife was dead, but she had no idea that his
secretary, Nicky Mariano, had already taken her place and was soon
to marry B.B. Nevertheless, Nicky welcomed Betty, who moved into
I Tatti and stayed in that beautiful estate for two weeks, helping
Nicky nurse the ailing Berenson. He was over ninety. The fantasy
faded, but the relationship continued. Two large photographs of
B.B., signed aectionately, were framed and hung in the apartment. Letters and packages continued to cross the ocean: fudge and
more vitamins. Close friends and family members who happened to
be traveling to Italy were told, You must go to I Tatti and tell Nicky
that I sent you.
Bettys admiration for B. B. never diminished, despite numerous
critical articles written about him. She was proud of her friendship
with him, and always talked about it and showed o the pictures
and letters. When Berenson died, Betty asked Nicky Mariano to
return her letters. Nicky sent them back, but unfortunately Betty
destroyed them. Our family has given the Berenson letters to the
Smithsonian Institution.
On January 1, 1994, Betty fell and broke her femur. She lived in a
hospital and then a nursing home for six miserable, angry months.
Robert faithfully visited her every day, sometimes more than once.
She died on June 18, 1994, Roberts seventy-second birthday and
our ftieth wedding anniversary. It was two months before her
104th birthdayor maybe it was her 105th.
Corporal Mordecai Bauman.
83
Chapter Four
The USO and the U.S. Army:
Mordy Tells His Story
N 1943 there were no opportunities to continue my career, so I

applied for a job at the United Service Organizations (USO) program of the Jewish Welfare Board. I entered a training course, where
I met Alex Segal and Joe Kruger. Alex became a prominent director
in both theater and television; Joe, a leader in the American Camping Association, became our lifelong friend. Years later, in 1951, he
brought us to Stockbridge, Massachusetts, and that changed the
direction of our lives.
The USO held a two-week orientation session in New York. Alex
and I were assigned the task of providing entertainment for the
nal sta dinner. I wrote a parody, Report from the Field, a letter to the home oce. I reported Everything is going great; Im
getting along just ne with the chairlady. I implied I was having a
cheerful aair with her. It was a hit.
At the end of the training session we all worried. Where would I
be assigned? Before I joined the organization I agreed to go wherever I was sent. Somehow we assumed that I would go to Lincoln,
Nebraska, the most remote and backward place in our imaginations.
Instead I went to Washington, D. C., the very best assignment. Alex
84
went to Alexandria, Virginia, and Joe was assigned to Baltimore. In

that geographical triangle we often met.
My work consisted of organizing a program at the Jewish Community Center (at 16th Street and Q) for armed services personnel. I set up a lounge where soldiers could come and socialize during their time o. I arranged Saturday night dances, with various
armed service bands providing the music. And I conducted Friday
night religious services at area military bases and visited disabled
servicemen at local hospitals. My biggest coup was a series of programs presenting cultural contributions of the allies through their
movies. I called it a United Nations Film Festival and invited a
representative from each participating nation to speak about his
countrys war eort.
The rst movie, Night Mail, was a British documentary written
by W. H. Auden, with music by Benjamin Britten. It described the
way the mail was sorted during the train trip as it sped toward its
destination. Night Mail was an important documentary, the rst
collaboration between Britten and Auden. An interesting coincidence: Britten and Auden were again in my life. At the initial program, Lord Halifax, Britains Ambassador, was introduced by Eleanor Roosevelt. The crowd was so large that Washington police had
to be called out in full force.
Even with all this activity, I managed to commute to Mount
Vernon. Occasionally Irma would visit me in Washington, where
I rented a room in Casey and Helen Gurewitzs house. Much later,
when we lived in Cleveland, our relationship with those friends had
historic resonance.
Although we had known we wanted to be married for almost two
years, I needed to convince my rst wife to divorce me. There were
long negotiations before an agreement was nalized. Irma found a
lawyer who could arrange a divorce for me in Arkansas, of all places.
Arkansas divorce laws were even more liberal than Nevadas. Needing only six days residence in Arkansas, I managed to get time o
Chapter Four: The USO and the U.S. Army
85
from the USO in Washington. Irma decided to come with me, while
the children stayed with her mother. We traveled by train together
to set up residence in Hot Springs and begin the process.
We were in Little Rock for a day with little to do before we had to
go to Hot Springs, so we visited the USO director at the local Jewish Community Center. He invited us to stay for lunch, where we
were introduced to an army chaplain as Mr. and Mrs. Bauman. He
wondered if his soldier assistant, Abe Bauman, was related to me!
News travels fast: My brother came to nd us at the Little Rock bus
station just as we were about to leave for Hot Springs.
Before I left Washington, I told Herb Marks, an old friend in New
York, that I was going to Arkansas. He mentioned it to his brother
Eddie, who was working for International and American Relief
Agencies in Washington. Eddie called me and asked if I would make
a side trip and sing at a relocation center, the euphemism for
internment camps for Japanese-Americans. They had been moved
from California and settled into safe areas, away from possible
treasonous acts on the West Coast. People in the general population hardly knew of the existence of these camps. I promised to go
and sing for the detainees.
The trip we made to McGehee, Arkansas, was momentous; I
dont imagine that many Americans went there. I was prepared to
sing. What I was not prepared for was the condition of the settlement. It was a Godforsaken place, rainy and muddy, and we walked
on wooden plank sidewalks. But the one-room cabins, although
Spartan, were neat and clean, owers in every corner. It had to be
an enormous contrast from lush California. The climate was desert heat during the day and desert cold at night. The Japanese, it
seemed to us, accepted their situation with calm equanimity.
There being no piano, I sang a few songs a cappella; the response
was quiet but, oh, so appreciative! What boggled our minds was
seeing these forcibly displaced middle-aged enemy threats, sitting in the audience alongside their visiting sons in American army
86
uniforms. It still hurts to think about it. After I sang, we spent the
night in a local three-story hotel, just above the railroad station,
through which trains shuttled back and forth all night! We think of
the trip to McGehee, Arkansas, as one of our premarital honeymoons, but well never go there again!
Finally, in the fall of 1943, I was drafted into the army and sent to
Camp Van Dorn, in Centerville, Mississippi. That was much worse
than Lincoln, Nebraska. Soldiers referred to it as the ass hole of
the U.S.
The war had a profound eect on my career. The hiatus of those
years (1942 working for the USO, 1943 through 1945 in the army)
was a very long period to be out of the New York music scene. It
was the precise time in my life when I might have had important
operatic roles and made more recordings. With American energy
concentrated on the war eort, the cultural scene suered; nothing
unusual about that. Post-war audiences were no longer interested in
the music with which my name was associated, and I couldnt bring
myself to sing what they wanted to hear.
P rogressive men who had heard Mordy sing congregated around

him at his special service desk in Mississippi. Harold Bolton and
Mordy met at Camp Upton, the induction center in New York.
Harold was sent to Camp Van Dorn before him. The roster of new
arrivals assigned to the Service Company of the 255th Regiment,
63rd Division listed Mordecai Baumans name. Harold read it and
immediately went to Captain Whitney to announce that a famous
singer was joining the outt. Hes one of the twenty-ve most
famous baritones in the country, Harold bragged. It was typical
Harold hyperbole, but it eased Mordys path into the service. Harold and he were assigned to a double-decker bunk because both last
names started with B. That brought them really close!
Before he was drafted, Harold was an actor who occasionally
appeared in vaudeville. He directed one of the Federal Theater
87
Project plays, One Third of a Nation,

in its initial production at Vassar College, and Professor Mamlock in New
York. When Harold was assigned to
Camp Van Dorn, his wife, Rhoda
Rammelkamp, moved to New Orleans
to be near him. Rhoda was a theatrical
designer, a graduate of Yale Drama
School.
Harold and Mordy went to New
Orleans whenever they had leave. The
two New Yorkers were desperate for
the cultural atmosphere of a cosmopolitan city. Mordy found his old high
Harold and Mordy.
school friend Jack Kamaiko through
Rhoda, who was frequently in his house. Jack was Mordys campaign manager when he successfully ran for president of his high
school senior class. On one of many weekend visits, Mordy met
Jacks colleague Frank Bancroft, both working for the United Seamans Service (USS). Jack was a social worker; Frank was editor of
Social Work Today. Jacks house became their refuge from the army
routine. Both Jack and Frank became important to our lives.
Another army friend who remained close was Jerry Shore,
a union organizer; later he was head of the Progressive Party in
Michigan, working in 1948 on the Henry Wallace campaign. Jerrys
bravery in combat earned him an ocers commission in the eld.
Until he died, we were with Jerry more often than any other army
friend; wherever he was, we visited him, and he came to visit us
from wherever he happened to be working. His wife Annie was a
union organizer in New York. While I was working at the Armed
Services Editions, we were constant lunch companions. Later, after
his divorce from Annie, he met Leslie Steinmetz and lived with her
happily for about twenty years.
88
In his seventies Jerry found an outlet in painting, new for him but
an activity he had seen Annie enjoy (he admired her many talents).
Leslie, who lived with Jerry for more than twenty years, brought us
our choice of one of his late works; it hangs over our dining table
and brings life, and Jerry, to our home.
Danny Mendelsohn was a musician who also touted Mordy to
Captain Whitney. Danny was a legend in the group. He carried a
complete medicine cabinet with him all through the war. This was
not terribly surprising, since his father was a druggist. Every morning he got up screaming, Theyre shortening the nights!
David Nichols, who became David Pardoe, taking his mothers
maiden name, is the only remaining buddy we see regularly.
Davids grandfather was managing editor of the Toronto Globe
and Mail. He had built a summer camp on Fairy Island on Lake
Joseph, about 100 miles north of Toronto. His only heir was his son,
Davids uncle. That uncle had no children, and oered to leave the
island to David if he would change his name to Pardoe. So he did.
We became used to that name, but for years we would refer to him
as Dave Nichols, No, I mean Pardoe. David and his second wife
Ruth are our closest friends.
The left-wing background of these men haunted them throughout their army service. To check on Mordy and Harold, the army
used a standard method: They found an informer. Mordy befriended
a young soldier who seemed very attentive. One day Mordy and Harold invited him to accompany them on a New Orleans sortie. The
two old menboth over thirtytook the boy around town; they
had a jolly time. The last night of the weekend, while the young
soldier was enjoying Jack Kamaikos hospitality, he blurted out, I
dont know why they ask me to report on everything you do. Youre
really good guys, and I dont understand it. Mordy and Harold did,
and they avoided him from then on.
Harold was sent overseas before Mordy, and he came home ahead
of him as well. Despite the suspicions of army brass, Harold was
89
assigned as education director of the regiment, teaching political

history to enlisted men and ocersone irony among many. However he was often called on the carpet, interrogated and hounded,
and incorrectly characterized as the secretary of the Communist
Party of Louisiana. Harold wrote wonderful letters to me during
his European tour of duty. They brightened my loneliness.
During Mordys tour in Camp Van Dorn, we had another premarital weekend, in Atlanta. He was sent to a conference on army
special services: how to improve the work of entertainment and
educational personnel. It was a wonderful opportunity for me to
be with him. Uncle Jack gave me the money to get there. Harold
Rome, with whom Mordy had worked at Green Mansions, was also
there, and we spent those few days with him. Harold had a similar
job entertaining the troops, but in a dierent outt. Although Harold was also an enlisted man, not an ocer, he had his uniforms
tailored!
When we decided to get married in New Orleans, I sent my two
small children o to camp. They werent prepared to be away all
summer, and the camp turned out to be disorganized. Carlos went
to see them soon after they got there. Disapproving of the place, he
took them out and brought them to my mother in Yonkers. He was
probably right about the camp, but it was not easy for my mother.
Finally, Mordys divorce papers arrived on June 6th, remembered
by everyone else as D Day, when our forces landed on French
beaches. We could nally get married. Mordy went to considerable
trouble to reserve the bridal suite for the weekend at Hotel Roosevelt in New Orleans. Because I arrived late, I never saw it. Jack
Kamaiko planned to be our witness, but he had a USS assignment.
While Mordy waited for me to arrive, David Nichols and his rst
wife, Mary, took Jacks place, spending Saturday, our pre-wedding
night with Mordy in the bridal suite.
I made a plane reservation and sent a wire to Mordy that I would
arrive June 17th. It wasnt too surprising that I was bumped from
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the plane reservation by an important army ocial, normal during

the war. I had to go by traina three-day, two-night trip. On the
evening of June 15th, my father met me at Grand Central Station to
see me o and gave me a wedding gift of $200. We had a parting
argument. Nothing changed in my relationship with my father; it
was always confrontational. He had arranged with his bank to give
me travelers checks, promising to oversee my signature. I knew full
well that he would not tolerate a premature Irma C. Bauman but
maybe Irma Commanday; after all, I was divorced. He insisted
that I was still Irma C. Israels. I dont remember how we resolved
it; I probably didnt sign them at all. Before I got on the train I sent
another wire saying, Ill arrive Sunday. But it was garbled into
some day in the telegram! It must have puzzled and, certainly,
irritated Mordy.
The two days on the train were hot and sticky. The only food was
whatever we could buy when the train stopped at small-town stations. On the train I encountered a musician who knew Mordy, and
somehow we managed together. As we drew into the New Orleans
station, I wet a small towel, mopped my face and neck and buttoned
the jacket of my light blue linen wedding suit.
When the train stopped, I added the small hat with its veil. So,
the bride-to-be got o the train and faced the Louisiana summer
humidity, expecting Mordy to greet me with open arms. We had
waited three years for this moment! But there was no Mordy in
sight, and I began to wilt. I soon took o the hat, unbuttoned the
jacketnever mind that I had no blouse onand walked around the
station, dragging my suitcase. Mad as hell! I nally spotted Mordy
quietly sitting in front of a kneeling boy. He had no idea what train
Id be on or when I might arrive. Neither did I. Mordy waas using
the waiting time protably to get his shoes shined.
David had to get back to Van Dorn, so Jack Kamaiko sent his colleague Frank Bancroft to help us get through the day. Frank and his
wife Mary, their two small sons formally dressed in white suits, went
Our wedding picture.
Irma with Chuck and Elisabethfor Mordy in the army.

Photo by Lotte Jacobi.
92
with us across the Mississippi to Jeerson Parish. Sunday restrictions made it impossible for us to be married in the city of New
Orleans, so we were married across the river. Since I was marrying a soldier, the usual syphilis check was not required. I wanted
June 18th to be a memorable anniversary date, partly because it was
Fathers Day that year, and Mordy was becoming the instant
father of my two children. Also it was my brother Roberts birthday. I have always felt sentimental about that date. Mary knew that
I was determined to be married that very day; she assumed that I
was already pregnant. She brought me a baby gift, a pair of booties.
Our rst son Joshua was born almost six years later, a very long
gestation.
After the brief City Hall ceremony, we had a wonderful lunch at
Galatoires and then decided to swim in Lake Pontchartrain. That
was not such a terric idea. It was, in the days before Katrina, so
shallow that we waded far out before the water reached our knees.
We took o for our wedding night in Baton Rouge, halfway back
to Centerville, where Mordy had to present himself very early in
the morning. It was another hard trip by bus. Mordy, privileged
in his uniform, was able to get on the bus and save a seat for me. I
struggled to get through a long, frantic line of travelers but couldnt
make it. So Mordy pushed his way o and we ran for a train, hoping
to make Baton Rouge before our hotel reservation was canceled.
What a day! And what a long, hot, humid night! The noisy fan overhead in the hotel room kept us awake; without the fan we couldnt
breathe, with it we couldnt sleep. It was like our pre-honeymoon in
McGehee, Arkansas: noisy, sleepless, and uncomfortable. That we
could survive the stresses and disappointments of our rst day of
marriage without a shred of acrimony was surely evidence that we
would stay together through whatever came our way.
While Mordy waited for my arrival that wedding weekend, he
wandered around New Orleans, killing time. In a music store he
saw a sign advertising the New Orleans Pops concert. He had met
93
the conductor, Izler Solomon, in New York; maybe there was a possibility Solomon would invite him to sing with the orchestra. The
salesgirl in the music store suggested that if he wanted to appear
with the orchestra, the best person to contact was Leon Godchaux
in his department store across the street. Godchaux was a patron of
the arts; wanting to be helpful to a soldier, he invited Mordy to that
nights concert and to a party afterward.
At the party Mordy found Harry Brunswick Loeb, the music
critic of the Times Picayune. He had been a guest during the summer when Mordy was a counselor at Camp Wigwam. (Maybe he
heard the Brahm that Mordy sang.) Loeb told everyone what a
ne artist Mordy was. Solomon suggested that Mordy might audition right then and there. They went into a small room with a piano;
Solomon played and engaged Mordy for the outdoor concert scheduled for two weeks later on July rst, when he could get a weekend
pass again.
Mordy rented a room for me in Gloster, a small town near Centerville. I met Doris Duke, the tobacco heiress while I was visiting
the Kamaikos in New Orleans. At that time she was a volunteer at
the USS. Frank and Jack told Duke about the famous American
singer who had just been married and was going to sing at the
Pops concert. She promised to give a post-concert party for him.
We wondered if it would really happen; rain threatened the outdoor concert. I was uneasy; would he actually be able to sing? I
tried to keep calm, reassuring him that it was still raining and the
concert couldnt possibly take place. But the rain stopped. The
orchestra manager called us at Jacks house and told Mordy that
Solomon was waiting for him: we rushed o. He sang three Mozart
arias: Non piu Andrai from The Marriage of Figaro; Deh Vieni
alla Finestra and Madamina from Don Giovanni. He sang two
encores: Jacques Wolfes De Glory Road and Shortnin Bread.
Even in 1944 those encore songs were thought of as corny
Doris Dukes party was at her hotel. Some days later she sug-
94
gested that we meet for lunch. I remembered that Orson Welles

never carried money, and had a feeling that Duke would not soil her
hands with cash either! Just in case, I called Uncle Jack in New York
and asked him to wire me $20 because I had this important date
with Doris Duke, the richest woman in the world. As it turned out
my hunch was right: I had to pay for the lunch because Doris Duke
didnt carry cash either.
A newspaper article about the concert was not quite accurate.
An excerpt:
BAUMAN TO SING,
MARK TYING OF GORDIAN KNOT
Married 12 days ago in Gretna, Mordecai Bauman will celebrate his wedding by singing as guest artist with the Summer
Pop Concerts Orchestra on Saturday night. The young lyric
baritone, who began winning music contests in New York at
the age of 18, is now attached to the 255th regiment at Camp
Van Dorn, Miss., and has staged many variety shows, camp
entertainments and reviews [sic]. He and two New Orleans
boys [sic], Harold Bolton and Daniel Mendelsohn, have written a new song, which was used in one of their shows: You
Dont Need a Past [sic] to Dream .
He and his pretty bride met at an American opera staged at
Columbia University called Paul Bunyan and, oddly enough,
written by two Englishmen. Bauman sang a lead part and Mrs.
Bauman was in the chorus. It was love at rst sight, and that
was three years ago. They planned to be married on the 18th
in New York, with a big ceremony, celebrating jointly Fathers
Day, her brothers birthday and the wedding, but the groomto-be couldnt get away, so she came here. Then, since it was
Sunday and he had to be back in camp Monday, they just went
to Gretna and got the wedding over with.
We had certainly not planned a big wedding in New York; you

cant believe everything you read in the newspapers.
Mordys rst stop when he was sent to France was a mountain
top overlooking Aix-en-Provence. He still refers to his overseas
95
army tour as his rst European trip! One winter evening in 1944,
David (then still Nichols) and Mordy went on an unauthorized jaunt
to Marseilles. They hitched a ride down to town but couldnt nd
anything to do or see there.
As they wandered around the dark narrow streets, they noticed
a sign on a storefront: it was the local Communist Party headquarters. The two American soldiers went in and asked what was happening that might be of interest to them. Theres a United Front
meeting, they were told. How could they nd it? The Frenchman
tried to tell them how to get to the meeting, and nally decided to
close the oce and take them himself. Neither Mordy nor Dave
understood the language well, so they left shortly after listening
to what appeared to be endless, bombastic speeches. Nonetheless,
they were both called in to army headquarters months later, as they
were preparing to cross the Rhine at Worms. What were you doing
at a United Front rally in Marseilles? This was an example of army
obtuseness. Ironically, they were participating in the actual United
Front, about to engage the enemy, and the intelligence section was
questioning their presence at a United Front rally.
Mordy learned how to drive on the mountaintop near Marseilles.
He had lived in New York all his life; his family didnt need and could
not aord a car. As the 255th regiment prepared to go to the Theater
of Operations, it became apparent that the available special service
classications would be given to more senior men in the company.
Senior meant men who were in the army longer. Mordy had not
been in the outt long enough to qualify for his role as entertainment director overseas. One of his friendly lieutenants, a special
service ocer (either Naddeo or Bond), oered him a chance to
stay with his outt, listing him as a truck driver. It amused Mordy,
never suspecting that it was a real classication, or that he would
actually be required to drive. To be assigned to a dierent outt
meant he would leave his comrades; no one in the army wanted to
do that! So he agreed to the classication: truck driver.
96
It was December. His outt was bivouacked on a rocky mountain

in the Maritime Alps overlooking Aix-en-Provence. It was freezing,
and no one could sleep at night. They were issued tents, but Mordy
remembers with no pleasure that it was impossible to hammer the
wooden pegs into the rock. They huddled in inadequate sleeping
bags and suered for nights, waking in sunshine to look longingly
down at Aix. Mordy didnt realize that he could not see in the dark.
When he was assigned night guard duty, another soldier had to
guide him to his post. He stayed there, on guard for about four
hours. When his replacement arrived, Mordy had to inform him
that he couldnt nd his way back. Still another soldier had to come
and guide Mordy back to his outt.
Almost forty years later, during the summer of 1981, we were
oered a house in Aix, the home of M. and Mme. Gabert, Professors of geography at the university. Our friend Ccile Gross, who
knew them from childhood, made the arrangement for us to live in
Aix while she ran a small summer camp for young children in her
familys Domaine in nearby Orpierre. We really enjoyed that lovely
house and the Provence countryside.
Mme. Gabert stayed in her house with us one night; she needed
to see a doctor in Marseilles. Mordy told her the story of his December on the mountaintop, which we could see from her house. Oh,
I know where the soldiers were bivouacked, she said. On the way
to Marseilles I can take you there, and you can revisit the place you
remember. So we visited the rocky area where Mordy learned to
drive. As he drove, now competently, he told us the story: How I
learned to drive.
One morning an ocer called me over and said: Heres your
truck. Drive it. I admitted that I didnt know how to drive.
Its a big eld, nothings in your way; just drive, the sergeant
told me. I ground the gears, trying to shift; the truck was an
absolute mystery to me. I drove around and around, but never
really got the hang of it.
97
The truck was mine, however, and I was assigned to drive a

Warrant Ocer as he visited the troops. He couldnt stand my
driving and nally took over the wheel. It was more dangerous
to drive with me than face the enemy! After I had the truck
for several weeks, the maintenance crew told me to bring it in
for a check up. Didnt you ever check the oil? the machinist
asked me in horror when he realized the oil case was empty.
I didnt understand the rst thing about cars. They took the
truck away from me. The next chaueur, really an experienced
driver, cracked it up on an icy road the rst day he took it out.
The cold sleepless nights, inedible army food, the noise of cannons and planes overheadMordys war experience was not easy,
but little dierent from his comrades. One scene in particular that
has not appeared in any lm about that war, as far as I know, is
indelibly xed in his mind. After weeks during which they had not
been able to get out of their clothesmaybe not even their shoes
the army constructed an enormous tent in Saarburg, with a series of
open hot water showers and bins of uniforms. Hundreds of soldiers
lined up at one end, dropped their clothes, showered, and picked
up clean (not new) clothes at the other end.
We tell some war stories, but the one most often repeated, and
with glee, is the Fig Newton episode. I was living in Yonkers with my
parents while Mordy was overseas. My mother was an expert package sender. We occasionally sent Mordy items he longed for when
we had an inkling of his whereabouts and thought he might actually
receive the package. In the Yonkers kitchen one evening, we put a
package together: Send a salami to your boy in the army was a
current slogan. Mother melted the same wax she used to cover jars
of home-made jelly and coated a pound of salami with it. She also
coated a banana as I looked on incredulously. And of course, fudge.
Lets put some liquor in, mother said. I didnt think that was feasible either, but in her mischievous way she said, Watch me.
She took a box of Fig Newton cookies, carefully removed the
wrapper and took out the middle cookies, leaving two at each end.
98
I remember that she used a cough medicine bottle for the whiskey;
when she told the story it was a vanilla bottle. Whatever it was, she
lled it with whiskey, put it between the cookies and rewrapped the
box, pasting the ap with a our and water mixture. We sent it o.
I never believed the package would reach Mordy, but he did get it
and consumed most of the contents with his friends.
On a cold winter day he was standing at the side of a road in
Worms watching army trucks roll by toward the Rhine on the way
to the front. The convoy stopped and there was David Nichols. They
talked for a few moments, and Mordy said that he had just received
a package from Irma.
All I have left is a box of Fig Newtons. He generously handed
the box to David.
If theres anything I hate, said David, its Fig Newtons!
Take them anyway, said Mordy. Later, on the top of a truck in
the middle of the freezing night, David opened the box. Imagine his
delight and the excitement among the men, who each had a swig!
Much later Mordy and David met again: David thanked him profusely for the Fig Newtons. Mordy was surprised; he thought David
hated them. I do, said David, but not those Fig Newtons. And
he told Mordy how he discovered the whiskey and shared it with the
shivering men on the open bed of the truck. The best Fig Newtons
I ever tasted! When our granddaughter Danielle was eleven, she
won a school prize by telling this story she had heard so often.
I was an editorial assistant at the Armed Services Editions at
the Council on Books in Wartime while Mordy was in the army.
This was a publishing project set up by the Pocket Books division
of Simon and Schuster to supply forty pocket books every month
to the men in the armed services. Frank, who, I thought, had little
condence in my ability, recommended me to his friend Philip Van
Doren Stern, director of that project. Phil had already been a large
inuence in my life. During the Depression, when he was out of
work, he had sold his entire library to Frank, as I remember for
99
$200. Those books were my literary education; I read most of them

in my early teens. Frank had printed The Greatest Gift, a rather
corny short story by Phil, which was Privately Printed For Distribution To My FriendsChristmas 1943. In my copy of the small
pamphlet I found Phils letter to Frank on Armed Services Editions,
Inc. stationery.
March 23, 1944
Dear Frank,
I thought you would like to know that I just sold the Christmas story you printed for me to the movies for ten thousand,*
which I think is quite a price for a short story that no magazine
would take.
Most cordially yours, Phil
*dollars, not peanuts.
I wonder now if thats the reason I got the job. As a sort of test I
was assigned the painstaking task of cutting David Coppereld in
half, a boring, tedious assignment. I feel that I never really read it,
but somehow nished the task. It was no longer Dickens original
work; I was only allowed to use conjunctions, no extra words except
and, but, or, etc. It was listed as abridged, one of the books
sent to the army, rather thick, but small enough to t in a soldiers
pocket. I was paid $38.75. I told Phil that I had spent seventy hours
working on it, but Im sure it took longer than that. Normally, he
said, it should only have taken thirty-ve.
My job at the Council was to read books from a list pre-selected
by an editorial committee,and write reports. I read two books a
day, mostly at night. I wrote the reports in the oce, working with
two or three other readers, as Louis supervised and teased us. One
of those girls was Carmen Angleton. I thought of her as a Charles
Addams character; perhaps she was the earliest hippy I knew. She
had long straight black hair, wore a long black dress, and hardly
said a word. Lois Edwards was divorced from the radio announcer
Douglas Edwards. Morley Hoare was, I seem to remember, also
100
divorced, from a British diplomat. Later Margaret Newsom joined

us. I especially enjoyed working with her. Louis was a great ladies
man, though not what youd call handsome. He had a large nose
and a crooked smile; what I remember best was the slightly damaged nail on one nger, in spite of which he played piano well. He
appeared to be absolutely self-condent. He was nonthreatening
and charming. He told us stories about his love aairs and several
marriages: to the judge, to the poet he foolishly remarried after
they had been divorced, to the young woman he met at a writing
seminar who tragically died very young, and nally to his last wife,
Bryna.
Louis taught me how to write simply and with facility. Never
use a long word when a short one will do, was his suggestion to
me.
I used to bring Mordys letters to work and read them to Louis.
One line puzzled both of us, Im doing what Lillian Hellman is,
Mordy wrote. We struggled to decipher what he meant. What was
Hellman doing? It wasnt until he got home that he explained his
code: keeping Watch on the Rhine. He laughed, surprised that we
had not caught on. How did we miss it? It was the name of Hellmans current play, soon (then) to be a movie.
It wasnt all gossip and fun. We followed the Council rules: We
had to check for racist tone or a particular political slant, among
other proscriptions. One tale in a book of short stories by William
Irish (aka Cornell Woolrich) struck me as racist. It described voodoo: Negroes (we didnt say African-Americans or blacks in
those days) eating live chickens, and other delectable items. It was
a good collection of stories, but I checked one with a black friend,
and he agreed with me that it seemed racist to him. I didnt know
that Irish was one of Phil Van Doren Sterns favorite writers; there
were three of his books on the nal list. If Phil had set his mind on
a particular book, a suggestion that it should be rejected carried no
weight. When two copies of the book appeared on the shelf, ready to
101
be reprinted, I knew the decision was irrevocable. I couldnt make

my negative opinion stick, so I hid those two books behind others
on the shelf, quietly winning that round. Nobody noticed, at least
for a while. I dont know if it was one of the three Woolrich books
eventually published by the Council.
We loved Louis. But by the end of the year, I didnt love Phil. The
war was winding down, and we greeted a new reader, a young man
recently discharged from the Navy. I taught him the routine and
helped him get started. It wasnt long before I discovered that Eric
was getting $5 a week more than our $35. Incensed, I went to Phil
and complained.
But hes married, with a family to support, he told me. You
are living with your parents and you have an army subsidy from
your husband! That angered me further, and, with Louis blessing,
I quit. A foolish, but principled stand. Louis wrote a letter of recommendation for me:
May 15, 1945
Dear Mr. Reeves Lewenthal:
I have known Irma Bauman for some time, and she has worked
directly with me for about eight months. Her task has been
that of editorial reader, a role which calls for personal taste
as well as impersonal judgment. It also demands steady attendance and devotion to work in hand. In all her capacities, Mrs.
Bauman has given complete satisfaction.
I have come to rely upon her labors in the matter of selection
as well as editorial acumen. I might add that she is a person
with whom any organization could work with great ease, for
she is not only capable and amiable, but highly adjustable.
Louis Untermeyer
The war would soon be over, and I expected Mordy to come home.
But he didnt have enough army points to warrant discharge. His
outt was occupying small towns in southern Germany, lonely work
but not dangerous. In his letters, he wrote stories about his expe-
102
riences, trying to make light of his deferred homecoming. In one

village there was a nunnery where he and the company photographer, Herb Arbitblit, were in charge. The building had been used to
house a section of the Signal Corps. A group of nuns came to Mordy
and Herb in fear and trembling. They found odd objects hanging
all over the rooms and feared they might be explosives. They didnt
dare move back into the convent until they were assured the building was safe. Mordy and Herb went to investigate and found dozens
of blown-up condoms, lled with water. A poor joke on those innocent sisters.
We wrote to each other almost every day. I saved all of Mordys
letters, and he brought mine home. Weve kept them in a carton,
moving them from Yonkers to Cleveland, back to my mothers house
in Yonkers, to Stockbridge, to the garage attic in Huntington, Massachusetts, to a closet in New York, temporarily to Elisabeths house
in Yonkers, and now back to our closet in Greenwich Village.
Mordy tells this story with great glee. Some time in the spring
of 1945, after the war in Europe was won, I read an announcement
in Stars and Stripes: Men who had relatives in the European Theater of Operations could apply for compassionate leave to check
on their well-being. I immediately created relatives and applied to
my captain for a pass to visit my cousins in England; it was as far
from my base as I could think of traveling. The captain promised
to give me the rst available pass, but the sta sergeant was ahead
of me. I went to the captain, complaining bitterly: You promised
me the rst pass! I am really worried about my relatives. The captain was sympathetic, apologized for forgetting my request, and
arranged for me to get the next available pass. It was the rst time
I was separated from my company in two years. Together we had
gone through basic training, spent the winter trying to survive the
cold on the Maritime Alps, fought the Battle of the Bulge, crossed
the Siegfried Line, bivouacked in Saarburg, crossed the Rhine at
103
Worms, liberated Heidelberg, and followed the enemy to Augsburg,

where the Germans surrendered.
I went to look for those nonexistent relatives in England. Leaving from Stuttgart, I had to nd a train that went to France. The
track gauge in France was dierent from that of the German and
Belgium railroads, necessitating repeated changes and long delays.
When I was stuck waiting for transportation in Metz, I remembered
a colleague who worked for the USO there and managed to locate
her. We had dinner together, and I reminded her gratefully that it
was she who had suggested I apply for the USO job before I went
into the army. I went on from Metz to Paris, again a complicated
train trip.
Continuing to look for friends en route who might ease my trip,
I found Sy Bernhard, a soldier I met at Camp Van Dorn. Sy was
working for the army radio in Paris; he arranged for me to sleep
in the dormitory for radio station personnel. I put my bag down
on a cot next to a handsome young man who became my copain as
we explored Paris. Harvey Gellers sophisticated chatter was entertaining, and when it came time to leave I told him how much I had
enjoyed his companionship.
I suppose Ill never see you again. Where do you live? I asked
him. To my surprise, Harvey answered, I live in Yonkers. It was
my turn to surprise Harvey.
My wife is with her parents in Yonkers. Do call her when you get
home. Harvey promised to visit Irma, and he did. When I nally
came home, and we all met, he whispered to me in amazement:
Do you really think your wife is beautiful? Despite his poor
taste were still great friends.
Le Havre had been destroyed in bombing raids. No ships could
leave from that harbor, so I took a train to Etretat where I waited
to board a ship for Southampton. When I reached London, I went
to the oce of Stars and Stripes; Jimmy Dugan was one of the editors. We had met in 1939 when Jimmy was writing stories for New
104
Masses magazine. I needed a professional photograph for my debut

publicity. Jimmy introduced me to Lotte Jacobi, who eventually
photographed everyone in our family and took many pictures at
Indian Hill. We loved her and have been inuenced by her iconoclastic thinking for over fty years.
Jimmy, Henri Cartier-Bresson, famous army photographer,
Claude Renoir, the lmmaker (relative of the painter), and I spent
a week together in London. Others in the group were Mark Harris,
also a photographer, and John Krimsky, who produced the rst performance of Three Penny Opera in New York.
I walked the bombed streets, visiting the shops and exploring the
city; I couldnt believe I was really in London. On Election Day I
was accosted by a citizen who asked me if I heard that Churchill was
in the hospital. No, I hadnt heard. He has labour pains, happily
announced the British worker. Obviously, the Labour Party won
that election.
My most memorable experience was when I went into the Marble
Arch movie theater to rest my weary feet. The color photographs
outside the theater were of such poor quality, I thought I was going
to see an old lm. It was sold out, and I got the last seat. (The lm
was Oliviers Henry the Fifth.) Imagine my surprise! I also went to
the ballet with Harris, who had an extra ticket. He hoped to take a
girl, but settled for me when none was available. I cheerily pointed
out to Harris for his pleasure, a beautiful redhead in the corps de
ballet, whoit turned outwas Moira Shearer, the dancer who later
starred in The Red Shoes. When I nally watched it with Irma, I
remembered how exciting she was on stage; I felt that I had discovered her.
We decided we had to go to the Hackney Empire, the theater
where Chaplin made his rst stage appearance. The program featured a family act, song and dance with a big band. Irma and I recreated that memorable evening fty years later. Our friend Chuck
Portz suggested that we meet Roland Muldoon, director of the
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theater. (Muldoon later renovated the theater, bringing it back to

its former glory. And he starred in a lm Chuck produced, wrote,
and played the lead role.) Programming at the Hackney Empire in
1993 probably tried to recreate past performances. We left after the
intermission, bored and even slightly oended by the old-fashioned
British music hall humor. It was fun, however, to retrace my trip on
compassionate leave!
I havent forgotten another encounter: On the way back to my
outt, via Brussels, I went into the Army PX to try to buy perfume
for Irma (who doesnt use ithow would I know?) I overheard the
clerks wondering why all servicemen only ask for unobtainable
Chanel Number Five. Do all American women smell the same?
one marveled. I didnt get back home for another four months
L ouis untermeyer had heard Mordy sing many times and admired
his work. In 1945, listening to my excited anticipation of Mordys
imminent homecoming, Louis wanted to help restart his career. I
know theres a new Broadway musical in rehearsal. As soon as he
arrives, he should audition for a part. I can send him to the producers. The name of the musical was Call Me Mister. As it happened,
Mordy knew the director, Robert Gordon. His friend Harold Rome
was the composer. Mordy had the inside track, as it were. As soon
as he felt settled at home, he went to see Rome. Harold unhappily
reported that there was nothing in the musical for him: He was too
old to play an army veteran. They were looking for eighteen-yearold kids, not a thirty-three-year-old actual veteran! It was terribly
disappointing, for the musical seemed to be a logical opportunity.
When Mordy went back to Germany after his compassionate
leave in London, he was assigned to Kunzelsau, a small town thats
now a large city. He wrote that he met a German family and visited them frequently. I was astonished. How could he even bear or
dare enter a German home? Dr. Max Pregizer was a country doctor whose practice took him from village to village. He had three
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young daughters: Liesl, Grete, and Rose; two of them were musical.
Mordys friend Fred Katz, an accomplished pianist and cellist, discovered that the Pregizers had a gorgeous grand piano, a Kaim. He
persuaded Mordy to go with him to sing German lieder.
I guessed that Fred was enamored of one of the girls and wondered which one. And Mordy? What was he doing there? He wrote
that they gave army rations to Mrs. Pregizer, who turned them into
decent meals. And he described the house: medical oce on the
rst oor, the music room upstairs, parquet oors polished so carefully the soldiers had to remove their boots before being allowed
to enter. When he came home, he talked aectionately about the
Kunzelsau family, and admiringly of Dr Pregizer. I felt ashamed of
my automatic anti-German attitude. I began to write to him. One
of his daughters, Grete Steiner, answered my letters. I sent my childrens out-grown clothes to Gretes children. Grete and I have corresponded ever since. After several years of receiving second-hand
clothes from me for her and her three childrenEva, Ulrike and
JrgGrete wrote graciously, saying that they were in much better
circumstances, and she no longer needed my packages. Her husband Manfred was principal of the elementary school in Michaelbach am Wald (Michaels brook in the woods).
I write to her in English, she answers in German; just how accurate our translations are is questionable, but we enjoy telling each
other about our children. I write about the struggles, the successes.
Grete writes similar stories about her threeall doing well.
In 1968, almost twenty-ve years after Mordy met them, we
decided it was high time to visit Kunzelsau. Mordy often talked
about the beauty of the area. As a matter of fact, one of the reasons
we settled in Stockbridge was that New England reminded him of
southern Germany. We drove from Belgium to visit the Steiners in
Michelbach, a bucolic farm village close to Kunzelsau.
Mordy wanted to visit places he remembered, so we wandered
rst around Heidelberg, looking for the castle. But we couldnt
107
nd it, drove around the hills and nally gave up. It was about two
oclock in the afternoon, and we didnt want to arrive hungry and
cranky, so we tried to nd a restaurant. There was a sign on a building: Schtzenverein. Our German has improved; what happened
then would not happen now. Had we realized that Schtzenverein
means Shooting Club, we would not have gone in. We tried to eat
with the sounds of rie and pistol shots in the background, and left
in a hurry.
The rented car license made it obvious to the villagers who we
were; everyone in that small village expected us. When we stopped
for directions, without even mentioning the Steiner name, we were
told where they lived. I think the total population of Michelbach
was less than a thousand. Three-year-old Jrg took my hand and
chattered to me in German, making it somehow clear that Mordy
and I would sleep in his parents bed. I call my attempts to speak
German, Kinder Deutsch. When Jrg pulled me outside I understood Spazieren but I didnt catch Kuh. He was saying: Lets
go for a walk and see the cows. And that is still his interest: hes
since become a veterinarian, with Ph.D. degrees from both the
United States and Germany.
After dinner, Liesl and her husband, Josef Mertens, arrived from
Kunzelsau. Liesl inherited her fathers medical practice; Josef was
also a doctor. Almost before she said hello, Liesl handed us copies
of a Bach cantata so we could all sing together. She said, I see you
here, but I really dont believe it. She thought Mordys memories
of the war would make it impossible for him to come back to Germany. We told her about our entrance into Germany, the sound of
guns in our ears. She suggested, When you talk to your friends
about Germany, please balance the story about the gun club with a
nicer story: singing the Bach cantata with us. So that is what I do.
Mordys memory of the Pregizers, I soon understood, was based
on their warmth and political sympathies. He hadnt known it, but
Liesl and Josef were Quakers. We visited them in the Kunzelsau
108
house; I was fascinated to see the music room where Mordy sang.
The third sister, Rosa, was in the kitchen; she did not come out
to greet us. Her husband had been in the German army; she had
nothing to say to us. Dr. Mertens was a serious, philosophical war
veteran; he was a surgeon on the Russian front, terribly aected
by the experience. Mordy understands German quite well, but it
was especially hard to communicate with Josef, who was not interested in small talk. We understood enough to send him books he
needed when we returned to New York. Their daughter Karen came
to Indian Hill!
It was a big disappointment to discover that Dr. Pregizer wasnt
home; so we changed our itinerary and made a detour to his retirement cottage in the beautiful town Kattenhorn, on Lake Constance
(also known as the Bodensee.) We stayed in Stein am Rhein, a couple of kilometers away. When we arrived at his house, Dr. Pregizer
told us that he had arranged for a Dolmetscher, a charming young
girl. She interpreted all evening, making serious conversation possible. Dr. Pregizer admired Gandhi; on his table we noticed that he
was reading the German edition of Paul Goodmans Communitas.
We talked about the book and the problems of the sixties. We told
him about our school, our children, our hopes for the future, and
Mordys memory of his hospitality and his wifes cooking. I took
his picture, such a good portrait of his handsome face that it has
encouraged me to take thousands of pictures of family and friends.
It was one of the most successful portraits Ive made. Grete says its
the best picture she has of her father; it is still in a place of honor in
their living room. In September 1994, Grete and Manfred Steiner
came to see us in New York, their only trip to the United States. It
was an emotional time for all four.
During the 1968 trip, we told the Steiners and Mertenses that
we were going to y to Israel after we drove to Milan. That created great excitement. Josef had a friend, Joseph Abileah, who lived
109
in Haifa; Dr. Mertens insisted that we call Abileah as soon as we

arrived in Israel. What a dierence that made to our trip! The 1967
war was still an active topic of excited conversation; we found most
of the Israelis basking in their (hollowas it turned out) victory.
Abileah was quite dierent, a violinist who helped found the Haifa
Symphony Orchestra. He abandoned his musical career to work
full-time promoting peace in the Middle East. Abileah took us to
meet his Arab friends, and told us about his eorts to bring peace
between Arabs and Jews. He traveled all over the world under the
auspices of Quaker groups and the Fellowship of Reconciliation.
Yehudi Menuhin was one of his supporters.
Abileah was called a fanatic for truth. He was under great suspicion in Israel, even jailed several times. Ocials couldnt decide
if he was a threat to Israel or just a meshugenah. He gathered a
small army of peace-lovers around him from all backgrounds and
all over the world. We invited our friends to hear him when he lectured in New York, sponsored by the Fellowship of Reconciliation
and the Middle East Confederation, which Abileah founded.
It happened that our hotel in Tel Aviv was the base for the Paraplegic Olympics. We had rented a car and that made it possible
for two Olympic sponsors to travel with us. One was a Scottish
surgeon, the other a jeweler from Manchester, England. We soon
became friends and toured together.
The jewelers relative was a tour guide and invited us all to his
home for Friday night dinner. He drove us to Jericho and then
through the desert to Masada, where we gamelyeven proudly
walked up the Roman ramp to the famous historic site. The guide
opened the glove compartment at one moment in the desert to
check his pistol. Mordy and I held hands and tried to appreciate
what we were experiencing without too much anxiety.
In 1998 we spent a week in Kattenhorn with Grete and Manfred
after the conference honoring Eislers hndredth birthday in Berlin.
110
Grete showed us the 1945 family guest book. There were many letters from grateful American soldiers. I copied two, from Mordy and
Fred Katz:
Just to indicate how successful the fraternization policy can
be, I write these few words in appreciation of the warmth and
charm of the lovely Pregizer family. My desire for a better
world and a better Germany is sympathetically understood by
you. My best wishes for peaceful and better days remain with
you, with these thoughts I go.
Mordecai Bauman
. . . What happiness I have had in Germany has come from
you. . . . All of you will forever remain a part of my thoughts
and life. I promise all of you that I will work and work and work
until I have no more strength, and that I will become a great
artist. When I play Bach I will always think of your love for
him, and your love will communicate itself to my ngers and I
will play it as it should be playedI leave here with tears. Tears
of joy and sadness. Joy because of the happiness you gave me,
sadness because I must depart. Farewell my dear ones. We may
be physically separated, but our love for music will bring us
together again, forever.
With reverence, Fred Katz
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Chapter Five
After the War
HEN MORDY left Kunzelsau in 1945, he made one of his

fateful decisions. The war in Europe was over; the army was
sending soldiers not yet eligible for discharge to the Pacic. Mordy
was sure that the Japanese conict would be over before he was
sent there, so he volunteered to go to the eastern front, hoping for
a furlough rst. He was determined to get home to us in a hurry
and reasoned he would never be sent to Japan. He wasnt; after he
arrived at a replacement depot in Paris to wait to be shipped home,
the war with Japan was over.
But instead of coming home, he was assigned to the Biarritz
American University (BAU) to work in the entertainment section,
which produced light musicals. That wasnt his thing, so he went
to the ocer in charge and asked for permission to teach singing
in the music department. Seth Bingham, who knew Mordy from
Columbia College and Juilliard, was in that department. He sent
Mordy to the head of the voice department, who accepted him.
Mordy had twenty-four students, sang in many programs during
his four-month stay, gave a solo recital, and met Bernie Koten and
Arthur Waldhorn, whose friendships became important to us.
I must digress because we all loved Bernie; we miss him. He
spent his high school years in Moscow. His father, an migr from
112
Russia, was in charge of the veterinary program at Cornell University. He was invited to set up the veterinary service in the Soviet
Union, and the family went with him. After his father was killed in
a streetcar accident in Moscow, Bernie came back to the States. He
was procient in Russian, which led to his service as an army translator. He was with the rst U.S. army group that met the Russians at
the Elbe River. At the end of the war he was assigned to teach Russian at BAU, where he met Mordy. He explored the Biarritz restaurants, and took Mordy to all of them. One of the great things about
Bernie was his gourmet cooking. He wrote cookbooks and knew the
best restaurants wherever he went. We spent many happy hours in
Bernies company, and enjoyed meeting his many friends, one of
whom was the poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko. When Bernie came back
to New York, he set up the American-Russian Institute, funded by
Corliss Lamont. Eventually the collection of publications in Russian and English was donated to the New York University Library;
Bernie was in charge of it until he retired.
Another Biarritz acquaintance was the journalist Murray Teigh
Bloom. One fall day he invited Mordy to join his class of about fteen students; their assignment was to write a feature story about
the annual gathering of the grapes. One great vineyard they visited was Chateau Margaux, an occasion Mordy remembers when
were drinking a similarly extravagant winewhich is not too often.
They arrived at the handsome residence of the director in time for
the celebration of the grape gatherers. It was a festive party scene,
right out of The Marriage of Figaro: workers serenading the patron.
Murray introduced Mordy to the director, a doctor of law as well as
manager of the estate. Bauman is a well-known singer, Murray
said.
Will you sing for us? the director asked. That was not on
Mordys mindhe was there for the wine, not to entertain. He said
that he didnt have any music with him. Ill play for you, anything
you want to sing, the manager oered. Well, that didnt stump
C h a p t e r F i v e : A f t e r t h e Wa r
113
Mordy, who dragged an obscure aria out of his operatic repertoire

from Benvenuto Cellini by Ruy Diazsure the manager wouldnt
know the opera. But he said, Oh, thats one of my favorites, sat at
the piano and played it from memory! Mordy had to sing it.
William A. Reuben was another soldier-journalist who visited
Biarritz. He became associated with the Rosenberg and Alger Hiss
trials, writing many books trying to prove conspiracy against them
and describing the determination of the government to destroy the
liberal movement. Bill suggested that Mordy send for his FBI les
under the Freedom of Information Act, which we did in January
1979, and we received 100 pages in June. Because there were fewer
than 200 pages, we were not required to pay a fee.
Of the hundred pages, thirty-six are labeled administrative. All
names and dates are blacked out. The rationale for deleting names
is to protect third parties, to maintain condentiality of informers, and to protect the national interest. We found many errors.
The funniest one is: He doesnt make friends easily, a comment
from Captain Whitney of the 255th Infantry Regiment in a report
to the Military Intelligence Division of the War Department. His
only friends, Whitney reports, are Harold Bolton and Daniel Mendelsohn, both communistically inclined. The captain repeats several times, Hes one of the twenty-ve best baritones in the country, which is what he rst heard from Haroldand obviously he
believed it! He adds that although Subject is not good in his military training, he is well qualied for his present position, that of
recreation director. He thinks he is somewhat of a communist,
but does not doubt his loyalty to the United States. He adds, Baumans political views were those of most intelligent New Yorkers,
left wing and liberal.
One odd date in the report has me divorced from my rst husband
on September 25, 1935; that was actually the date of my marriage
to Carlos Israels, not my divorce. My two oldest children, Charles
and Elisabeth Israels, were born in 1936 and 1939. If I was divorced
114
in 1935, according to the FBI, how did they justify our childrens
births? Many pages are duplicates. In several places Mordys birth
date is March 2nd, in others April 2nd. The FBI could not nd any
criminal record of the subject, and his credit rating was satisfactory. No derogatory or disloyal information is contained in the
records of the Cleveland Retail Credit Mens Association. In fact,
very few items in the report are as accurate as that last comment.
The report further states that a dinner party is being held in
honor of Paul Robeson at the residence of the subject, on December 10, 1950. We dont remember a party for Robeson, although
Mordy knew him from many backstage meetings when they both
performed at the same event. A later page corrects the previous
statement about the mythical party: A dinner party was to be
held in honor of Paul Robeson at the residence of the subject, 3081
Washington Blvd, Cleveland, Ohio. We do remember that Robeson did, indeed, come to see us after Josh was born on February 23,
1950. It was a memorable
visit. Chuck took a charming picture of Paul holding
Josh in the palm of his enormous hand. Another unforgettable moment was when
we introduced Mordys pupil
Howard Roberts to Paul. We
always thought Howard was
Paul Robeson holding Josh, 1950.
a big guy until he stood next
to Robeson. Howard still cant quite get over the fact that he met
Robeson in my teachers house!
A report from an unnamed, blacked-out source and only partly
accurate:
[he/she] met the subject on numerous occasions as a Communist . . . [blacked-out name] advised that in connection with one
enlarged national committee meeting, the subject met with
115
the Cultural Commission of the Party to discuss enrollment of

detainers in CP fronts. [He/she] advised that the annual May
Day aair of the CP was held at the Engineers Auditorium, St.
Clair and Ontario Streets, Cleveland, Ohio, under the guise of
a nationality May Day festival. The subject was mentioned as
leading the Jewish choir for this aair. [He/she] advised that
the subject is to be the conductor of a choral group that is presenting the annual spring concert, June 10, 1951, at Severance
Hall chambers. The above choral group includes known Communists among its members. [He/she] advised on July 15,
1952, that the Subjects wife Irma as of July 1952 claimed to be
a close friend of Paul Robesons and that she, Subjects wife,
had stated that Robeson was a godfather of her son.
I doubt that I bragged that I was a close friend of Robeson, but

he did agree to be Joshuas godfather. The early informants were
obviously from Cleveland; in July 1952 we were living in Stockbridge. We dont know who was questioned in either area.
An incredible amount of time and money was spent on Mordecai
Baumans case as a member in Basic Revolutionary groups. Several ocial notices in the material denied permission to interview
Mordy. On June 8, 1953 a notice was sent from Washington to the
FBI oce in Boston. It granted authority for an interview to try to
discover his present attitude toward the Communist Party and its
activities. The local Stockbridge informants report to the FBI was
that he could nd no indication that subject is engaged in any matters of a subversive nature. On August 6, 1953, my brother looked
out of a window of the library of Indian Hill and said: Here come
the boys in blue! That was all the notice Mordy had. Here is the
report of those boys:
Synopsis: Subject at outset of interview stated he did not want
to disclose any part of his life for fear of damaging my professional career.
Details: Bauman advised he has appeared before the public

during his entire adult life and as a result his activities and
116
associates are a matter of public record. Because of this, he
said he felt it unnecessary to answer any questions pertaining
to his background, associates, professional or political activities.
In addition, Bauman stated that it has been his observation
that individuals have discussed their political aliations and
ideologies, and have then found themselves in litigation, which
has damaged their professional careers. Due to the above stand
taken by Bauman, the interviewing agents did not continue
questioning any further.
It was upsetting to read one excerpt from the Army Department

le. It was a copy of a letter I wrote Mordy on December 9, 1943:
I was talking to Myrt about what you would do after the war
and I had an idea, which I didnt mention, but which Ive casually thought about. There must be an agency for American
movies to be sent to [the] USSR, cant you form one? Whats
your friends name in the movie business in Russia? Maybe we
could start now, or do you think such an agency is established?
Maybe we could compete. That ought to make money, and we
could go there on business.
Of course nothing ever came of that great money-making scheme,

but it was the only one of my letters that we know was intercepted.
We always wondered who the neighborhood friendly Stockbridge
informant was. His name is blacked out, hidden from our eyes, but
not from the clerks at the FBI. Mordy and Harold guessed who the
army informant was: the naive young man they treated to a weekend
in New Orleans. Finally, in June 1955, Mordys case was canceled.
I dont know if I have an FBI le, but I doubt it. My involvement in
left-wing activity was minimal.
Mordy had joined the Communist Party when he was a student
at Columbia. At that time Columbia was a hotbed of progressive
political activity. Herman Wouk was active in progressive politics.
He wrote most of the ve varsity shows Mordy starred in. They
were satires about the mores and politics of the times. Mordy didnt
117
make many friends at Columbia; he was more involved with fellow

musicians at Juilliard. He counts fellow music students, both composers, Elie Siegmeister and Herbert Haufrecht, as political inuences. Herb asked Mordy if he would teach singing at the Workers
Music League, an organization with a left-wing point of view. He
did teach, but only for one semester. He directed a musical, produced at the New School, which was a big hit. However, the director
of the New School project thought it was awful, and that ended the
association, but it led to friendships with, and inuence by, many
left wing professionals in music, theater, and dance groups.
Another progressive friend at the Juilliard was Horace Grenell.
His wife, Judith Sidorsky, accompanied Mordy in many recitals.
After they graduated, Horace and Mordy decided to form an alumni
association. They had expected that the Juilliard administration
would create it, but when that didnt happen, they took it upon
themselves to set it up. A dinner was held to start the group. One
day in 2000 we visited the Juilliard archive to see what they had on
le about Mordy. I was hoping to nd pictures of his performances
in four or ve operas at the school. What we found was a full-page
story in the New York Times magazine about the dinner and the
association; the story ends, Mordecai Bauman was the Master of
Ceremonies. Mordy didnt remember anything about the dinner or
the article, but he certainly remembers starting the organization.
Mordys fathers experience as an immigrant was the strongest
inuence on his political radicalization. Allen Bauman worked at
the Atlantic Bank, the name of which was later changed to Bank
of America. On weekends he sold cloaks and suits on Division
Street and kept the books for some of the banks customers. He
covered many jobs in the bank. He was a bookkeeper and teller and
was also paid to nd customers. His handwriting was distinguished.
After twenty-ve years in the bank he was given a gold watch. Four
years later in 1931, shortly after Mordy entered Columbia, his father
was red. To say that it opened his eyes to the eect of the Depres-
118
sion would be an understatement. He knew that unemployment was

high; his father still had to have more than one job to support the
family. He started a small business enterprise, selling oce supplies and printing to his former customers.
Mordy clearly remembers people selling apples on the street for
ve cents to stay alive. Some didnt stay alive: too many lost their
money in the 1929 collapse of the stock market and jumped out
of oce windows so that families couldat leastbenet from life
insurance. The world changes: Mordys nephews inherited their
grandfathers small business and turned it into a multimillion dollar success.
As for his membership in the Communist Party, he doesnt
remember if he paid dues or had a membership card. I know I was
never a card carrying member. When Mordy was overseas, I
wrote him that my friend Eva Jasie had recruited me. He was not
only displeased, but he thought that my joining the Communist
Party at that point was really stupid! I attended a few party meetings in Yonkers while I was living with my parents; my father would
have killed me had he known. Those meetings were openly held in
a commercial building on Getty Square. The historic event in which
I participated was the vote to remove Earl Browder as secretary of
the party. Browder was recommending a change in Communist
Party political philosophy; he wanted the party to be the Communist Political Association (as I remember it), to be more open and
politically relevant. The French Communist Party objected to his
position and advised the U.S. party to force him out of the leadership. In order to accomplish the expulsion of Browder legally, the
rst step was to remove him from the local Yonkers section, where
he lived and registered his membershipa prelude to his eventual
expulsion from the party.
One day on my regular train commute from Yonkers to Manhattan, before the vote to oust him occurred, I recognized Earl Browder
and moved to sit with him. When I told him I was Mordys wife, he
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enjoyed talking to me, praising Mordy as a person and reminiscing

about his singing Eisler songs at left-wing meetings. In the Yonkers party group I sat next to Earls brother, Ralph Waldo Emerson
Browder. I remember him as a quiet, charming, white-haired man,
who welcomed me as Mordys wife. All left-wingers I met knew and
admired him.
This is ancient history, remembered or thought about by very
few! It changed my feeling about myself, an insight I have never
forgotten. One night Elizabeth Gurley Flynn arrived to talk to the
members. There were speeches, long and boring and beyond my
political comprehension. Flynn and the rest of the Communist
leadership, inuenced by Jacques Duclos, the head of the French
Communist Party, decided to remove Browder as Secretary. We
were asked to vote; my vote had no strategic importance. What still
bothers me, however, is that I think of myself as a non-joiner, an
iconoclast. I cant explain my agreeing to what seemed to me to
be a ridiculous act, still inexplicable. I was politically optimistic. I
suppose I couldnt have gone against the group publicly. When the
time came for a vote, we raised our hands as one and agreed to expel
Browder. Sitting together as usual, Ralph Waldo Emerson Browder
and I joined the others. That is the total extent of my serious Communist Party participation. I am still surprised at myself for joining
Browders brother and the rest in the vote. I am even more surprised that Ralph raised his hand so casually. How did he really feel
about it, I now wonder.
In Helen Epsteins biography, Joe Papp, the founder and director of the Public Theater and Shakespeare in Central Park expresses
his feeling about communism better than I can. (p. 121):
The word Communist, which sounds so reprehensible to so
many people today, because its been used so often as the death
word, the maligning word was, to me, a beautiful word. It represented fearlessness, changing abysmal living conditions, creating a world which was free of social injustice. I dont wish in
120
any way to soften the feelings I had during the depression, during the war, and even later. Ill always feel indebted to Russia
for what they did during the Second World War. For a year and
a half they were ghting alone. The Germans came within ten
miles of Moscow. Even in 1956, when Khrushchev denounced
Stalinism and during the Hungarian Revolution, I understood
rationally what they were saying but emotionally I was skeptical. What was Hungary before the war? What was Romania
before the war? I saw Cuba under Battista and I saw Cuba
under Castro. There was a reason for all those revolutions.
Im terribly critical of things that have happened in the
Communist countries but I never had the kind of bitter disappointment with the Communist party that some peopleperhaps those better educated than myselfhad. When people
quit something that has been a major sustaining belief, often
they turn against it. I couldnt turn against it. I still have a fundamental belief in a world that has no violence in it, a world
which gives everyone an equal chance. That belief . . . maybe
its a variation of the belief in the Messiah, is still with me. And
also a desire to be part of something larger than the block.
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Chapter Six
Cleveland
ORDY CAME HOME from the war on December 7, 1945,

exactly four years after Pearl Harbor and the same date when
I realized that I wanted to be with Mordy for the rest of our lives. It
is, of course, an important anniversary for us. I put Mordys serial
number away, but will never forget it: 32997488. How many times I
addressed letters to that number!
All of a sudden we were a married couple, living with my parents.
That must have been the housing pattern for thousands of lovers
all over the world in the mid-forties. We had never been together
as a family, so we rented a house in Long Beach, Long Island, and
spent the rest of the winter there. That was where we rst cooked a
Thanksgiving turkey together, using Morton Thompsons recipe. I
found it in his book Joe, the Wounded Tennis Player, while I was
working at the Armed Services Editions. We have shared it with too
many friends to count; it became a family tradition and family motto:
You dont have to be a carver to eat this turkey: speak harshly to
it and it will fall apart. When I copy the complicated amusing recipe for a friend, I usually add: The second thing Mordy and I did
when he came home from the war was to go to Macys and buy the
spices for the turkey recipe: turmeric, mace, coriander. Who had
ever heard of those spices in our Yonkers households?
122
My two children, Chuck, nine years old, and Elisabeth, six, went
to the local elementary school. Mordy took the train to the city,
trying to make contacts for singing appearances. We began to be a
family. In an eort to entertain the children
we took them to a local theater one afternoon. It was a matinee performance of The
Milky Way: two friends, Zero Mostel and
Sam Jae, had the starring roles. It was a
revival of a dreadful play. Sam had the part
of a prizeghter and Zero was his manager.
That was the beginning of the black list
period, and both actors were struggling to
nd work. It was a sad occasion: Zero lightened the atmosphere.
Welcome home,
December 7, 1945.
They had not yet achieved fame: Sam in
the movies Lost Horizon and Gunga Din, both odd roles for a middle-aged actor with a paunch. That paunch looked ridiculous on a
topless prize ghter. Zero, as theater lovers know, later achieved
fame with great performances in Rhinoceros and Fiddler on the Roof.
It was a sparse matinee audience. Mordy and I were embarrassed
by the amateur production these marvelously talented men were
caught in. However, our children were enthralled and wanted to go
backstage and tell the actors what fun they had! Mordy demurred.
What will we say? he wondered.
But all performers want their friends to come backstage and
tell them how good they were, my nine-year-old son pronounced.
Although we knew he was bright and sensitive, at that time we never
imagined he would become a famous musician, expectingor hopingthat visitors would congratulate him after each event.
So we went backstage. I didnt say a word, and I kept my distance
from Zero having experienced his casual kisses. A lighted cigarette
constantly dangled from the corner of his mouth; it was vulgar, not
a little disconcerting. I was not the only woman who backed away
Chapter Six: Cleveland
123
from his greeting. Both Zero and Sam knew perfectly well the afternoon was a op. Zero tried to make it up to the children.
Did you ever see me blow myself up? he asked Chuck. Bewildered, Chuck shook his head. Take my little nger, like this, he
demonstrated, and blow like this. And Zero put his nger to his
mouth and blew. He pointed it to Chuck, who hesitantly put his lips
next to the end of Zeros nger and blew. Zeros belly expanded, his
cheeks pued out, and before our eyes he doubled his already large
size. We remember the way he transformed his body on stage so
that he became a rhinoceros; that was an incredible performance.
Now he gave one for my children. Through his clenched teeth he
said, Prick me, like this. He took Chucks nger and poked his
own belly. And deated. It was quite a scene, one of those never-tobe-forgotten magical Zero performances, for a private family audience.
In the spring we moved back to the top oor of the house in
Yonkers where I grew up. It was uncomfortable to be dependent
on my parents. Mordy was desperate to get a job, but there werent
many in his eld. The arts are the rst to suer in times of economic cutback. My father tried to help; his printing plant produced
a promotional record album, handsomely designed to hold one of
Mordys recordings, with biographical material and reviews. He
even oered to help Mordy nd an agent. He was shocked to learn
that an agency fee would be required in advance; at that time it was
$30,000. The promotional album didnt result in any singing jobs.
Mordy had been well known in the New York musical world
before the war. His unique reputation was based on appearances
at contemporary music festivals and for progressive causes, many
of those in Madison Square Garden in New York. In April 2004,
during a tribute to him at the New York University Library, he was
asked what it was like to sing for 20,000 people.
It was awesome, overwhelming, he said, to sing all alone in
front of such a large audience.
124
He also sang for dance productions, mainly with the Anna

Sokolow Group and the Ballet Theater. In February 1941, he sang
Mahlers Kindertotenlieder to accompany Anthony Tudors ballet, Dark Elegies. The dancers were Lucia Chase, Nora Kaye, Miriam Golden, Tudor, Jerome Robbins, and Hugh Laing; Mordy sang
in the orchestra pit. Virgil Thomson wrote a long article, critical of
the re-orchestration of Gustav Mahlers song cycle, but he praised
Mordy: It was a pleasure to hear Mahlers Kindertotenlieder. . .
the musical background of the ballet. Mr. Bauman sang [the songs]
clearly. It was a pleasure to hear them because they are beautiful
music even as reduced. Max Goberman was the conductor.
Henry Simon, my college English teacher, reviewed Dark Elegies. The work is based on a short song cycle by Mahler [Songs of
Childrens Death], beautifully sung in the orchestra pit by Mordecai
Bauman. Simon went on to comment that this is one of the most
moving of Mahlers scores. It is, indeed, so moving that after he had
children of his own, Mordy could never bear to sing it. John Martin,
the dance critic agreed: This is music of an almost embarrassingly
personal nature, a song of grief sung for the singer rather than the
listener, and it was thus that Mordecai Bauman sang it.
In October 1942 Mordy appeared in the revue Let Freedom
Sing at the Longacre Theater. I remember it especially because
I gave him a Jorgensen watch to celebrate. I kept looking at it on
his wrist as he stood on stage. He came forward in a bright spotlight to introduce Earl Robinsons The House I Live In. Although
the Ballad for Americans was popularized by Robeson and The
House I Live In by Sinatra, both compositions were associated with
Mordys name for a long time. One reviewer wrote of The House I
Live In: Mordecai Bauman . . . [sang] with simplicity and beauty
Robinsons splendid hymn to the America we know. We think its
corny. Brooks Atkinson, the most important theater critic of that
time, wrote in the New York Times:
125
The best song is a quiet and homely invocation to America,

The House I Live in music by Earl Robinson, words by Lewis
Allen . . . Mordecai Bauman . . . sings it with earnest sincerity without feeling that he must imitate youth by blasting the
voice amplifying system and cutting a rug.
Earlier, in February 1942, Mordy appeared in Pergolesis The

Music Master, an opera produced by the Columbia Chamber Opera
Players that which he later recorded. Henry Simon enjoyed it:
Mordecai Bauman was particularly good as the Impresario, he
wrote. I now play the Impresario aria for friends as an example of
Mordys seductive voice. Singers must seduce the audience, he told
his students.
We struggled to keep on good terms with my fatherthat was not
easy. To say that he didnt agree with Mordys politics is a simplistic
description of serious political dierences. We couldnt even discuss politics with him. After I quit my job at the Council on Books
in War Time, I dont remember what I did every day. I know I wrote
a lot of letters. Mordy went to the city, talked to his friends, tried
to gure out the best way to get back into the profession. He came
home for dinner with us in the family dining room every night,
where Frank constantly criticized his speech mannerisms.
Mordy did make a few appearances. He sang two Soviet songs: The
Girl Who Waits for Me, by Kabalevksy, and Youth, by Donayevsky,
in Tid Bits of 46, a short-lived o-Broadway musical. Additional
performers in that musical were Phil Leeds, Yuriko, and Marais and
Miranda. He was featured in a Charles Ives Festival at Columbia
University, a guest performance at Yaddo in Saratoga Springs, and
a solo appearance at a concert of contemporary composers at the
University of Illinois. Olin Downes wrote about the Ives Festival:
The songs had the most immediateor the most audibleresponse
from the audience, which packed the auditorium and hung on every
note. None of those appearances paid much, if anything.
Under the G. I. bill, Mordy decided to study at the Juilliard sum-
126
mer school session in 1946. He took master classes with French

art song specialists Maggie Teyte and Charles Panzra, and studied operatic arias with Mack Harrell. Panzra was an outstanding
singer and teacher, but his reputation in Europe did not follow him
here. Today very few music loverseven lieder loversremember
him, except perhaps those who see his name as dedicatee of Faurs
songs.
I still hear Panzras voice singing Duparcs Linvitation au Voyage. He told us that when he was preparing for a recital, the only
phrase he practiced was the opening theme of that touching music.
That placed his voice properly; he was ready to sing. He won many
Prix du Disque.
I corresponded with Panzra regularly until he died. During our
second trip to Europe, we made an appointment to meet Panzra
and his wife, Magdeleine (a celebrated pianist), at the cathedral in
Chartres near their summer cottage. It was not only the most convenient meeting place, but it would give us an opportunity to see
the famous cathedral.
We were so happy to see them again, and we went to a restaurant
and talked excitedly. After a couple of hours, Panzra reminded us
that we really had to see the cathedral, so we strolled up one aisle
and down another, trying to look, but really more interested in talking to this remarkable singer. He also wanted to know about Indian
Hill, then ten years old. Panzra was one of our original sponsors,
curious about the school. What is the program like now that you
have added dance, art, and drama to the music curriculum? What
sort of students come to Indian Hill? Are they all going on to careers
in the arts?
Mordy described the daily program and the students. He said
that they are normal teenagers, but unusual in their commitment
to summer study in the art of their choice. They are talented, smart,
and very attractive. We thought that about ten percent would eventually make artistic careers, but we already knew that they would all
127
do well in whatever eld of endeavor they chose. Like that young

girl coming toward us, I added. See how interested she is in the
stained glass windows. Shes not only lovely, but intelligent-looking, not just an ordinary tourist. She looks as though she could be
one of our students.
That young girl stopped and stared at us. Are you Mordy Bauman from Indian Hill? she asked. She was a gorgeous redheaded
dancer who had attended Indian Hill in 1953.
One day in the late summer of 1946, the telephone rang; it was
for Mordy and he went downstairs to answer it. I asked who had
called. It was Earl Rogers (Emmanuel Rosenberg), suggesting that
Mordy apply for a position to teach voice at the Cleveland Institute
of Music. What did you tell him? I asked. I said that we cant
move out of town; your divorce agreement with Carlos requires that
you and the children must live within 50 miles of New York City. We
cant move, and anyway I dont want to leave New York, and I certainly dont want to live in Cleveland, Ohio! He was still hoping to
go back to a way of life he had enjoyed in New York before the war.
Call him back, I pleaded. You have to have a job; this is the
only oer youve had in nine months, you just have to take it. Carlos
wont do anything about the agreement; he has no way to take care
of the children, and he knows you need work! Our arrangement
was that he could have the children with him during summers, but
he sent them to camp or to my mother. He was not comfortable
about taking them to his apartment for a weekend; he had no idea
what to do with two young kids. Whenever they were with him, it
led to problems: They came home with colds, their clothes were
dirty, they were miserable. Mordy handled those crises with verstand! It was clear to me that Carlos would be almost relieved if
they were unavailable.
Whats more, I never did pay attention to formalities; I was certainly unconcerned with a pro forma divorce agreement, signed
under certain duress. We sent Mordys biographical material to
128
Beryl Rubinstein, director of the Cleveland Institute of Music, who

invited him to come to Cleveland for an interview. When the job
was oered, we had to convince each other that it was not only a
good idea to move to Cleveland, but that my childrens father would
not hold us to the agreement I had signed six years before.
Mordy went to Cleveland to start the fall term; I joined him to
buy a house a few weeks later. Frank, somewhat hesitantly, loaned
us money for a down payment. I discovered much later that it was
not as easy for him nancially as I thought. My mother always
accused him of being tight, so we three children believed that he
had more money than he really did. Printing rms were switching
from letterpress to oset presses, and competition was becoming
serious. The loan for a house and the gift of his car were loving
gestures on his part. We bought a fairly large house in Cleveland
Heights that Carlos would approve for his children, wondering how
we would support it. (Carlos never saw it.) Chuck, Elisabeth, and
I moved to Cleveland in November 1946, in time for Mordys rst
faculty recital, the rst of many he sang during his ve years at the
Institute.
I worried about going to a strange city, particularly about how
Mordys career would be aected. It was too far west in my sense of
U.S. geography, and going back and forth to New York was not as
simple in the twentieth century as it is in the twenty-rst. I talked
to Louis Untermeyer about it; he was sure there would be advantages to leaving New York. Where theres a rise in the landscape,
he comforted me, theres a similar rise in cultural life. He was right.
Our ve years in Cleveland were happy and productive. We had a
host of friends, were actively involved in the progressive movement
of the era, and after the rst few months we didnt miss New York
at all.
In the house-hunting process I asked everyone we knew for advice
and Cleveland contacts. Our Yonkers neighbor Bobby Cooper said
that his cousin was a banker; he would know about houses for sale,
129
and might be helpful. That contact led us to Estelle and Alfred

Sachs. Alfred was not exactly a banker; he bought and sold businesses. They were both lawyers, although they never practiced law.
Alfred studied for the rabbinate and actually went to Cleveland as a
Hebrew teacher. He prospered as a businessman; Estelle and Alfred
became our de facto parents, entertaining us in their handsome,
Tudor style Shaker Heights home almost every Sunday night, introducing us to all their Zionist and non-Zionist friends.
By Thanksgiving, we held an open house for forty new friends;
many were astonished to be with people they knew of but had never
met before. We invited musicians who taught at the Institute; members of the Cleveland orchestra; and left-wing activists, artists, and
neighbors we talked to at the local supermarket. It was an opening to the busiest social activity of our life together. The New York
friends who visited us when they came to Cleveland were mainly
professional musicians or political activists.
The Cleveland Orchestra presented the premiere performance of
Aaron Coplands Third Symphony. It seemed strange to us that the
orchestra administration made no provision to entertain Aaron or
arrange his schedule except for his presence at rehearsals. Before
the nal Saturday night concert, one of the assistant managers at
the orchestra called Mordy and asked if he would drive Aaron to
the railroad station downtown, as Aaron wanted to take the overnight train to New York. We went to the concert; Aaron met us and
we drove him to the station. Mordy asked him what George Szell,
the conductor, thought about the work. He said It went well in
rehearsal, Aaron reported ruefully.
Szells reputation was as a cantankerous and dicult conductor.
His only pleasure seemed to be playing bridge with his European
friends. On the way to the train I tried to say something about the
symphony; a rst performance is so dicult for a young composer.
I really had to work hard, Aaron, to understand and appreciate it.
It just came out before I could stop myself.
130
You will, he smiled at me. And of course he was right. It only

takes repeated listening. Now Coplands work is xed in our ears.
Why was it so dicult at rst?
Both Chuck and Elisabeth remember constant parties in our
house during our years in Cleveland. It really wasnt constant, but
it was often enough to aect our children and keep me hopping. We
were frequent guests of friends and colleagues as well. One event
Mordy often talked about was Alfred Sachss ftieth birthday party.
Although he didnt want his own birthday celebrated, he really
looked forward to having a similar party when he reached fty and
hoped it would be as festive as Alfreds. There was something so
warm and loving about that event! Alfreds three children and his
many friends and admirers were so happy to be together, it made
the occasion memorable.
When Mordy approached his ftieth birthday, on Friday, March
2, 1962, I agonized about how we could celebrate it. He would be
appearing as cantor at Temple Anshe Amunim in Pittseld; what
could I do about his important evening when he was occupied at the
temple? A week or so before that date, while I was driving Phil Barber to New York, I shared my problem with him: I want to make
a special party for Mordys ftieth birthday and hell be singing at
the temple. Phil was a Berkshire colleague who also started a cultural institution about the same time as we did. He founded Music
Inn in Lenox and started a Jazz School. He was a public relations
specialist and immediately knew what to do. Thats no problem,
he said. Well all come to temple! Phil, his wife Stephanie and I
got on the phone and invited everyone we knew in the Berkshires
to come to Temple. Mordy looked out from the bimah and thought
it was the High Holidays. When he saw Tomi Keitlen with her seeing-eye dog, he knew it was a surprise for him. Almost the entire
congregation (at least seventy-ve people) came home to our house
for supper. Marjorie Guthrie had come from New York, and wondered how on earth I did it. (Of course I had lots of help.) Chuck
131
said, It cant be so hard for my mother; we did this every week in

Cleveland! Well, we didnt, but thats how Chuck remembers it.
Mordy was very happy.
Mordys salary at the Cleveland Institute of Music was $3,500 a
year. He had to nd a way to earn more to support the children and
the house in the style I was accustomed to and which we felt Carlos
would require for his children. Mordy soon found part-time work as
cantor for the young peoples congregation at the Temple on the
Heights. The cantor for the main sanctuary, Saul Meisels, was an
old friend from New York. He arranged for Mordy to sing for the
High Holidays, plus a weekly part-time assignment that kept him
singing every week. The Jewish Peoples Folk Chorus eventually
engaged him to conduct weekly rehearsals and an annual concert.
They oered him $40 for each rehearsal, which they considered a
living wage. In addition, he decided to work toward a masters
degree in musicology at Western Reserve University. He was happily very busy.
We hadnt been in Cleveland very long when we received a Christmas card from the Boltons, from Jackson, Illinois. Harold had been
working for the Communist Party in Birmingham, Alabama, where
his main activity was selling Daily Workers on the street. It wasnt a
great atmosphere for a sophisticated New Yorker. Rhodas father was
a college president; Birmingham wasnt exactly the right place for
her either. They had a three-year-old son, and were feeling threatened and out of place in a black neighborhood, often attacked verbally if not physically. Harold resigned from his party job, and they
moved to Illinois to stay with Rhodas parents while they tried to
gure out what to do. We had been worrying about them; when we
found out where they were, we immediately invited them to come
to Cleveland and stay with us. Harolds arrival meant that we soon
became involved with more progressive people and political activity; it was an exciting time.
Before the Boltons came, and before we were even settled in
132
our house, Mordy gave his rst faculty recital at the Institute. I
was excited and much more nervous than Mordy. He always said
that singing is natural: You just open your mouth and sing! he
claimed. I knew there was more to singing than just opening your
mouth, but I had never really known Mordy until I heard his frequent recitals. I try to remember how I felt, hearing his voice in
the hall that was just the right size for his voice, learning about
his eclectic repertoire, especially appreciating the German lieder.
I hugged Elisabeth, watching her wide-eyed attention. I glanced at
Chuck, wondering what it meant to him. As I went backstage during the intermission, friends stopped me to tell me how much they
loved hearing Mordy, and couldnt wait for the second half when he
would sing American songsIves and Blitzstein and more.
Arthur Loesser reviewed it in the Cleveland Press, November 14,
1946. An excerpt:
Bauman is an interpreter of a very high order. Taking his start
from the words of his song, he portrayed and projected their
essence with an insight, sympathy and a vividness that quite
carried his listeners away. Tragedy, pathos and humor were all
his to conjure up. Diction of unusual clarity was the vehicle
whereby all this was accomplished. In fact, it would be hard
to recall when we have heard words of songs more distinctly
enunciated.
During the intermission of one concert, a tall handsome man

came backstage. Mordys shirt was o, and I was massaging the
back of his neck and shoulders; we were astonished that a stranger
would invade the intermission peace and quiet. Clearly more at ease
than we were, he announced, My name is Stanislav Dvorak; Im
the Czech Consul in Cleveland. We had never met him, and Im
not sure we knew there was a Czech consular oce in Cleveland.
He apologized. I know many friends will want to congratulate
you after the concert. I am staying for the second half, but I must
leave immediately to attend a national festival. I want to tell you
133
how much I enjoyed the lieder. And he expanded on how special

he found Mordys interpretation of Schubert songs. That was an
important encounter for us, as well as for him.
We remember that there was no review in the morning paper,
the Cleveland Plain Dealer. Through the grapevine I learned that
the music critic of that paper, Herbert Elwell, refused to publish
the rave review his assistant had written. Elwell was as well known
for his conservative politics as Mordy was for his left-wing point of
view. But this sort of discrimination had little eect on our lives at
that time.
We soon realized that after each public recital at the Institute,
the soloist was expected to hold a reception at his home. It didnt
make much sense to us; after performing, why was it an unwritten
rule that the soloist must invite friends to his house? But we continued that pattern, giving a party after each of Mordys concerts.
The open house we remember best was the one Gardner Read held
after an evening devoted to his music. Gardner was an academic,
a conservative musician, and we dreaded sitting through the concert. Mordy sang his songs, accompanied by Read; other faculty
members performed. Mordy called his music interior decoration,
it only lls up space. He has no individual voice. After the recital,
we all trouped to the Read house. The concert took place during the
Christmas season, and we looked forward to a festive occasion.
We lined up and went through the garage; Jean and Arthur
Loesser were in front of us. Arthur Loesser, our favorite musician
at the Institute, was a marvelous pianist as well as critic for the
Cleveland Press. He was the half-brother of Broadway composer
Frank Loesser, of Guys and Dolls fame. Jean was a head taller than
Arthur, handsome and witty. Everyone loved and admired Arthur.
He wrote gracious reviews of all Cleveland musical events, and
eventually wrote an important study of the piano, Men, Women and
Pianos.
Gardner and Mrs. Read stood behind the serving table. Jean
134
turned to Mordy and whispered: Theres no whiskey in the egg

nog! Disappointed, we joined the crowd going up the stairs to
Gardners studio. It was a large room, with a high cathedral ceiling,
a grand piano, and music neatly piled on shelves. We all gathered
to look at an enormous framed map of the United States hanging in
a place of honor on the wall. There were dierent colored pins scattered all over it. Mordy and Jean leaned closer to read the legend.
Jean whispered again, looking around to see if anyone else could
hear her. Black pins are where Gardners orchestral works were
played; white is for chamber music; green is for when Gardner was
present. Jean thought it was ridiculous and tried to suppress her
giggles. Mordy said that he didnt know why she thought it so funny.
I have the same kind of map in my house, he told her. Only my
pins are all pink and blue!
The social activity in Cleveland was quite dierent from our
experience in Yonkers. Elsa and Beryl Rubinstein had been warm
and welcoming. Beryl told us that no one lives on the streets in
Cleveland; people entertained in their homes, and regularly.
We became part of the social life of the city, with a large circle of
friends, the Boltons being the closest to us. The progressive movement became the center of our activity, the campaign for Henry
Wallace for president of the United States, its focus. And we discovered that we saw our New York friends more often in Cleveland
than we ever had when we lived in Yonkers, only fteen miles from
Times Square.
By that time, January 1948, Mordy had become so well-known in
Cleveland that another musician, Arthur Shepherd, was heard to
say, This man will change the cultural life in this city. Dr. Shepherd was the chairman of the music department at Western Reserve
University, where Mordy was studying for the masters degree. His
thesis was about American opera; Shepherd did not approve of
Mordys subjective opinions about some of the early and deservedly
forgotten operas, and Shepherd rejected the thesis. Ezra Schabas, a
135
member of the Western Reserve music department, was the clarinetist in the orchestra of Paul Bunyan in 1941 and came to one of
Mordys recitals. We renewed our brief friendship, and our families
became very close. Ezra helped Mordy get his masters degree: By
assigning extra classes instead of the thesis, he shepherded him
through the degree.
Mordy often tells the story about the only time his parents visited
us. We had invited Al and Minnie Bauman to come to Cleveland to
attend one of Mordys faculty recitals. It was Joshuas recent birth
that persuaded them to make the trip. He was their rst grandchild. They had never been west of New York City, and rarely out
of the immediate area. At the end of their working day, the two
middle-aged people went to the train station and got on the next
train to Cleveland. It didnt occur to them to check the schedule to
choose a convenient trip. They had no perception of U.S. geography and no idea how long it might take. After sitting up all night,
they arrived at the downtown Cleveland station at 6 a.m. Al called
us. Where are you? he asked, somehow expecting us to be there
to meet them.
When they were ready to leaveand they did enjoy the visitwe
drove them to the East Cleveland station. We stood together on the
outdoor platform, and Al looked around at the suburban landscape.
Its really built up around here! he exclaimed in some surprise.
Mordy thinks his family didnt believe he had a teaching position in
Cleveland. He must be in jail, they worried; his political activities
had nally caught up with him and landed him in Cleveland, a godforsaken place. His relatives never understood his political point of
view, and were concerned about his welfare. Despite his left-wing
association, however, his relatives loved and admired him.
In the fall of 1947, we presented the rst in a series of four Popular Concert Attractions at Severance Hall, the home of the Cleveland Orchestra. In a sense we did change the musical life in the
city. I think it was the rst time that so-called popular music was on
136
that stage, and certainly the rst time jazz performers, black and
white, appeared there together. On November 7th Louis Armstrong
played two concerts, afternoon and evening. That was our mistake;
we thought he was so popular he would sell out both concerts, but
he didnt. Although Armstrong was featured that very week on the
cover of Time magazine and the New York Daily News printed a big
story with a two-page picture spread, we could not excite the Cleveland community. Jazz was not yet in and the black community was
not comfortable in that hall. Single tickets cost from 90 to $2.40;
the series of ve (the Jos Limon dance concert was canceled) from
$4.50 to $12.00. There was a lot of publicity in the local press.
A columnist in the Press wrote, Severance Hall is about to let
down its back hair and throw open its handsome doors to the rug
cutters and red-hot blues. With the review was a funny cartoon of
a dowager looking askance through her lorgnette at the idea of jazz
at Severance Hall. We advertised, we promoted, but we couldnt
attract a large audience. Although Herbert Elwell gave the concert
a snide review, Armstrong seems to have outlasted Elwells prejudice.
Elwell did nally write a nice, but condescending review of
Mordys January 1948 concert in the Plain Dealer.
BAUMAN SINGING RECITAL IS
APPEALING AND HIGHLY VARIED
Mordecai Bauman, member of the voice faculty at the Cleveland Institute of Music, gave a recital there last night before an
enthusiastic following, which lled Willard Clapp Hall nearly
to capacity. Bauman, who hails from New York, has made
himself known in Cleveland not only as a singer, but also as
manager of a concert course, which has as one of its principal
objectives the introduction of jazz and other forms of popular
music into the concert hall.
His program was notable for a highly varied assortment of
material, possibly expressing catholicity of taste and, in any
case, appealing in many directions with a good deal of personal
137
persuasiveness. . . . Possessing a gift for characterization and

dramatic projection, Bauman was conspicuously successful in
songs that were notable for their shock value.
Outstanding among these was John Dukes setting of Edwin
Arlington Robinsons Richard Corry, [sic] in which the latter, a rather likeable capitalist, puts a bullet through his own
head, the implication being that his remorse was because of
injustice done to the workers.
Herbert Elwell in the Plain Dealer, January 8, 1948
Elwells political bias was clear in that review. The poem about
CoryElwell misspelled the namehad nothing to do with capitalism or injustice to anyone. Elwell referred to the series, Popular Concert Attractions, as a concert course. We produced it at
Severance Hall under the auspices of the Progressive Citizens of
America (n.b. the initials). The rst classical music concert presented two local artists, Sidney Harth and Seymour Lipkin, neither
of whom performed jazz or popular music. We hoped the concerts
would be popular to the local audience. When Mordy sang Penny
Candy and other songs by Marc Blitzstein in earlier concerts at
the Institute, it labeled him as a radical to Elwell. Arthur Loessers
review in the Press of the same concert added to his earlier praise
of Mordys artistry:
It is mildly misleading to refer to Bauman as a mere singer. He
is a tremendously vivid interpreter of words and music who
perceives and communicates a wealth of values from every
smallest angle of his material.
His is something of the talent of the actor, yet all his eects
are made with the voice alone. A small shift of facial expression sometimes aids him, yet nothing that he does steps out of
the legitimate frame of the voice recital. Naturally, Bauman
makes his strongest appeal to the audience when singing in
English.... The heights were reached in John Dukes [songs] ...
Baumans delineation of those peculiar characters thrust the
audience into a breathless sympathy, punctuated by amused
laughter. But Charles Ives songs were hardly less eective.
138
Arthur added, The audiences enthusiasm swelled to the point

of cheering. He wasnt exaggerating; our friends attended Mordys
concerts faithfully. They loved his performances.
But it was the Armstrong concert which had an especially unexpected and long-lasting eect on my sons life. Chuck spent a lot of
time backstage, talking to the musicians. They were very kind to
the twelve-year-old boy who seemed to know what jazz was all about.
Jack Teagarden and Sidney Catlett were especially pleasant; none
of he men acted like stars. They were easier about playing in an
integrated group, which was normal for them, than we were about
presenting it. This was the beginning of Chucks participation in
the world of jazz.
Elwell was kinder to Sidney Harth, who gave his debut recital
under the PCA banner. The chamber work on his program was
Schuberts Trout quintet, with composer Marcel Dick playing
viola, Jacques Posell, bass and Seymour Lipkin, piano. Both Sidney and Seymour joined our sta at Indian Hill six years later, and
remained with us for many years.
On January 18, 1948, we presented a concert of Marc Blitzsteins
music. It was the rst time an entire evening was devoted to his various works. We had long admired Marc, his music, and the point of
view he expressed in his choice of theme. Mordy sang the amusing
Penny Candy and the tender song Francie, both from Blitzsteins opera, No for an Answer. Muriel Smith sang the role of Francie, chattering to her husband, a union organizer who had just been
released from prison. He wanted to make love to her in a hurry!
She was putting it o until she could catch her breath. Mordy sang
the two note repetition: Francie, Francie as she kept on talking;
the song is psychologically and emotionally correct, explicit for the
part. He also sang Emily, The Ballad of the Bombardier, from
The Airborne Symphony, whenever he could program it. He sang it
so movingly that two of our young friends later named their daughters Emily.
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A chorus from Oberlin sang excerpts from Marcs radio opera Ive
Got the Tune; Muriel Smith sang four songs, Marc played a piano
suite from his ballet Show, and Mordy directed three scenes from
The Cradle Will Rock, Marc accompanying at the piano as only he
could. The Cleveland audience was thus exposed to music they had
never heard before.
Elwell had a great time putting down Blitzsteins music. Other
reviewers were kinder:
The program was taken from shows produced by Blitzstein during the last 10 years. Most convincing, perhaps, were the numbers from Airborne Symphony, written during the war. A
Ballad of the Bombardier represented a letter written home
before a mission; it had real pathos, especially when so sympathetically presented by the voice of Mordecai Bauman. . . .
[In The Cradle Will Rock] Blitzstein strives for and achieves
a malicious hilarity, getting point-blank hits at some well-battered targets, such as a hypocritical preacher, a vulgar-rich art
patroness and a Fascist goon squad leader. It all has a fairly
leftist tinge, and communicants of that sect may nd it irresistible. Let me testify that even a non-fellow traveler can, with
the exercise of a little self-control, appreciate the cuteness with
which some of the impacts have been negotiated.
There was no published name of the reviewer.

Mordy rst heard Marc play the piano when he appeared at Douglas Moores class in contemporary music at Columbia, c. 1934, a performance he still raves about. Marc discussed Stravinskys Le Sacre
du Printemps and played it at the piano from the orchestral score!
Impossible to do, but Marc did it. He was a prodigious pianist!
Mordys close friendship with Marc really began when they met
in a subway car after the nal concert of the tour with Eisler, at
the Brooklyn Academy of Music in 1935. It was the rst time Marc
heard Mordy sing.
Marc congratulated him on the presentation of Eislers songs
and encouraged Mordy to come to see him. Later he accompanied
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Mordy many times, in the recording of the Eisler songs and at concerts. They often met at progressive benets, appearing on the
same stage, separately or together.
In 1954, when our second son was born, we named him after
Marc. It surprised him. We wanted him to realize how much we
admired him. Mordy and Marc both joined the Board of the American-Soviet Music Society, along with Serge Koussevitsky, Elie Siegmeister, Marion Grant, Aaron Copland, Morton Gould, and Betty
Randolph Bean. Koussy was the Honorary Chairman; Mordy
was the Secretary/Treasurer. The goal was to familiarize American
audiences with Soviet musicians such as Shostakovich, Prokoev
and Khachaturian.
During the winter of 19601961, we sublet Marcs apartment on
East 12th Street when he accepted a fellowship from the American
Academy in Rome. We loved living in Greenwich Village. When
Marc came home, Mordy walked up and down 12th Street until he
found an available apartment for rent and established an oce in
which to interview prospective students for Indian Hill. Weve had
the apartment at 49 West 12th Street since then.
Living in Marcs apartment solidied our relationship with him,
which had been close since we produced the program of his music.
He stayed with us during rehearsals and enjoyed getting to know
Chuck and Elisabeth. He quoted something Chuck said in a note
inside his original Cradle record album cover. I had borrowed the
set of seven 78 rpm records from either Jack Houseman or Orson
Welles in 1937, when I was treasurer of the Mercury Theater and
signed checks there periodically. I didnt bother to return it. When
Tim Robbins produced the lm about The Cradle will Rock, I gave
him that album in recognition of his interest in Blitzstein.
In 1959, after Chuck graduated from Brandeis, he went to Europe
and wound up playing bass to Bud Powells jazz piano. Marc Blitzstein happened to be in Paris and went to hear Chuck at my request.
He told us how it amused him to see the small, thin white guy play-
141
The board of directors of the American Soviet Music Society.
ing with the big, broad black man. It was devastating to us when
Marc died in 1964.
By the time of the nal folk song concert in March, we knew
we had lost money on the series. Instead of earning funds for the
activities of the Progressive Party, and despite the support of many
friends, we were not able to attract large audiences. Today it is not
only surprising but shocking to think that we couldnt sell out the
Armstrong concert. The folk song evening presented a group of
famous performers: Pete Seeger, Leadbelly, Betty Sanders, Sonny
Terry, Brownie McGhee, and the Duke of Iron. Whats more, my
old boss, Louis Untermeyer, was the master of ceremonies. In some
way, he wondered what he was doing with these folk singers. We
may have included him because we wanted him to visit us. That
concert also didnt interest the sparse audience.
Pete and Betty Sanders showed up at the hall wearing the same
clothes they had worn driving all night from New York. Leadbelly,
only recently released from prison, understood clearly the importance of Severance Hall, the establishment symbol in Cleveland.
142
He arrived dressed in a tuxedo! He knew how he wanted to present

himself, the image of a professional performer. Years later at Indian
Hill, when Mordy tried to convince our teenage students to dress
properly for the weekly student or sta recitals, he told that story.
Dressing properly, he insisted, is part of attending a concertshowing respect for the performers, especially fellow students. He didnt
allow shorts or hats in the Ives Room during concerts! Our students
knew well who Leadbelly was and loved his music, but had no clue
about his dignied presence. I wonder if they remember Mordys
exhortations and think about their attire when they go to concerts
today.
The folk music evening had more than a casual inuence on our
family. Pete stayed with us an extra night in order to appear on
a factory picket line. Chuck and Elisabeth had been up so late at
the concert that we didnt send them to school. They hung over
Pete at the piano most of the day. That was when Chuck asked for
a guitar.
After the PCA series was over, there were opportunities to continue Mordys singing career. He appeared in Sandhog, Earl Robinsons play with music at the Phoenix Theater, was cantor for the
High Holiday services at the Society for the Advancement of Judaism in New York City, and was featured in various contemporary
music festivals, notably at Columbia University and the University
of Illinois in Urbana. In the early 70s he worked with Betty Bean and
Herb Danska, planning to produce a series of TV programs about
the history of music. Betty arranged for Yehudi Menuhin to be the
host. Financing was hard to nd. Yehudi was sure they would never
raise the money, and agreed to participate instead with a Canadian
Broadcasting Company project. Yehudi controlled the Canadian
project and it turned out to be a rather uninteresting series.
Our circle of friends grew during those years in Cleveland.
Friends met in each others suburban homes. They ranged from
trustees of the Institute to hard-working Progressive Party activ-
143
ists. Severance Hall, close to the university and the suburb Cleveland Heights, was a place to meet friends; everyone knew who had
a subscription for the Cleveland Orchestra concerts, even for which
nights and where they sat. The annual May show at the Cleveland
Museum of Art was one of the great events of the year, shared with
so many friends it took days to look at the art instead of the people.
Doris Hall and Kalman Kubinyis enamel works were an important
feature in the May Show. Through the Kubinyis, we met many local
artists whose work we admired.
Ruth Edwards, who was on the sta at the Institute of Music,
taught piano to Elisabeth, who practiced on the small blond upright
borrowed from the Sachs family. Ruth lived around the corner from
our house on Washington Boulevard; we were frequently in her
home. A small group of us held regular dinner parties on Saturday
evenings at alternate homes: Howard Wise, treasurer of the Institute, was one. He inherited a large paint factory; perhaps that is
what led to his later interest in contemporary abstract art. He later
moved to New York and opened the inuential Howard Wise Gallery on 57th Street. Ralph Dorfman, a scientist who went to Worcester later and helped develop the pill, was another weekly host.
We always knew wed have squab at the Dorfmans housea bonus
from his laboratory, hopefully not from his experiments!
Everyone knew that we were active in the Progressive Party;
it was no secret. And they liked Harold Bolton and respected his
left-wing point of view, which was also no secret, but not discussed
either. Harold and Rhoda were present at one of the Saturday night
dinners at the home of a chemist, a scientist at Howard Wises
paint company. Four-year-old Philip was home with a babysitter. An
ocial of the Communist Party came from New York to see Harold,
and the babysitter told him where we were. That thoughtless CP
ocial came to our friends door and asked Harold to come out to
his car: he wanted to talk to him. When Harold came back, his face
was gray. He had been expelled summarily from the Party. Some
144
comrades in Alabama had accused Harold of being racist and a

male chauvinist. An outrageous and stupid act, it soured us about
Party leadership.
Nineteen forty-eight was the year Harry Truman was elected
president, an unexpected victory over Thomas Dewey. I was working with a Cleveland group, Women for Wallace, with Kate Field,
who lived around the corner. At a fund-raising party in her house,
we met Stan Dvorak again. We spent some time talking to him
about Prague, and he invited us to a party at his home celebrating
a Czech holiday. At the party we met his charming wife and sons:
Dusan and Ivo. Dvorak had been in the diplomatic service since the
time of Masaryk and Benes. He was astonished when I told him that
I had met Jan Masaryk when I lived with my father-in-law during
my rst marriage. We visited the Dvoraks in their Shaker Heights
home many times. I have a vivid memory of watching Mrs. Dvorak
run around the kitchen table rolling out dough for delicious strudel. Shortly after Josh was born in February 1950, Mordy was scheduled to give another recital. The Dvoraks worried about him, his
rest disturbed by an infants crying, and generously oered him the
quiet of their home. Mordy was able to sleepeven if I wasnt!
We perused picture books about Prague and the Czech countryside every time we visited the Dvoraks. They extolled the beauty of
their homeland, missing it terribly, and we promised that we would
visit them in Prague, which we later did, many times.
As part of our progressive activities during that period, we went
to the Progressive Party nominating convention in Philadelphia.
Among our souvenirs is a guest ticket to the Founding Convention
of the New Party at Convention Hall in Philadelphia, July 23rd to
25th, 1948. We also saved a mimeographed sheet: SING FOR WALLACE. Various singers led the chorus. On the program Mordy is
listed as singing the Battle Hymn of 48 to the tune of the Battle
Hymn of the Republic; Pete Seeger, Paul Robeson, Michael Loring, and others performed. We certainly remember being there,
145
but we dont remember Mordy singing. In some archive somewhere

there is a lm in which we may appear: I remember seeing cameramen focusing on us. It was a high and exciting point in our political
activity. We really thought Wallace might be elected!
During the campaign, the chairman of the Progressive Party in
Ohio, Hugh de Lacey, formerly a member of Congress, asked me
to drive a group of women to a meeting in Washington: Women for
Wallace. Anything Hugh asked I tried to do, but I didnt like one
of the women in the group. Whats more, she smoked in the car
and burned a hole in my coat. I was no more tolerant of smoking
then than I am now, and when I found that I had to share a hotel
room with that very person, I told Hugh that I had friends nearby
and would stay with them. That created a problem for me with the
group. I learned later that the hotel was reserved for black delegates, so I was accused of racism. Its not easy to be a radical!
I was thinking of Casey Gurewitz when I claimed to have a friend
who would put me up. When Mordy was working in Washington, he
rented a room in Caseys house, and I had visited him there. Casey
was a waiter, working hard to organize a union of waiters in Washington restaurants. I knew that Casey had divorced Helen, remarried, and moved to Silver Springs, and I found his new house. Casey
was waiting for me and put me in a tiny room with his baby in her
crib. I slept very little, and went down to the kitchen early in the
morning. Caseys older daughter Sydney was there, swollen from an
encounter with poison ivy: she hadnt slept either. I asked Sydney
how her mother was.
As well as can be expected, the twelve-year-old responded. I
had no idea what she meant; was Helen ill? Dont you know? Sydney said. My mother married Morton Sobell.
His name may mean little to readers today who have forgotten
the Rosenberg case, the spy story of the early fties. Sobell was a
scientist who was peripherally involved in that case. He met Helen
when they worked at the Bureau of Statistics. After her divorce
146
from Casey, Helen married Morton. When the Rosenbergs were

arrested, accused of giving nuclear secrets to Soviet scientists, the
Sobells, also named in the indictment and fearing prosecution, ed
to Mexico. Morton was eventually convicted, and imprisoned for
years. The Rosenbergs were executed for treason in 1953. That was
our brief association with actors in the Rosenberg aair.
We spent weekdays in New York and weekends in Stockbridge
until we left the Berkshires and moved permanently in 1978 to the
already furnished New York apartment, a new stage in our lives.
Mordy was very busy at Local 1199. That summer I rented Josie
Abady and Mike Krawitzs house in Amherst and occupied my time
organizing the IH les, creating an archive for the Stockbridge
Library. Occasionally I read the local newspaper, looking for interesting summertime activities. Although Amherst is not far from
Stockbridge, we werent familiar with that area. One day I noticed a
small announcement asking people to contribute old Yiddish books
for a new collection. Yiddish was never used by my parents; I only
knew popular New York City words. But when I worked with Marjories mother on her autobiography, helping translate it from Yiddish to English, I learned much more.
She was Aliza Greenblatt, a Yiddish poet. Aliza, known to us as
Bubbie, had recently died and Marjorie was concerned about what
to do with her collection of 300 books in Yiddish, many autographed
by the authors. They were stored in Marjories Howard Beach basement. I called Marjorie with the solution to that problem: We can
give Bubbies books to a young scholar who is setting up a National
Yiddish Book Center in what I called that hotbed of Yiddish Culture, Amherst, Massachusetts. That led to a long relationship with
a remarkable young man, Aaron Lansky. Marjorie became involved
and was a member of his board, and we made a wonderful friend.
(Aaron was later awarded a MacArthur grant.) He wrote a fascinating book, Outwitting History, about his adventures, saving over
one and a half million books in Yiddish.
147
Mordys army buddy, David Pardoe, was living with his second
wife, Ruth, in Huntington in the hills above Northampton, about 25
miles from Amherst. David had shown up in our lives many times
after the army years, sometimes during moments of crisis. After
the war, David happened to be with us in Yonkers when I was in
the middle of a miscarriage; he held my hand. When we went to
the Peekskill event in 1949, David appeared as one of the security
guards on the perimeter of the site. We had no idea of the danger
we were exposed to. We were en route to Cleveland after collecting
Chuck and Elisabeth from summer camp in Vermont in September
1949, staying in Yonkers for a night or two. On the car radio we
heard reports of a meeting somewhere near Peekskill where Paul
Robeson was scheduled to sing a concert for the benet of the Harlem chapter of the Civil Rights Congress. The concert was to have
taken place the week before, but the local American Legion and
other right-wing groups protested Robesons appearance. Inammatory newspaper and radio reports led to postponement of the
concert. Almost thirty years later, a report in the Westchester Illustrated told the story. An excerpt:
The concert, which was to begin at 8 pm on August 27, never
began. As promised, area veterans groups . . . eectively
barricaded the gates. Caught in a two-mile trac jam, concert-goers could move nowhere. . . . No police were on hand,
despite the appeals to state and local ocials . . . hundreds of
taunting protesters, many wearing . . . American Legion caps
[were] armed with stones, sticks and knives.
Linking arms, the Robesonites broke into the old marching song We Shall Not Be Moved. Despite the odds against
them they managed to repulse a rst charge by the screaming
mob, who were promising that no one would leave the concert
grounds alive. Rocks began sailing into the small ring of men.
. . . Soon, only half of the defenders remained standing.
Howard Fast reported: As an accompaniment to our singing
. . . [they] made a bonre of our books, music and pamphlets.
148
They circled their re, screaming obscenities, smashing chairs
and tossing the chairs into the re. Finally, the defense line
fell. A thousand protesters charged the stage . . . women and
children ran screaming into the surrounding woods. At 10 pm
the police arrived. No arrests were made, despite the fact that
everyone of the small group...suered injuries, mostly inicted
by stones. More than a dozen cars on the way to the concert
had been overturned. More than a dozen men were injured
seriously enough to require hospitalization. . . . Warned that
trouble was ahead, Robeson never reached the concert site.
Nicholas di Giovanni, September 1975
The concert venue was changed, but everyone was still afraid of
violent attacks on the audience. A front-page headline in a Peekskill paper read:
ROBESON CONCERT HERE AIDS SUBVERSIVE UNIT
IS SPONSORED BY PEOPLES ARTISTS CALLED RED
FRONT IN CALIFORNIA.
We listened to the radio as we drove, hearing reports of threats

to Robeson and realizing that the postponed concert would take
place that very day; we became more upset and angry the closer
we came to Yonkers. Robeson was our friend; Mordy had sung on
many stages with him. Robeson refused to be intimidated and had
rescheduled the August concert to September 4th. From Yonkers
we called Bernie Koten, Mordys friend from Biarritz, and picked
him up at the end of the subway so that he could come with us.
We drove to a back road near Peekskill, although the concert was
almost over. I remembered the area from summers spent nearby
at Lake Oscawanna during my rst marriage. We saw many cars,
parked ours on the same road, and walked innocently toward the
hollow.
We could hear Pauls voice over the loud speakers. It suddenly
became obvious to us that we were in some danger. The eld was
ringed with security forces, many of them still in army uniform.
149
Peekskill
And there was David Pardoe, calling to us, What are you doing
out there; get right in here! He certainly saved us from injury at
the handsrather, rocks, of threatening bystanders by leading us
into the concert grounds. Chuck and Elisabeth were 13 and 10, old
enough to be frightened, and certainly old enough to remember
what they went through.
We wandered around the grounds, watching cars driving out,
hearing vicious threats from bystanders on the road. David would
not allow us to leave except in a car. We wondered how wed ever get
home. I was pregnant, wearing shoes with fairly high heels and no
stockings. At the end of the day when I nally and carefully pulled
the shoes o, they were full of blood; I had worn down the backs of
my heels.
David nally found a driver who would take me with my children
to a street in Peekskill and reminded me that I needed the car key
which was in Mordys pocket. If David hadnt reminded me, Id
have gone o without it! In the strangers car I saw a baseball bat
under my feet, available for brutal response to brutal attack. Elisabeth remembers that she saw a bloodied face peering out of a bus
150
window before I put my hand on her head and pushed it down; she
can remember the smell of the mud and rubber mat on the oor. I
still had no idea of the jeopardy we faced. At a familiar street corner, we were held up by a local policeman and nally got out of the
car. Chuck knew how to nd our car. If we go through the Cimmaron Ranch property right here, he said, we will come out on the
road where the car is. He remembered his father driving just that
way. His sense of direction was always accurate.
We walked through a throng of angry folk who threatened me
and the children. What kind of mother are you to take your kids
to a commie event? was the tenor of their screams. I put my arms
around Chuck and Elisabeth, pushed them ahead of me and managed to escape. It was a long walk to nd the car. Although I breathed
a sigh of relief when we reached the car, more hazards were still
ahead of us. As I drove down the back road, I saw two men standing in the middle of it, waving me down. Of course I slowed, only
to realize they had huge rocks ready to throw in the window. One
charming man said, Oh, youre lucky, you have kids with you, and
I was able to drive on, shaking.
Mordy and Bernie were among the last to leave.
Pete Seeger is quoted in the same Westchester Illustrated article:
After the concert, the cars seemed to leave very slowly. We
were one of the last to leave. We must have waited a couple of
hours before we nally got to the gate. . . . At the gate, there
was a small mob of 50 or 100 . . . roaring things like Go back
to Russia! Kikes! Nigger lovers! Wed gone about 100 yards
and I saw glass on the road. I said to my family, Watch out. Be
prepared to duck. Some people may be throwing stones. Well,
that was an underestimation. Around the corner there was a
young man...with a pile of stones as high as his waist. Several
thousand stones, each about the size of a baseball. He was
heaving them with all his strength at each car as it passed, at
close range. At one point, there was a policeman only 50 or 75
feet away and I stopped and said, Ocer, arent you going to
151
stop this man? He said, Move on, move on! I looked around
and the person in back of me was getting stone after stone,
because he had to stop because I was stopped. So I moved on.
It was a scene of horror.
Di Giovanni continued in his article:

The violence spanned an area of ten miles and continued far
into the night. Some of the wounded made their way to area hospitals, but others, fearful of encountering more of the viciousness they had met while leaving the concert, nursed their injuries all the way home. Paul Robeson escaped unharmed. He
was hustled into one car of a 7-car convoy and told to lie on
the oor, where supporters covered him with their bodies...
The Peekskill aair became world-wide news, as the media
in foreign countries condemned the actions. Leading Americans, many disagreeing with Robesons politics, nevertheless
defended his right to free speech.
The Peekskill riot is part of Cold War history; more than a hundred people were hurt. Robeson suered terribly for many years,
politically attacked from the right. When Joshua was born, I asked
Paul if he would be our sons godfather, since all of us had survived
Peekskill; I was fortunate that I didnt miscarry. Paul visited us
in Cleveland shortly after Josh was born. When Joshua was two, we
arranged to have Robesons portrait taken by Lotte Jacobi: Josh is
sitting proudly on his lap. The Cleveland papers wrote about a later
visit.
PAUL ROBESON HERE TO AID NEW GROUP
Paul Robeson, left-wing concert singer, has been in Cleveland
nearly a week in connection with an organization known as
Freedom Associates, it was revealed today by police. Two
policemen were on guard last night at the home of Mordecai
H. Bauman, 3081 Washington Blvd., Cleveland Heights, where
Robeson attended a meeting. Bauman is a teacher at the Cleveland Institute of Music. Police reported [that] several phone
calls of a suspicious nature, not outright threats, had been
received, resulting in placing two policemen at the scene.
152
The article continued, giving the address of the home where

Robeson was staying, adding that his host was one of the Cleveland postal workers discharged under suspicion of disloyalty to the
Government. But the article concluded with the information that
Freedom Associates is not on the U. S. attorney generals list of
subversive organizations.
O ur friendship with David Pardoe has continued and deepened

through the years. We were there for him through dicult moments
when Ruth Wood Gold was in the process of leaving her husband to
live with David. I found my way from Amherst during that summer
of 78 to visit David and Ruth in her charming, bucolic cottage. One
day David said, Next summer dont rent a place; you dont have to
spend money on a vacation home. I have a camp on a lake in Canada
that I need to maintain every summer; you can use our house when
we arent here. But except for the summer of 1981 when we were
in Aix-en-Provence, we enjoyed summers on the hill in Huntington,
with an expansive view of the Berkshires, until 1997, when were
unable to manage the house by ourselves or drive to local shopping
centers.
But in 1951 we were still in Cleveland, where Mordy vociferously expressed his dissatisfaction with the situation at the Institute during the weekly
Saturday night dinners
with friends. A half-hour
lesson each week, he felt,
hardly touched the surface of vocal technique, to
say nothing of the mysteries of song interpretation.
He was never able to get
to a student, and talked
David and Ruth Pardoe.
long and fervently to any-
153
one who would listen about the master-apprentice relationship.

He wished he could teach like Bach, who took students into his
St. Thomas School residence to help with cooking, cleaning, babysitting. Mordy thought a school based on that model would oer
valuable daily contact with artists; students would appreciate how
they lived, studied, rehearsed, and coped. And Mordy had a more
serious gripe. The Institute had become a piano school rather than
the conservatory it claimed to be (and later became), with most of
the pupils coming to take piano at 3 p.m., after school. They all
take! he complained. No one studies with. They all just take!
He had endless conversations with Howard Wise, who represented
the board of directors of the Institute in our social group. Mordy
thought that the Institute should be part of Western Reserve University; it would have more prestige. It took many years, but now
they have merged, beneting both institutions.
His broken-record repetition, his constant complaint about the
one-sidedness of the school nally caused Howard to blurt out: If
you think its so poorly run, why dont you start your own school?
All right, I will! Mordy decided at that moment. No one took him
seriously, least of all me.
Because he had spent so many years in summer programs, he
focused on establishing a summer school where sta would live
with students as they learned about the arts and artists. It wasnt
attractive to me; I had spent three summers at camp as a young
girl and didnt like the idea one bit. I could not envisage myself as
house mother, and I never did learn to enjoy that role. By the
time we managed to raise enough money to buy a place in the Berkshires, we had a two-year-old son and I was pregnant. We were taking a very complicated step: a new project, a new residence, and a
new life. We had been happy and busy in Cleveland. Chuck and Elisabeth did well at school and we loved our friends. We had no idea
where we were going, or really what we were about to attempt.
Years later we held an Indian Hill reunion, celebrating Mordys
154
seventieth birthday. The rst-year students who came to see us were

now in their forties as we were when we began. How did you have
the nerve? they asked us. Were the same age you were when you
started Indian Hill. We wouldnt dare do such a thing now. How on
earth were you so courageous? We told them that they were the
brave ones as our guinea pigs, and thanked them for joining us in
the experiment with their lives. We learned so much from that early
group. It was Mordys determination that made it happen and work.
When I talk about our challenging projects, I add that I wouldnt
have done any of them without him, and he says he couldnt have
accomplished them without me.
155
Chapter Seven
Indian HillA Vision
HE STORY of Indian Hill, Mordy says, is really the story of his

life. His training and professional experience was the foundation
of his dream to have his own school, but it was the events of our life
in Cleveland that made it a reality. Mordy went to Cleveland in 1946
with great enthusiasm, particularly looking forward to being the
head of the opera department at the Cleveland Institute of Music.
He found a congenial group of faculty members. The director, Beryl
Rubinstein, was a sympathetic person. When we produced Popular
Concert Attractions, Beryl called Mordy into his oce to inform
him that he didnt think it was a good idea to mix art and politics. At
the same time, however, he wanted to assure Mordy that the trustees were a broad-minded group: There would be no repercussions
from them because of his political sympathies.
They all knew I voted for Roosevelt, he told Mordy, but that
didnt aect my relationship with the board.
It soon became clear to Mordy that the endowment at the school
was limited, and no money was available for experimental musical endeavors. He had hoped to produce innovative programs, but
that wasnt possible. He did produce and direct interesting operas
with a community group, the Peninsula Players: Pergolesis The
Music Master, Ballet Ballads by Jerome Moross, and The Apothe-
156
cary, by Haydn. At the Institute

he only produced short operatic
scenes.
One of Mordys most talented students was Howard
Roberts, who studied singing
with him for four years. It was
a blow to Mordy when Howard
reported that in order to work
Mordy in Haydns The Apothecary.
toward a masters degree he was
required to study with the head of the voice department. Mordy
had never been told of such a rule, nor had Howard, and his embarrassed announcement was a surprise. Howard showed great promise in music, and indeed he has achieved a ne professional career.
Mordy was in turmoil. He asked Beryl if there really was a rule at
the Institute requiring Howard to study with the head of the department. Beryl reiterated the rule: Howard had to change teachers. . . .
The episode became the basis for Mordys immediate resignation. It
was a trying time; I was in a state of shock when Mordy came home
and told me he had quit his job!
It was alleviated somewhat by a serendipitous meeting with a
visitor from New York, Nathan Korshin. A New York acquaintance
introduced us to Korshin, who was selling government bonds for
Israel and wanted to meet leaders in the Cleveland Jewish community. Nathan asked Mordy if he would join the bond drive as his
assistant. No longer assigned a full class of vocal students, Mordy
had time on his hands and certainly needed work. Their association was congenial, and when we moved back to New York to start
Indian Hill in 1952, Nathan asked Mordy to help him develop an
alumni association for City College of New York. It was the rst
alumni fund-raising campaign at the college, and a lifesaver for us.
Mordy had work that was not too demanding, with time to concentrate on plans for a school.
Chapter Seven: Indian HillA Vision
157
Mordy had spent the summer of his seventeenth year reading

the plays of George Bernard Shaw; he was especially impressed by
the Prefaces. One GBS comment from Maxims for Revolutionists inuenced him for years: He who can does. He who cannot,
teaches. He was determined to always do, which meant he would
never agree to teach. When he discovered Bach as pedagogue, however, his attitude toward his own work changed. He wanted to direct
a school where teachers lived and worked intimately with artistic
and talented studentslike Bach.
During summer vacations, we often visited my mother in Kennebunkport, Maine, and our children at camp in Vermont. We used
those trips to explore possible sitesseemingly a pipe-dream. Robert joined us one summer. We looked at an estate with an enormous
barn in Chateaugay, close to the New York/Canadian border. While
we inspected the barn as a possible place for rehearsal rooms, Mordy
and Robert had a great time imitating brass instruments practicing
in white-tiled stalls, Robert blowing deep trombones. I covered my
ears.
Mordy was familiar with the Adirondacks and the various recreational opportunities it oered. One summer in the thirties, he
explored upper New York State with Sam Garlen. Sam was looking
for a place for a resort smaller than Green Mansions. He eventually
bought a handsome lakeside summer lodge, Seven Keys, known in
those years as a camp. Converting a building like that into a summer school appealed to Mordy; it seemed more appropriate than a
cow barn!
In an eort to learn about summer businesses, we visited childrens camps and friends in adult vacation resorts. First, we drove
to Maine to visit Mandy (Abraham Mandelstam) at Camp Wigwam, dean of boys camp owners, one of the rst New Yorkers to
establish a camp in New England. It was twenty years after Mordy
had been a counselor at Wigwam. Mandys reputation was quickly
established, and when we visited him and walked with him around
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the grounds, we discovered why. He was proud of every cabin he

had builtevery boat and blade of grass.
He picked up candy wrappers as he went, explaining his philosophy. Already an old man (it seemed to us), he tried to relate to each
boy. I dont worry about names, he told us. I think of each boy as
extra milk, anxious mother, homesick.
We watched him surreptitiously put his arm around a boys shoulder, turn back the collar of the tee shirt so that he could read the
name tape sewn on the back and ask, Howre we doing, Johnny?
or Did you drink your milk, Paul? It was an interesting lesson.
Years later at Indian Hill, I struggled to learn each new students
name by the rst Sunday evening buet. Our teenagers didnt have
name tapes as a clue; I focused on hair styles.
Mandys equipment was extensive and expensive: good lighting
in the theater, all sorts of boats, athletic elds and tennis courts for
about one hundred boys enrolled at that time. Other camp owners
make a virtue of necessity, he warned us. They brag about their
primitive camps with no running water. If they become successful,
they soon install plenty of toilets and renovate the kitchens. We
understood clearly what he was saying, and it reinforced our desire
to nd a place with style as well as indoor plumbing, with a certain
quality important to young students in the arts.
As we continued to look for a suitable property, we drove around
New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts, looking at estates, camps, and more barns. But none had the particular
style Mordy wanted. We didnt stop talking as we drove from state
to state: I argued that we had no business trying to start a business
with our limited experience, while Mordy insisted that we could
succeedand we would!
In the Berkshires we considered great estates: Elm Court, Belvoir Terrace, Blantyre, and Seven Hills in Lenox. At one point, Lester Cole drove with us from New York to join us in our search. Lester was one of the famous Hollywood Ten. Although we had known
159
Lester for only a year or two, we had become close. That led to a
story that still has resonance for us: Lester wrote about it, and us,
in his book, Hollywood Red. He was traveling around the country
looking for support for his ght against the House Un-American
Activities Committees (HUAC) attempt to blacklist screenwriters,
actors and directors. He spoke to progressive groups, mainly trade
unions. Hugh de Lacey gave us another assignment: He asked us to
take care of Lester. Elisabeth moved out of her bedroom, and Lester
stayed with us for a week.
Mordy wanted to widen Lesters audience, so he called Joe
Newman, president of the Cleveland City Club, which sponsored
monthly luncheon talks broadcast on radio.
Lester Cole is visiting us; he has a fascinating story to tell about
whats going on in Washington. The Hollywood Ten have been
held in contempt of Congress and may go to prison. Maybe you
can schedule Lester for a talk at the club. Mordys enthusiasm
intrigued Joe.
He told us that he already had a speaker for that weeks luncheon
talk, Admiral Halsey. But he might have to cancel. When the
admiral did cancel his appearance, Joe called Mordy and invited
Lester to talk, with the stipulation that he agree to answer the question. Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party? The Ten had refused to answer it at HUAC hearings.
It was popularly known as the $64 question, a reference to a current TV quiz show. Refusal to answer sent them all to jail for a year
for contempt of Congress.
Lester agreed to answer at the club, but only in his own way, not
with just a yes or no. As he reached the climax everyone had
been anticipating, there was a commotion in the club and Lester
was asked to wait. Someone explained: the radio broadcast, heard
all over Ohio, was interrupted by a football game, exactly at two
oclock. It was a very funny moment. The club arranged to tape
Lesters answer for later broadcast. An excerpt of his answer:
160
[Todays atmosphere is not one] in which free speech can
survive, let alone prosper. The man who admits he is a Communist or is interested in Marxism under such conditions of
whipped-up hatred, is free only to reap the whirlwind of a savage, hysterical mob. Such a man is either a fool or a martyr.
And the man whoseeks to save himself by admitting he was a
Communist and accommodates his inquisitors with the names
of others . . . is both a fool and a coward. I trust I am not a fool.
I have no intention of being a martyr. And I pray Ill never be
a coward. . . .
At the end of August 1949, we drove to Vermont to pick up Chuck

and Elisabeth from camp. On the way back to Cleveland we stopped
to see Joe Kruger at his boys camp in Lenox, Massachusetts. Joe
had been pressuring Mordy to come to work at Camp Mah-KeeNac every year, recalling how they had worked together in the USO
program. He tried to persuade Mordy to direct the music and/or
drama program for him, and every year Mordy would tell him that
he couldnt leave his family, and anyway did not want to be a camp
counselor. Finally he responded to that annual call: Listen, Joe,
theres no point in my coming to work for you. I want to start my
own summer program. Joe was a remarkably supportive person.
What kind of summer program do you want to start? Ill help you.
Mordy described a summer school in the arts for young people. His
idea was to attract self-motivated, well-directed boys and girls, who
would study all aspects of music and dance. Dedicated teachers
would agree to live with the students, sharing daily activities and
camaraderie and supervising decorum. Joe insisted we must be in
the Berkshires. For that kind of program, he told us, you should
be near Tanglewood. Thats the only area that makes sense. If thats
really what you want to do, you must come here, close to Tanglewood.
If theres one place I dont want to be, Mordy replied, its near
Tanglewood! He thought that our program would be swallowed up
if we were close to the much larger one. We could never compete
161
with the professional Berkshire Music Center, and we did not want
to be accused of relying on Tanglewood for its musical atmosphere
or trading on its reputation. We knew many musicians connected
with the Boston Symphony program, and werealbeit foolishly as it
turned outconcerned about embarrassing them and ourselves.
But Joe encouraged us to think dierently; he talked about the
cultural advantages that already existed in the area and those that
were beginning to burgeon. He wanted us to stay in the developing
Berkshires and buy an estate before inevitable growth. He called
Walter Wilson, a real estate agent he trusted. Mordy described his
ideal: a handsome estate similar to those he knew in the Adirondacks, a place that would instill attitudes of social respect and provide a comfortable atmosphere for serious study. Walter immediately took us to Prospect Hill in Stockbridge, a couple of miles from
Camp Mah-Kee-Nac. There were three contiguous estates for sale;
they might be bought collectively or one at a time as the program
developed. Two of them would suit us perfectly. Mordy said, Ill
buy one of them!
I thought he was crazy. I knew how muchreally, how little
money we had. Our income came from his three jobs and amounted
to about $6,000 a year. It was supplemented by alimony support for
my children, approximately $1,200. We were always behind with
our bills, nothing unusual at that time or this. To buy an estate in
Stockbridge was a wild fantasy.
After we saw the estates on Prospect Hill, Walter Wilson took us
to visit Nathan Horwitt, the rst Stockbridge resident we met. Walter probably arranged it because Nathan was one of the few Jews he
knew in townmaybe the only one. He looked familiar to me, but
I really had no idea who he was. When he said that he worked in
advertising, I wondered if we knew someone in common and asked
if he knew Jack Tarcher, my fathers only close friend. Jack was brilliant and successful. His daughter is the novelist Judith Krantz; his
daughter-in-law was the puppeteer Shari Lewis. His wife, known
162
as Mickey, was an early founder of the Legal Aid Society, a strong,

energetic woman. When the Tarcher family came to Yonkers to
visit us, I was assigned the job of entertaining the three children
Judith, Mimi, and Jeremy, while the men talked advertising business. Judith wrote about her parents in her autobiography, exposing
Jacks long-lasting, secret liaison. It would have completely thrown
my conservative father had he learned about the aair.
Nathan said, I never met Tarcher but Frank Commanday has
always wanted me to meet him. I could never get Nathan to admit
that he remembered me and knew my name. He had been involved
with my father since I was ten! He worked in my fathers direct mail
department, writing advertising copy for the main clients of Commanday-Roth. I had seen him at some point in my very young years
and remembered him.
Nathan was unforgettable, an iconoclast. I cant say that he was
beloved in the town, but he was much admired. His personality was
strong, his opinions radical, his critical letters to the editor of The
Berkshire Eagle stirred up discussion in the community. He was not
interested in pandering to the conservative elements by softening
his rhetoric; we found him fascinating. After we nally bought a
property and moved to Stockbridge, he was our closest colleague
in community activities. He had an enormous talent: The Movado
Museum Watch is his design. Our association with Nat led to
social activities, and gave us a sense of belonging. But that took a
very long time.
After that visit we went back to Cleveland, and Mordy started
talking to our friends about the school he wanted to start. I tried
not to listen; truly I couldnt believe it was real. Mordy was certain
that our friends would support something he believed in so strongly.
Harry and Hannah Kirtz, wealthy patrons of the arts, sophisticated
and warm people, oered their help. Among Harrys nancial
interests was a hotel supply business, and we knew he would help
us buy equipment.
163
We also counted on the Morgensterns. They met each other

at one of the dances Mordy arranged at the USO in Washington.
Elliott played French horn in the Air Force band at that dance; Ruth
was a civilian hostess working for the war eort. They married and
moved to Cleveland. They discovered us at Mordys rst Institute
recital. Elliott was a professional musician; their two sons studied
music. Elliott understood and appreciated what Mordy wanted to
accomplish with and for young people. He was well-to-do, having
inherited his fathers electrical supply business. One of his patents
was the sealed-beam headlight!
Joe Klein, a dentist with artistic talent and entertaining wit, was
another of our closest friends. Joe made the children laugh at our
regular Sunday afternoon dinners as he complained, I dont want
a sharp knife, I want a tender steak. His son Ted remained a member of our extended family until his death in 2000. Joe was a man
of many parts: He invented the Photomaton, the camera that still
sits in store corners and automatically prints several photos for 25
cents. Joe had rst displayed it at a Texas county fair. The entire
place burned down and, since he had no insurance, he lost his
investment. He treated all his losses with great good humor. When
we tried to inveigle him into joining our Progressive Party forces,
he declared, Im tired of carrying the ag.
Mordy talked about his dream incessantly. During the ve years
we lived in Cleveland, he must have bored friends and acquaintances with repeated complaints about the way the Institute was
run. He really wanted to direct a summer school in the arts, then
an innovative idea.
One day, tired of listening to Mordy, Joe said, Youll never get
this o the ground until you are in jail. In jail? If your family and
friends know you are in trouble, they wont or cant do anything
about it. Suppose your business fails, theyll say: He didnt know
what he was doing, hes incompetent. If your wife leaves you and
you moan and groan about it, theyll say: Well, she did the right
164
thing; after all he was running around. If youre ill and incapacitated, theyll get together and talk about it, but no one will really
do anything. Theyll say Tsk tsk, isnt it too bad! But if youre in
JAIL!! Thats a shame for the family; everyone will come to your
aid.
Of the three estates Walter Wilson showed us in Stockbridge,
the one we liked best was the Iasigi property, thirty acres on the
east side of Prospect Hill, two miles from Joes camp. It was formerly the home of Ambassador Bullitt. Mordy took the plunge, calling Mrs. Iasigi, and she accepted his telephone oer of $30,000.
We called Alan Carter from Cleveland. He was our friend Rockwell
Kents son-in-law, conductor of the Vermont Symphony. Alan went
to Stockbridge and convinced Mrs. Iasigi of our sincerity and purpose. She agreed to honor Mordys oer. He made an appointment
to go to Pittseld in a few weeks and complete the deal. When the
time came, Mordy reserved a roomette on the overnight train to
Pittseld after he conducted the weekly Jewish Peoples Folk Chorus rehearsal. He would somehow put a deposit on the estate. But
it didnt work out. I had to interrupt the rehearsal to report that we
had a telegram from Walter Wilson, acting in our behalf, announcing that the property had been sold. A furniture dealer, Mr. Isadore
Secunda of Pittseld, had bought it even as we thought we had a
verbal purchase agreement. We discovered that he would stu the
house with antiques for sale. Mordy was heartbroken; hes still
outraged by Mrs. Iasigis betrayal. I was relieved.
In a few days we were stunned: Mr. Secunda called and oered
to sell us part of the forty-acre property, the main house, and barn.
He had already separated the caretakers house and some acreage
and sold it. It seemed to us that he had bought the property only
because he learned we were interested. He tried to re-sell part of
the property to Mordy for more than he paid Mrs. Iasigi for the
entire parcel. Mordy, still determined to try to buy it, entered into
negotiation with Secunda and nally agreed on $25,000 for the
165
remaining thirty acres and two buildings. The house was a handsome twenty-ve room mansion; the barn could be turned into living space, rehearsal rooms, even a concert hall. It was enormous.
We drove together from Cleveland to Pittseld, arguing all the
way. I tried to convince Mordy that his plan was unreal; he told me
he had no other choice in lifehe had to do it, come what may. We
went to an attorneys oce to sign a contract with Mr. Secunda. As
Mordy handed him a check for $2,500a check that was denitely
not covered in our bank accountwe were told that the deposit
would only be valid if the other buyers withdraw their deposit.
What other buyers? we asked. We didnt know that anyone
else was interested, and I snatched the check back, unwilling to go
to jail, especially under this peculiar circumstance. We realized
we were dealing with an accomplished horse thief and left, disappointed.
What happened to those buyers? One of Secundas card-playing
partners bought it for his relatives to use as an inn. They were the
other buyers. What they hadnt counted on was the strict Stockbridge zoning laws: Businesses had never been permitted on Prospect Hill, and never will be. Eventually and suspiciously, rst the
Bullitt barn burned down and then the gracious main house. All
that was left was the 1890s ice house, used by squatters for years
afterward. And eventually another suspicious re destroyed the
house across Meeting House Road.
My mother had been taking care of Joshua in Cleveland while
we were in Pittseld. She was well aware how discouraged Mordy
was. She went back home to Yonkers and, typically for my mother,
decided to get involved. Without discussing it with us, she drove to
Stockbridge to talk to real estate agents. She knew nothing about
our relationship with Walter Wilson.
Another agent showed her the property across the street from
the Bullitt estate, one of the original three on Prospect Hill. It,
too, had a large main house, a caretakers cottage, and a carriage
166
house (not as big as the Bullitt barn), only thirteen acres, but with
a stunning view of the Berkshire Hills. While we were negotiating
with Mrs. Iasigi and Mr. Secunda, the property had been sold to
two families who were trying to establish a summer program similar to ours. Their policy was somewhat less structured than the one
we had in mind. Ours would be co-ed, theirs was only for girls who
would rise in the mornings when they pleased and go to classes
as the spirit moved them. The partners could not agree, so even
before they opened, they wanted to re-sell the property. We were
learning about real estate deals.
The building my mother looked at was the summer home of
Ambassador-at Large Norman Davis. A Tennessee businessman and
head of the Red Cross, he had a large family; we were told that during any summer, there were thirty Davises in residence and thirty
sta to help. Mowing the great front lawn in those days must have
taken the better part of a week! Mr. Davis bought the estate from
the original builder, Birdseye Blakeman, publisher and owner of
the American Book Company. A book by Carole Owens, The Berkshire Cottages: A Vanishing Era, published for the centenary celebration, reports:
On October 2, 1886, Anna and Birdseye Blakeman purchased
property on Prospect Hill from a local resident, in consideration of $5,000. On the land, they built their cottage. The
interior, in the manner of cottages of the day, was reminiscent
of an English country seat. The exterior, however, was unique
among cottages, evoking neither Classical nor New England
architecture, but that of a royal hunting lodge. The Blakemans
named the cottage Oronoque, an Indian word meaning land
at the bend.
We were always told that Oronoque meant Peace. The house

had thirty rooms, the driveway swept the front in a beautiful arch
and still does. It was of bastard architectural design, with its
own distinction. Davis added extensive stone work in 1912 when he
167
Oronoque, an early twentieth-century photograph.
bought it, spending $12,000 for the masonry work alone. In 1951,
we paid $30,000 for the estate, which was no longer usable as a
winter residence. We chartered Indian Hill as a school in the state
of Massachusetts because we were well aware of town zoning restrictions. I still refer to it as a summer school in the arts although former students called it a camp, and always will.
We thought Mordy could support the family working during the
winter in New York, while I would handle administrative details at
the school. I didnt look forward to the role. Mordy said, I will do
it with you or without you. He astonished me with his ideas and
determination. Believing in Mordy as I did, I took on what to me
was an onerous task.
What we had was an idea and energy, if not a full pocketbook.
We paid the deposit of $10,000 by selling our Cleveland house. We
told Joe that we were in jail, and he convinced the Kirtzes and
Morgensterns to bail us out. The heirs of the Davis estate took a
$15,000 mortgage, and Mordys mother loaned him money so that
we could open. Our plan seemed simple enough: to enroll sixty students at $600 each. We thought $36,000 would swing the project,
at least the rst year. It didnt work out quite that way.
After we sold our Cleveland house, I ew to New York with
168
Joshua and our Dalmatian, George. Mordy was already living in

New York, still working with Nathan Korshin on the City College
(CCNY) alumni fundraising project We were again living in my
parents house in Yonkers. Chuck was commuting to New York,
attending the High School of Performing Arts. Elisabeth was going
to Nathaniel Hawthorne Junior High School, which I had attended
many years before. I was thirty-seven, pregnant with our second
son, Marc.
N ellie rogers, the wife of Mordys Juilliard teacher Francis Rogers,

remembered many of the old-timers who still lived in their summer
cottages in Stockbridge and Lenox. She promised to introduce us
to Mabel Choate and Anson Phelps Stokes, both in their eighties. It
developed that Miss Choate was not too happy that we were moving
in on her hill, and in her own quiet way did everything possible to
prevent us from buying the property for a school. But in Massachusettselsewhere too Im sureschools and religious organizations
are not subject to zoning regulations. Because of our school charter
we had no zoning problem on exclusive Prospect Hill.
We learned that Nellie Rogers was Mabel Choates competition
for Frank Rogers aections and her opponent in local golf tournaments. Its possible that those old conicts still rankled. Whatever
the reasons, Mabel was never reconciled to our presence despite all
that Nellie said about us and our school. We may have been naive;
it did not occur to us that there was still anti-Semitism in New England.
When we bought our own home in 1956, almost next-door to IH,
we became owners of a second share in the Hill Water Company, a
private water supply that fed from springs on Rattlesnake Mountain, a mile north of Indian Hill. Eventually we were the only stockholders who were year-round residents. Mordy was therefore automatically elected president of the water company, and we had control of the 100-year-old handwritten minutes of annual meetings.
169
Although we dug two wells to add to the Indian Hill supply, ill feeling about our use of the water existed from the beginning. In the
minutes of annual water company meetings, we read about Mabel
Choates early antagonism. The rst Choate letter to Mr. Ford [he
was treasurer of the Hill Water Company] did not refer to us by
name; later letters in the same vein did:
Dear Mr. Ford:
I am enclosing my cheque for the assessments of the Hill Water
Company, and am taking this opportunity to ask you what you
think will be the eect of the new school in the Norman Davis
house, and whether we should do anything about it. If you
think anything should be done, please let me know. Anyway,
this will mean trouble for Mr. Foote [sic, his name was spelled
Foot] will it not?
Mabels next letter, ten days later:

I am distressed as you are about the school of undesirables,
but fear the sale has already gone through, though what they
will do about the license I have not heard. Nora Bullitt was
staying with me when your letter came... [she will] probably
be selling it to one of two outts: one is a school which is to be
conducted by a nice young couple named Carter, Mrs. Carter
being the daughter of Rockwell Kent, the painter, though they
are not the owners of the school. The other prospect is an allthe-year-round hotel: how such a thing could be conducted
there with not much water and practically no heat, I cannot
imagine. I said what I could to Nora, but she has no intention
of doing anything but getting rid of the house to the rst person possible and cares nothing as to who takes it. Im afraid
thats the feeling that Maclin Davis had, and it does make one
sick. If only we could work up something about the water that
might deter the purchasers!
Mabel made a small error; Alan Carter was only representing us;
he had no plan to start his own school.
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On May 15, 1952 Mabel wrote again to Henry Ford:

The Davis house seems to be fated, as well as the Bullitts. I
am afraid we must resign ourselves to the fact that Berkshire
County, to our ideas, is ruined, and that the tranquil appearance of the countryside will be gone forever; but that seems to
be what people want, as I see that the Berkshire Conference is
hard at work to bring more people there.
Mr. Ford wrote Mabel from Nova Scotia on August 23, 1953:
I understand that at Davis they have 85 people, with 2 bathrooms in the barn etc. It doesnt seem right that they participate in our low assessment, last year only $25.00. Have you
any idea how we can make them pay in proportion to what they
are using? They even tried to x the pool after Jack McDonald
and I told them it was against our rules...
Mabel answered him on August 26th:

. . . I have been worrying very much about the water situation.
I have heard nothing from the other people on the hill, except
that once I saw Mrs. Hoving [the Hovings house was almost
across the road from IH], who was very indignant and said she
couldnt get any baths on account of the people in the Davis
houseand if there are 82 [sic] of them that is not surprising!
Of course it is idiotic to think of their only paying $25, when
all those people presumably take baths at some time or other.
We had indeed tried to resurrect the old pool, but nally lled it
in. After we had dug two wells, we built a swimming pool and lled
it with water that was trucked in. The other shareholders of the
Hill Water Company continued to be unhappy with our use of the
Rattlesnake Hill water; we were always conscious about the limited
water supply, warning the children to conserve as much as possible.
Our neighbor, Walter Hoving, was an understanding person, and
we heard that he referred to Mordy as an honorable gentleman.
When we bought Indian Hill in 1951 our lawyer, Morty Wek-
171
steinWecky to our familysaid, You are buying a lawsuit. It

was about the sewer line, which seemed a legalistic concern, unreal
to us. The sewer pipe from our property led to the town sewer, under
the paved road between Indian Hill and our neighbor Mr. Foots
abandoned property. It continued on across the short street at the
bottom of the hill, and about one-quarter of a mile further to the
town ltration plant. We couldnt believe that anyone would sue us
about an underground pipe that was installed in 1905, forty-seven
years before we arrived on the scene. But Mr. Foot did, indeed, sue.
I think that as a lawyer himself, he was embarrassed that he didnt
properly search the title. Although Wecky had certainly warned us,
it was still a shock and taught us a lot about anti-Semitism at that
time and in that place.
Mr. Foots house had been built by the original owner of
Oronoque, Birdseye Blakeman, for his daughter, Anna Vesey. Mrs.
Veseys sewer was connected to the original pipe. When Foot bought
that property, he must have realized that the euent from the large
house higher on the hill drained into the pipe and washed his waste
down the hill. During the residence of the Davis family, Foot tried
to convince them that they owed him recompense for sewer pipes
under his land. They werent easily intimidated, reminding him
that the shut-o valve of his water source was in the middle of their
front lawn, under their control. When a re destroyed Foots house
in the early fties, he no longer needed water, and our control over
it became of no use to us. Town gossip whispered that Mr. Foot
burned the house down himself to collect insurance. It was only a
rumor: no proof existed, and we were told that he did collect the
insurance.
First he suggested that we pay him an annual fee of $200 to
use the sewer line. Then he suggested we buy his property, asking
$60,000. Why dont they get 60 of their rich Jewish friends to buy
me out? was the question he asked our lawyer, Sidney Katz. The
lawsuit lasted three years and cost about $3,000, a fortune to us
172
in 1955; it took a long time to pay the legal fees. We were outraged
to learn that even if we won the case, there would be no recompense, and we would owe legal and court costs. An irritating aspect
of the experience was listening to scatological jokes from lawyers in
court, not funny to us.
Wecky was not able to represent us, but acted as adviser to Sidney
Katz, who was a stodgy, conservative lawyer, fearful of tackling this
landmark case, especially since he was opposed by Lincoln Cain, the
leading Pittseld lawyer. Foot tried to prevent us from opening our
school, asking the court for an injunction against use of the sewer.
We appeared before a circuit judge from Boston. Foot declared that
these people from the city dont know the problems of our country
plumbing. The Boston judge properly interpreted his comment as
anti-Semitic and dismissed the injunction, but ordered a civil trial
to take place in the fall to clear the title.
The time we spent, taking adavits from Wenzel Krebs, former caretaker for the Davis family; hiking over the land with the
plumber; photographing manhole covers; searching town records!
There are dierent bases for such a case: among them are prescriptive rights, which establish that a situation has been in existence
for a long period of time; and open and notorious use, which was
the issue upon which Katz based his argument.
We won the rst round, but Foot insisted upon taking it to the
Supreme Court of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and even
asked us to share in the printing costs; after all, we were making
legal history, Foot vs. Bauman. The referee nally pronounced
his verdict in our favor: No one need actually see it to know it was
there; it wasnt hidden, it was open and notorious and had been
for years.
A strange coda to this historic case is that new younger members
of Lincoln Cains rm were, for many years, under the impression
that Foot had won the suit. But Foot knew the facts and resented
the loss of his case to the day he died, letting us know it constantly.
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He spent hours driving up and down Old Meeting House Road that
separated our two properties, haranguing students as they sat on
the wall overlooking the ruins of his house. They loved watching
the sunset, enjoying the view of the Stockbridge church steeple
in the distance, and the Berkshire Hills. Often enough they were
subjected to Mr. Foots taunts, anti-Semitic remarks, and threats of
action if they trespassed. Shocked and upset children would run up
to the oce to report, That man is here again!
One day the children sensed his violent attitude and came running to me in distress. I called on sta members to protect us.
Our burly choral conductor, who was also the athletic instructor,
grabbed a baseball bat; the 6-foot-2-inch chef picked up his cleaver;
the heavy-set violinist took his golf club, and they all marched
across the lawn ready to take on Mr. Foot, as Mordy begged them
to calm down. In June 1961 we received a warning letter from the
Stockbridge Board of Selectmen:
Mrs. Nelson Foot was in our oce Monday and entered a complaint stating that pupils from Indian Hill use her property in
a way she feels dangerous to the vicinity.
She has no objection if they go there just to sit on the wall
or walk around, but she wants no smoking there, nor any res.
There have been some of the latter built in the old foundation
and she is afraid that sparks might set re to the adjacent grass
and thereby cause great havoc, not only to her property, but
the Griswold estate and also yours.
We would appreciate it if you would instruct your campers to the eect that this is private property and should be so
regarded. We have instructed our Police Department to keep a
watch on this place, and any violations will be reported to us.
During the summer of 1957 three children invaded Mr. Foots

garage, thinking it was abandonedas indeed it looked. They swept
it out and set up a club house where they smoked and made
out (the phrase of a later era; we called it necking in our time.)
Wenzel Krebs was still living in the caretakers house across the
174
road, ever alert to problems Foot caused us. He noticed a broken

window in the garage. (Later we bought the house from Wenzel
and it became our inrmary.) The teenagers had left letters and
papers scattered around, so it was easy to track down the culprits.
The chief of police, Mr. Collins (Ocer Obies predecessorof
Alices Restaurant fame), drove down the driveway one day and
walked into my oce.
He told us that he had investigated Foots garage and suggested we call the parents of those children and warn them that
the owner of the garage meant nasty business. The town had had
other unpleasant experiences over the years with Mr. Foot, and the
ocers warning was serious. I called three parents, and the sta
decided that those naughty children should be punished; we agreed
that an appropriate penance was to miss the next trip to Tanglewoodthe only sentence we were ever able to think of.
Mordy hadnt exactly threatened o with your heads, but Janes
parents were convinced that we had mistreated her; they drove all
night from Provincetown to rescue their abused daughter and took
her home with them. They wanted to reason with Foot and oer to
pay for any damage. We didnt want him to know which children had
been the trespassers and neither did Ocer Collins. He reasoned
with the parents and convinced them to do nothing. He agreed with
us that some punishment ought to be expected, but they took Jane
home anyway, and announced they would never recommend us to
their friends. That was not what Jane had wanted; after her parents
forgave us, she came back for three more summers. The other two
were close to us: Nancy Michelmans uncle was an old beau of mine;
Eddie Jasies mother was my close friend in Mt. Vernon. Eddie died
very young; his half brother also came to IH much later. Nancy
stayed in touch with us for all these years, sending her son Michael
Goodfriend, an actor, to us when he was in New York. (He lived in
L.A. for some years, but later came back to N.Y. and came to see us.
We never lose contact with IH children and grandchildren.
175
A s we planned the program, we thought of calling the school

the Prospect Hill School in the Arts, but the name didnt really
satisfy us; we struggled to think of a better one. We went to see
Mordys voice teachers widow, a striking and forceful woman, Cornelia Barnes Rogers, known as Nellie. She had spent many summers in the twenties at her fathers estate, Cranwell in Lenox,
seven miles from Stockbridge. Long after Colonel Barnes died, it
became a private Catholic preparatory school, and is now a resort
and conference center. We told Nellie about our dream, asking for
suggestions of a name. Her eyes twinkled as she said, Let me think
about it overnight. The next morning she called to suggest that
we name the school Indian Hill. It made me teary, it seemed so
right. Although the property was known as Oronoque, Indian Hill
sounded perfect to us.
Stockbridge was founded in 1734 by the missionary John Sergeant.
Jonathan Edwards was Sergeants successor, who later became
president of Princeton University. Sergeants Mission House, now
a museum, was moved to Main Street from its original site on Prospect Hill, just around the corner from the Davis estate. Sergeant
had come to Stockbridge to convert the local Indians, a branch of
the Algonquins. Those were the rst Native Americans to be given
citizenship and the only tribe allowed to ght in the Revolution as
a tribe. They are referred to as The Stockbridge Indians, a group
still living in Wisconsin. Appropriately, we later invited one of the
descendants to spend a summer at Indian Hill. Our property was
now formally known as Indian Hill, abbreviated by later students to
IH. The population of Stockbridge in the 1990s was about 2,400.
Indian Hill opened with thirty-seven students, two of them mine:
Chuck and Elisabeth. Only twelve paid $600, some paid a partial
fee, a few paid nothing. Mordy had decided from the beginning that
he would oer scholarships. Our scholarships were really gifts
from us, an eort to assure quality students and an integrated student body.
176
Mordy was beginning to work out educational principles, developed from his teaching at the Cleveland Institute of Music. One of
the serious problems at the Institute was limited scholarship support. Another Institute drawback was the program: weekly half-hour
lessons were the only musical supervision and instruction provided
by the school. Every week, Mordy felt he had to repeat the previous
lesson. He didnt want to give lessons, but to establish a rounded
program of substance. He decided that IH students would sign up
for a major in music or dance. Mordy felt that a strong rhythmic sense was important to every music student. Most important
was Mordys desire to oer the kind of apprentice program associated with Bachs teaching. This close living experience with master
teachers was what Indian Hillers remember and cherish.
Before we began to advertise and look for students, we oered
two full scholarships: one in composition to honor Charles Ives,
and one in voice in the name of Mordys Juilliard teacher, Francis
Rogers. I wrote to Ives to ask permission to use his name, not only
for the scholarship but also to name the concert room in the main
house the Ives Room. Mrs. Ives surprised us with a check, signed
by her husband, for $200; for several years afterward we received
an annual contribution from her. Nellie Rogers agreed to help raise
funds to cover part of the vocal scholarship. Nellie and her husband
were well known; they entertained American troops during World
War I, Frank singing and Nellie performing monologues. What we
will never forget was her fractured French explanation of baseball
and the memorable phrase, Assiette chez vous.
We invited my former Mt. Vernon neighbors, the Lacativas, to be
our partners, but that arrangement lasted only one summer. They
were, however, important to us, as they prepared the property for
occupancy in the spring of 1952. We were still in Cleveland, trying
to sell our house, and making arrangements to buy furniture, and
kitchen and dining room equipmenta task made somewhat easier
by Harry Kirtz.
177
First we tried to let our Cleveland friends know what we were

working on. We promoted local publicity and bought advertising.
Two music students bravely signed up early, giving us courage to go
on. We oered two vocal scholarships in Rogers name to the Cleveland Settlement Music School. This was our early eort to integrate
the program.
My brothers father-in-law, Dr. Otto Bostrom, happened to be in
town, and we involved him in the auditions. (He taught ecumenical religion at a seminary in Ohio.) Mordy chose a girl and a boy.
Dr. Bostrom took him aside and said: Dont you think you should
consider that delightful pianist? Look at her smile! We did: she
was Frances Cole, one of those courageous rst-summer students.
A black woman, she went on to earn a Ph.D. in music and achieved
certain fame as a harpsichordist, performing regularly on television, dressed in eighteenth-century costume.
Mordys plan when we began Indian Hill was to attract students
who were not, as he repeated endlessly, taking from but were
really interested in studying with. He also wanted to be sure that
students participated in a physical activity associated with summer,
as well as music and dance. And he wanted to cross-fertilize the
arts, requiring students to take a minor class in a discipline other
than their main interest. We realized that teenagers were beginning
to show interest in other areas of the arts, so in the second summer
we introduced art (painting and sculpture) and the following year,
drama; later we added lmmaking and crafts, including ceramics,
enameling, and jewelry.
During the twenty-ve years of Indian Hill under our direction, patterns and interests changed. We found that some students
needed a higher S.A.T. score in order to enter top universities, so
during several summers we oered courses in English, mathematics, and French. We tried to move with the times, accommodating
new styles as we met new and exciting kids.
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The rst two summers, my brother Robert, then conductor of

the choruses at the University of California at Berkeley, arrived
from the West Coast to help us. Robert was a wonderfully inspiring
conductor, whose wit and good humor started the day with spirit
and professional musicianship. These choral rehearsals were the
only musical experience in which everyone shared. The eyes of the
students stayed glued to Roberts face, as he pulled out every ounce
of feeling and excitement in the music.
He made us laugh until we cried as he asked us in his droll way
what his role really was: Am I the conductor or the porter? He
carried the incoming students trunks up to the third oor, lugged
cases of canned goods up the back kitchen steps, reminded us we
needed music stands, and teased us about our ignorance as we
stored a pound of bay leaves, which came in a box 12 inches by 12
by 6! I wonder what the wholesale grocery supplier thought of that
order; maybe she thought that we thought it was marijuana. What
did we ever do with that carton of bay leaves?
A concept unique to summer music programs was originally suggested by our old friend Ezra Schabas. He made an important contribution by insisting that we require attendance at a daily chorus
rehearsal, no matter what the students major. Art, dance, and
drama students all had to appear at chorus rehearsal the rst thing
in the morning, right after breakfast and clean-up. This seemed an
innocent requirement, and we agreed to try it. We found tremendous resistance, especially from non-musicians, but we needed a
choral conductor with a special personality who encouraged children to sing eagerly, early in the morning. It was the most important
experience for the students, bringing the whole school together in
one activity. Their satisfaction when they nally performed a challenging choral work surprised and excited them; Ezra knew that
would happen.
There were always some students who staged an annual revolt
about compulsory chorus. It was a dicult time of the day to
179
demand attention, but the group training became the most significant experience for the entire population. Although many complained bitterly and tried to avoid showing up, by the end of the
summer, when they performed the classic work they had studied
for two months, everyone realized that it was their most rewarding experience. Even Arlo Guthrie, who used to hide from counselors while trying to avoid chorus period, nally admitted that it was
what he remembered most vividly and appreciatively.
One day, as we were resting on the lawn, worn out from opening preparations, a young man came by and asked if we had any
position he could apply for. David Buttolph was studying percussion at Tanglewood and needed a place to stay. He had an idea for
a program of percussion and theory for dancers. An attractive and
likable person, he worked with us for several summers. He established our rst Madrigal Group. It was the only class requiring an
audition; we called them the elite of Indian Hill. Those who read
music well and sang clearly and on pitch joined that hardworking,
distinguished small choir. I can still hear Ruth Laredo humming
the a as they sang a cappella in 1952.
Marlin Merrill, whom Mordy knew in the army, later conducted
that group for fteen summers. He was a voice teacher at the Eastman School of Music in Rochester, New York. Marlins demands
were strict, his need for quiet, awesome, and he even helped maintain decorum in the dining room.
Mordy wanted to be sure that each pupil had a full program, rich
in all its details. An instrumentalist would have one or two lessons
a week, and was assigned practice periods and both chamber music
and orchestra rehearsals. It was a complicated schedule. Setting it
up kept me busy in the oce. In 1952, when we started IH, the much
larger institution, Interlochen in Michigan, was not oering chamber music or study in music composition. Mordy was convinced,
however, of the value of these areas for all musicians. Dancers and
drama students had technique classes in the mornings; afternoon
180
workshops were rehearsals for productions. Visual artists studied

individually; they were usually the smallest group.
I was the oce: administering the dining room, bookkeeping,
housekeeping, nursing, chaueuring . . . most of all, worrying. I
used to say that I took in a deep breath the rst of July and never let
it out until the end of August. I felt the responsibility of those teenage children keenly. During the international revolutionary period
of sixties students, I worried even more. A new concern would be
drug involvement. We never had a serious accident, although I
spent many concerned hours in the emergency room at the Berkshire Medical Center in Pittseld. And the only re happened in a
small, empty building one spring, when it was being painted.
Artist friends in Cleveland designed a brochure for us, and my
father printed it. It was colorful; a picture of the main building was
all we had to show before we started. The Weavers, the popular
folk-singing group, had supper with us in Cleveland one evening
before their local night club appearance. Pete Seeger, Lee Hays,
Fred Hellerman, and Ronnie Gilbert sat in our living room, stung
envelopes with the brochures; we mailed them to friends and professional colleagues. Lee made up a ditty that became our annual
theme song as we welcomed a new group of excited and anxious
students coming down the driveway:
Here we are at Indian Hill
We dont know nothing and we never will!
Bob Blechman, the cartoonist, designed a subsequent brochure,

with pictures of the facilities and activities. We wrote a description
of the program, with help from Betty Bean and Jake Brackman.
Indian Hill is magic. But what happens here in eight weeks is
no trickerywe have no interest in playing tricks with teenagers. The secret behind what we do is simple: the rst of our
ingredients is a sta of distinguished artists who are deeply
181
committed to young people. The second is the group of young

people we invite to work with us.
Together, through a carefully prepared program, we create a
summer with more lasting eects than those of sorcery. Indian
Hill is a workshop in the arts. While several of our alumni
have already achieved prominence as artists, we do not aim
at producing future Rubinsteins or Oliviers. We care more for
choosing interesting boys and girls than supremely talented
ones, and are perhaps proudest of the kinds of people we have
watched old campers become. This is not a place for aspiring
professionals to sweat out techniques; it is one in which boys
and girls are encouraged to work hard at what they love to do,
under the guidance of dedicated adults who also love what they
do.
We have found, since we started in 1952, that this combination of interest and energyand the excitement of the atmosphere it generatesfosters a growth that goes beyond the
technical prociencies our students acquire. We do not think
an Indian Hill Summer is best for everyone. For many teenagers who have outgrown the programs of conventional camps,
Indian Hill oers a new and signicant experience. Balancing
a major in one of the arts with a varied academic and recreational program is only a method. Our whole experience, each
summer, yields far more than the sum of activities: that is the
magic of Indian Hill.
Rereading those words fty years later, I see that we backed

into the description of the program, and I remember why. Earlier
promotional material had referred to Indian Hill as a summer program for talented teenagers. It frightened some parents. A later
attempt to create a sophisticated brochure was a very bright cartoon eort, again designed by Bob Blechman. It was not a success.
Parents complained that there were no pictures. They thought we
were ashamed of the property; actually we were so proud of the
buildings that it didnt occur to us that parents would be suspicious
of the facilities if we didnt publish photos, often faked or exaggerated in our competitors advertisements.
182
As we thought about ways to publicize our new school, we called

on Mordys friends in the world of artists and asked them to be sponsors. My father printed their names on our stationery. We hoped it
would convince parents and teenagers that we were legitimate.
Artur Balsam
Marion Bauer
Marc Blitzstein
Norman Dello Joio
Marcel Dick
Lehman Engel
Rudolph Ganz
Walter Hendl
Hanya Holm
Andrew Imbrie
Philip James
George Kleinsinger
Arthur Loesser
Alex North
Wallingford Riegger
Mrs. Francis Rogers
Elie Siegmeister
Leon Barzin
Betty Randolph Bean
Suzanne Bloch
Leonard De Paur
John Duke
Irwin Freundlich
Leonid Hambro
Ira Hirschmann
Langston Hughes
Charles Ives
Ulysses Kay
Mrs. Serge Koussevitsky
Douglas Moore
Charles and Magdeleine Panzra
George Schick
Walter Schumann
Howard Swanson
I wonder how many names are familiar todaynot many! Louis

Untermeyers name is not among those artists; he was concerned
that his blacklisted name would cause a political problem for us,
and asked us to leave him out. Rockwell Kents name is also missing. That story still causes us embarrassment. My father printed
everything we ever needed: stationery, promotional material, material about Mordy. Until he died and his business was liquidated, I
didnt know what it meant to pay for printing. We asked Rockwell
Kent to be one of our sponsors, and he agreed. When it came to
printing the list, my father refused to include Kents name. It was
183
an unexpected conict, although it was not a secret that Kent was

a progressive artist, if not left-wing. And we knew what my fathers
political position was. What was a surprise to us was my fathers
absolute intransigence on the subject. He adamantly refused to put
Rockwells name on our stationery. He had printed beautiful lithographs of Kents work, so how could he be so opposed to his name
as one of our sponsors? We demurred, Mordy argued and even
pleaded with my father. But we nally gave in under his pressure.
His plant had already produced our rst brochure; the list of sponsors was printed on the stationery without Kents name. We had an
angry letter from Rockwell and that made us unhappy; it was perhaps the most opportunist thing we ever did.
Herbert Haufrechts name is also missing. We had a hurtful
political correspondence with Herbert:
February 4, 1952
Dear Mordy,
I received the brochure about Indian Hill. Though Irma in our
phone conversation mentioned the names of your faculty, it
was only after she hung up that I realized that there seemed to
be a lily-white faculty.
It was shockingly conrmed when I looked through the brochure. As a member of the Committee for the Negro in the
Arts, and as a member of ASP [Arts, Sciences and Professions],
and as a progressive I am ashamed of my sponsorship in view of
this fact. I am writing to you in this manner because I know of
your attitude against Jim Crow. But the key to our attitude and
the test of it is in the eld of employment. There are many outstanding Negro artists in all the arts, and certainly in music, of
which there is testimony in your sponsors list.
I hope that you can correct this situation by employing at
least one Negro faculty member. Also, I urge that one of the
scholarships be made available to Negro talent. Meanwhile,
until there is a change I must ask you to withhold my name
from any future publicity of Indian Hill. Believe me, Mordy,
184
this is written in the spirit of real friendship and with our
mutual objective of a democratic culture in mind.
Sincerely,
Herbert H.
Mordys answer:
February 8, 1952
Dear Herb,
Your letter came as a surprise. True, in the past few years we
have had little close contact with one another, and have not
been able to discuss our mutual interests. Therefore one might
come to incorrect conclusions. But your attitude in being judge
and jury did not strike me as being particularly friendly. Last
week, you might be interested in knowing, we were hosts to
the Weavers, during their much publicized visit to Cleveland.
Next week it is our pleasure to have Bill Reuben, whose work
for the Trenton Six and the Rosenbergs must be well known
to you, as our house guest. Everyone sincerely interested in a
better world should do his utmost to bring it about. We, in our
way, do the best we can.
I am anxious to help the Negro artist. Perhaps if I were in
New York I, too, would be a member of CNA. And, as you know,
I am a member of a few progressive groups. But I wonder if I
would have written you in a similar manner. There are certain
limitations that are placed upon me in the organizing of this
school, due to my being in Cleveland. My sta was engaged on
the basis of my knowledge and judgment of these individuals.
I wanted to engage Ulysses Kay and Dean Dixon; neither
of them was available to me. As a matter of fact it was very
dicult, and took special eort, to get as many Negro sponsors on my list as I have. If it is possible for you to supply me
with a list of available Negro musicians who will be willing and
able to work with us I will appreciate it. Also, if you want to
recommend Negro students between the ages of 16 and 18 for
a scholarship I will make every eort to get one or more for
them. I have already discussed this problem with Ruth Jett of
185
the CNA, Robeson, and the other Negro leaders of my acquaintance.

Naturally, I accept your criticism in a spirit of friendship,
and realize that the proof of my intention is in the nal fact.
Nevertheless it would be too bad if the few progressive artists trying to function today make the mistake of exaggerating without investigation the shortcomings of one another. I
will refrain from using your name in future publicity as you
requested. But I still look forward to discussing these problems
with you personally when I am in New York
As ever,
Mordy
Nothing is ever simple. There were no black musicians on the

sta of the Cleveland Institute of Music or in the Cleveland Symphony. Howard Roberts was one of few black students. We knew
and liked Charles White, a leading artist in Cleveland, and did try
to add him to our sta in the second year when we established an
art department. He agreed to join us, but became ill and had to
decline. Eventually we did nd compatible and talented AfricanAmerican sta members to join us. The rst was our local friend
Dave Gunn, who worked in various capacities over the years. Norman Lewis, who was not yet well known, was our art teacher in
1955. It wasnt as easy as Haufrecht imagined for us to nd black
artists available to come to Stockbridge for a brief, poorly paid summer position.
Somewhat to Herbs embarrassment, his daughter Marcia insisted
on coming to IH, and Herb had to ask Mordy for special nancial
consideration so that he could send her. She was a beautiful and
talented girl who became famous as our only student who posed for
Playboy, as far as we know.
We rented a small house on a hill halfway between Indian Hill and
Tanglewood during the rst Indian Hill summer. We went back to
Yonkers for the winter, waiting for Marcs birth on November 12th.
186
The following summer we rented Jack Swans cottage on the other

side of the tracks and enjoyed it until we bought a large house on
Prospect Hill in 1956. It was a beautiful estate on six acres, recently
renovated and much too high class for us! Our boys went to the
local elementary school and then to the Lenox School for boys.
After they graduated and went o to college, I wandered around
the house alone all winter, wrote letters in my oce or went to New
York to an apartment we rented in 1961. I worried greatly about
Mordys weekly commute from New York to New Jersey to New York
to Stockbridge. Recently I admitted to him that after the boys went
to bed, I sat reading in the living room, looking out the window for
his car to come down the circular driveway, spooning marshmallow
whip out of a jar until it was emptied. That was my comfort food!
I cannot imagine even tasting it today! We thought of ourselves as
Stockbridge residents, and voted there, for twenty-six years.
When we rst drove across the Housatonic River as established
Stockbridge residents, Mordy and I sang together, Contented
River, in thy dreamy realm; the cloudy willow and the plumy elm . . .
Thou beautiful . . . Thats the rst line from Charles Ivess The
Housatonic at Stockbridge, a poem written by a Stockbridge resident, Robert Underwood Johnson. It is one of the movements from
Three Places in New England, Ivess Third Symphony; he also set
it as a song. Mordy sang it many times, most excitedly in 1959 with
the Third Symphony, the rst time the song was performed with
orchestral accompaniment. Kalman Kubinyi designed a bookplate
for Mordy: a tree, the river in the distance, and the rst few notes of
the music. There really was a contented atmosphere about Stockbridge fty years ago.
In the New York Times of May 28, 1994, the critic Bernard Holland wrote:
The Housatonic at Stockbridge, the third of Ivess pieces,
will haunt me to my grave. One hears quivering, undulating
string gures, then rising melody that mysteriously appears
187
Marc and Mordy sitting on the bank of the Housatonic at Stockbridge.
and evaporates. At the end, a long and powerful climax breaks

o inexplicably. There is a tiny, quiet strand of tone, a second
or two at most, and then a sighing downward half-step in the
violas. One is left not unsatised, but dumbfounded. It is a
moment unlike any other I know in music.
The music haunts us, too.

Im no longer sure what motivated my decision to settle down in
a small New England town, bringing up our two boys there. When
we left Cleveland, we didnt want to bring the boys to New York, and
I didnt want to go back to my parents house in Yonkers. My decision to live in Stockbridge created complications for us: there was
no way Mordy could nd work in the Berkshires during the school
year. Living in Stockbridge meant that he drove thousands of miles
during those years, back and forth to New York and New Jersey.
Before we opened Indian Hill, I read an ad for a large refrigerator for sale. A Pittseld dairy farmer sold it to us for $25. His son,
188
The Berkshire Hills.
Tom Wojtkowski, one of thirteen children, carried it up the back

stairs of our kitchen with a friendmaybe eighteen steps. Tom was
just starting law school; he became our lawyer. He and his wife,
Anne, are our oldest friends, still important and loving associates
over fty years later. Anne was the mayor of Pittseld for two terms
and taught science at the Berkshire Community College until her
retirement.
Our early close friends were Jay and Beth Rosenfeld. Jay was the
music critic for the Berkshire Eagle, the excellent Pittseld daily
paper. One of the most interesting men in the Berkshires, he had
studied to be a violinist in Belgium with Ole Bull. When his father
died he took over his haberdashery and had a wonderful, busy life.
Beth worked at what we called the local industry: the Austen
Riggs Center, in Stockbridge, a long-established psychiatric hospital. For ve or six years she was in charge of the activities program
there, a form of therapy for the patients. When she wasnt too busy,
we would have lunch together, often at the Red Lion Inn. Jay recommended students to our program; he was a great supporter of
whatever we did.
189
Daily trips to the post oce, shopping at the local market, dining
at the Red Lion Innall became part of our lives. Small town life is
special, and it was a completely new experience for us born-andbred New Yorkers. It took years for Stockbridge citizens to remember that we were year-round residents, although the boys had local
school friends and we went to town meetings, where Mordy added le
mot juste to end a controversy, often instigated by Nathan Horwitt.
He was always on the right side, but Mordy was the one who could
put a period to the discussion that then led to a vote.
Chuck was in college, Elisabeth wanted to go to Hunter High
school; we arranged for her to live during the week with my parents
in their apartment, only a few blocks from the school. After my
father died in 1956, my mother gave me a gift from his estate to help
us make a down payment on the house on Prospect Hill. There was
only one residence between the house we bought and Indian Hill.
We lived there for twenty-three years. Perhaps we were nave about
anti-Semitism, which was still alive and well in western Massachusetts. When Joshua was in rst grade, the sensitive teacher asked
him to bring his mother to the class to explain Hanukkah to the
children. I did it. Josh was the only Jewish child in the entire school.
That changed signicantly when Dr. Robert Knight became director
of the Austen Riggs Center. Quite a few Jewish psychologists and
psychiatrists joined the sta during his tenure. Bob Knight, as we
all knew him, loved to play golf and needed partners. Some of those
doctors enjoyed the sport, but the Stockbridge Country Club did
not allow Jewish membership. Bob Knight changed all that, starting a dierent social atmosphere in the town and in the school.
It wasnt easy to have the same social life we had enjoyed in Cleveland. Mordy was away all week, very busy on weekends. My closest friends became Tomi Keitlen and Bonnie Prudden, who built a
house a mile up the road from us on Prospect Hill. I joined Bonnies
exercise class in her gym. Those classes strengthened some friendships, particularly with Stephanie Barber of Music Inn and Ruth
190
Maeder who with her husband, Hans, founded the Stockbridge

School.
The local bank rewrote the $15,000 mortgage on Oronoque (the
original name of the property) earlier held by the Davis family. We
knew the bank president, Henry Dwight, and liked him very much.
After the rst couple of years at Indian Hill, he had condence in
our ability to handle the mortgage. We were grateful to him; he was
a genuine gentleman of the old school.
We also became acquainted with Norman Rockwell, who came
to Indian Hill looking for a classic Jewish face among the students
for his poster of people from all nations. He chose John Michelman,
who stands in the middle of that famous painting. Although she
is Jewish, too, Anita Salzman posed in a sari as a beautiful East
Indian.
Norman moved to Stockbridge from Vermont and lived in a little yellow house on Main Street, across from Dr. Campbells oce.
Donald Campbell was the towns only doctor; he took care of the
Indian Hill children and us for twenty-ve years, with concern and
good humor. His is the face Rockwell used in the well-known painting of the doctor injecting the buttocks of a small boy. The boy is
Eddie Locke, Joshs best friend. Later Norman moved to a larger
house and built a studio behind it. He was Norman to everyone in
the town, and his wife was Molly. He was a man whom we came to
know well, although we were never intimate friends. When he published the classic small town picture, Main Street at Christmas,
we bought many copies. I remember it cost $2.50; now its worth,
signed, lots more! One day I took ve copies to him, and he signed
one to us and one to each of our children.
A memorable event was a house warming for the new vice president of the bank. I tried to help his wife nd a home while they were
preparing to move from the eastern part of the state, which is the
reason we were invited to the party. We looked around the living
room and realized that the only guests we knew were Henry Dwight
191
and Norman Rockwell. As we talked to them over cocktails, Mordy

announced that we had to leave early to go to a dinner at the Temple in Pittseld, where Mordy was the cantor. Norman said that he
hadnt realized that Mordy was singing the services, and added that
he would like to hear him sing. Mordy must have decided at that
point to make his position quite clear. He said, As I look around
this room, I realize that I dont belong here. And when I go to the
temple, I dont belong there either!
We realized that we didnt quite t in any section of the Stockbridge community. Our house was so elegant, its position on the
hill as it was known in town, next to the Choate estate, labeled
us as upper class, a category where we didnt feel quite at home.
Before we bought that house and lived on the other side of the
railroad tracks, we didnt know any of those neighbors either.
Acquaintances we met daily at the post oce or the library never
accepted us as part of their social milieu. I counted among my real
friends the carpenters and the plumbers who rebuilt the IH estate
to suit summer students and who helped us in many ways over the
years.
Indian Hill: On the lawn.
193
Chapter Eight
Indian Hill
Indian Hill
by Paul Breslin, IH 61 & 62, sta member 66, now a professor
at Northwestern University.
For Mordecai and Irma Bauman, former proprietors
That tree was the center of the place,
outside the oce window.
Id sit beneath it every free hour,
picking my steel-string guitar
and trying to sing like a 1930s eld recording
from the poorest counties in Appalachia.
Sooner or later the window banged shut
and youd come out and say yes,
thats very nice, but enoughs enough.
Evenings, under that tree,
I watched the sunset open its hidden rooms
the rst time, over the green hill
darkened with shadows, its bare earth patches,
red with slanted light.
And there was the teahouse beside the pool,
where the lights from the girls rooms
in the house upstairs danced broken in the water.
Just the spot for kissing a girl
194
the rst time (not ready yet
for the woods by the baseball eld).
The one I kissed was taking piano
working on Mozart, and a loud
toccata by Khatchaturian.
She had blue eyes, almost green,
a mole on her right eyelid, and a 22 waist
(she blushed when I guessed it right.)
I even remember her birthday, July 16th.
(And keep two pieces of her picture,
torn in four when she wrote to say
she wouldnt write again, taped
to the cover of the yearbook
in the attic someplace.)
Leaning to her, I leaned to the strange
music the Boston Symphony was playing,
the nights we took buses to Tanglewood.
Slowly, the sound of classical
cleared to distinct voices Mozart, Brahms
conding something I leaned to hear.
She, too, could play such music.
Yet bothered with me, like a goddess
stuck on some blockhead mortal.
I could gure out three chords and the tune
from Woody Guthries records, but here
were simultaneous tunes,
and sojourns, by some path she knew,
through thorned thickets of sharps and ats.
(Twenty-ve years later, I plod
through chromatic octaves and scales,
and ache from the stretches
in Fernando Sors Grand Sonata.)
One rainy morning, when it was my turn
to drag in logs for the replace
Chapter Eight: Indian Hill

where all of us gathered before breakfast
(The manuscript of the Charles Ives song
hung to the left of the mantel.)
she came down from her room upstairs
in a green sweater I still can see
(though the moths or the Salvation Army
must have nished it years ago)
just as I was lifting the last, heaviest log onto its place;
And once when I took batting practice,
she showed up just as a long drive
settled onto the tennis court
I felt that shame and failure were banished forever,
since I was chosen to be instructed
by wise, beautiful women
and move, in the steps of a pavane,
to the strange music theyd teach me.
Sitting under that tree, watching
clouds glow in the blue-black sky,
like a bank of embers,
I wouldnt have believed it if youd said
the expensive pastoral you staged
each year, for children poised
before the burden of becoming
woman and man, was not the way things were
was cloudlike, not rooted, like this oak
in resistant soil.
(I am going to say it was an oak,
but to a city boy, there were no oaks,
just trees.) When I heard, years later
that the land was sold, it hurt
as if the house Id grown up in
had been bulldozed at.
My goddess, lasted a year
at Juilliard, majored in English at B.U.,
married someone, or so I heard
when it no longer mattered.
195
196
As for me. . .
If I dont say Im happy,
its just my old suspicion, that only
those who arent can tell.
That summer was a gift, and if its gone,
still I received it once, before
the music was broken, as it has to be.
But in the mortal rooms we enter
marriage, work, the books and children
that replace us in the end
the music, broken many times, revives
and lls the passageways.
Listening, we rest a moment, and go on.
Toward the end of the first summer I suddenly realized we

needed a memento of the summer for students and sta. From the
rst year to the last in 1976, I supervised the writing and production of a summer yearbook, the rst one mimeographed and clipped
together with a bobby pin! It is faded, dicult to read. Sta wrote
notes of appreciation and students described activities. Eric Weissman, who tried to stimulate interest in sports, wrote:
The Stockbridge Indians probably never suspected that a noisy,
active, bizarre group of musical young people would one day
inhabit their favorite hunting grounds in the Berkshire Mountains. But this is exactly what happened at the David estate.
There were many evenings when the sta of Indian Hill had
grave doubts that the Algonquins had indeed abandoned the
Housatonic shores. Certainly Konkapots tribe could scarcely
have done more to shatter the tranquility of Prospect Hill than
the exuberant crew that departs on August 27th.
The rst-year group wrote an appreciation to us which ends,

One thing well be sure to remember about Indian Hill is the
friendships we made here. They have held reunions over the years;
many remain close. There is something special about being part of
a new venture. That rst year we wrote an editorial:
197
Was it a Dream or a Nightmare? Six years ago we had an idea.

We wanted to create a place where musical teenagers could
spend a wonderful summer in the company of adults who
would appreciate their talents and understand their problems.
. . . Chuck and Lis were involved in the planning and work
from the beginning. All our ideas for classes and recreation
were discussed with them, and they made many good suggestions. We felt if we could please our children, we could please
others. Our rst step was to select the best possible sta, and
the result is our proudest achievement. Irma worked like a
Trojan, carrying the load of the preparation of the brochure
on her back. But it was obviously eective; the students quote
it to us from memory whenever they think we are failing to live
up to our promises.
Opening the camp we felt like expectant parents, which you
know we are. [Marc was born on November 12, 1952.] And having everyone troop in on us in a new place was really something! We didnt know what was missing, but we soon found
out. Our greatest awakening was to a problem that perhaps
should have been obvious: bedtime. It never occurred to us
that after a full day of study and work and play the students
wouldnt want to go to sleep, or that if they did stay awake they
would insist that everyone join them. And we had other problems, sometimes so pressing that the dream began to develop
nightmare qualities.
But we are happy about the rst summers experiences. We
still have our dream. We sense the appreciation of the campers, we are keenly aware of their amazing growth in these
fast-own eight weeks, and we cherish our renewed friendships with Eve [Gentry, the dance teacher], Seymour and the
Harths. We are just beginning to realize that our music camp
is no longer a dream, a nightmare or a vain hope. It is a promising reality.
It was real for twenty-three more years.

It was always a headlong rush to nish the yearbook before everyone left, so that sta and volunteer students would be available to
198
help collate pages of prose and poetry, and so that each one could
take his precious book home. The Columbia Scholastic Press Association at Columbia University judged high school publications
every year. We earned rst-place certicates so many times that we
stopped submitting ours. The copy that I have from the rst year
limited edition reminds me that we had a parade of important visitors that summer: Leonard Bernstein, Henry Cowell, George Kleinsinger, Howard Swanson, Marc Blitzstein, Richard Dyer-Bennet,
and, at our nal concert, the guest of honor was Olga Koussevitsky,
the conductors wife. That annual concert was perhaps the most
important tradition, the culmination of weeks of intensive eort;
the group performed a major choral and orchestral work, usually
at the Stockbridge Congregational Church. In 1952 we performed
Purcells Dido and Aeneas; Mordy sang the Sailors Song. It was
an opportunity for parents, friends, and the local community, to
realize how much can be accomplished by a group of young people
when dedicated teachers work with them. The studentsand even
the stawere surprised at how well they did.
Looking through the early yearbooks, I am appalled at how amateurish they seem today, more than fty years later. Still we tried:
students and sta wrote reports, and some attempted to be funny. I
typed every page, edited every article, and chose every poem every
year. The rst almost professional-looking, actually bound yearbook
was produced in 1955. The students were more creative, and more
poetry was attempted, still adolescent. Later, parents day concerts,
and dance and drama performances were more demanding and
reported by the students.
When articles appeared about Indian Hill, or a journalist interviewed us about the program and students, one of the rst questions asked was What are the children like? Are they all very talented; how do you select them? We tried to answer as objectively
as we could and always added that we never turned any applicant
down. We described the program and the child usually made the
199
right decision for himself. What seems unfortunate to me now, in

2005, is that the articles focused on only a few highly visible achievers: Frank Rich, Julie Taymor, Ruth Laredo, Jake Brackman, and a
few others. But many became accomplished in the careers of their
choice, not always in the arts. In order to write the history of Indian
Hill, it seems imperative to write about those whose activities and
successes we know. Going through the yearbooks, year by year, is
the way I chose to remember so many personal stories, except for
Arlo, who isperhapsthe most notorious of our students. That
warrants a special explanation: Arlo Guthrie and the Garbage
the Real Story.
Arlo came to us because
Mordy knew his mother, Marjorie Mazia; she had worked with
him in the New Jersey Ys. Marjorie had been a dance counselor
at a summer camp in the Adirondacks for several summers,
exchanging her expertise for her
three childrens camping experience. Arlo, Joady, and Nora outThe Guthrie kids, 1962.
grew that kind of activity. Marjorie knew many parents whose children were at IH; and visited
us during the summer of 1959. She oered to exchange her talents
for her three childrens tuition at IH. Nora was only eleven, and we
thought she was too young for the group. But she managed well,
with Marjorie always available for support. I didnt know Marjorie
before her visit; we had no idea how important she would be to us.
W e are tightly connected to hundreds of our students, especially those who were with us during the rst three years. Robert
Kreis was one of the rst-year students who came back for three
more summers, the last one as a member of the sta. He is a pia-
200
nist, conductor and composer who became one of our staunch supporters and remains our close friend. He conducted Camelot and
My Fair Lady on Broadway and directs plays and musicals in a 13th
Street theater, around the corner from our apartment. He surprised
us by studying bassoon after the rst year. He thought we would
never nd a student who played that instrument and wanted to be
sure of a bassoon in our orchestra.
Bob tried very hard to recruit people to IH; one of his successes
was David Behrman, who came in the second year. When parents
asked Mordy for parental references, he smilingly told them that
they might talk to the son of S. N. Behrman (the playwright), the
nephew of Jascha Heifetz (the violinist), and the nephew of Samuel
Chotzino (music critic and consultant to the NBC Symphony).
Then he added, I must tell you that they are one and the same
person: David Behrman. David is now a composer of (mostly) electronic music. His father wrote a wonderful letter to us, dated February 4, 1955:
This is a letter of appreciation to you and the Indian Hill School
for what you have done, in his two seasons with you, for my son,
David. I think the most valuable thing the school does is to allow
a teenager of specialized interests to nd out that there are others like him. The result, for David, was that he had two very
happy summers and made friends whom he sees all through the
winter and who are permanent additions to his life.
From listening to David and his friends talk, I could tell that
the informality of the faculty at Indian Hill was a seven-day
wonder to them. They had never suspected that a faculty could
be informal! Also, they found themselves interested in other
arts through the accident that their friends at the school were
studying them. Altogether I may say that the two seasons at
Indian Hill were certainly, for my boy, what the English call
good value.
very sincerely yours,
S. N. Behrman
201
First brave class, 1952
Our own children, Chuck and Elisabeth, were fteen and thirteen in 1952 when we started Indian Hill. Chuck played cello and
Elisabeth studied dance. We would face a group of teenagers and
their problems, having forgotten our own adolescence, just as our
children were beginning to face their own formative period. In our
inexperience, during our rst summer, we asked a friend to help
sort out episodes that we quickly realized were beyond us.
Dr. Philip Lichtenberg, then in the Department of Psychology
202
at Harvard, lived on the top oor of our Cleveland house while he

studied psychology at Western Reserve. When the expected therapist walked into the main house on a Saturday afternoon, boys and
girls were already lined up, anxious to talk to him. I overheard one
girl whisper, Id like to talk to Phil if I could only think of a problem. Phil was wonderfully understanding.
We organized a student council in those early years, but abandoned it. One of the rst-year sta members, Donald Shapiro, a
pianist from Cleveland who was himself very young, assured us that
kids know best. We were not prepared to accept that. We soon
learned that the students, as a group, were more punitive and moralistic than we were.
Our decision to enroll an integrated group led to some unexpected conicts with parents, but never, interestingly, with the
children. In the rst year we enrolled three black children, all from
the Cleveland Settlement Music School: Frances Cole, Gloria Simpson, and Samuel Ricks. One of the parents that tryout year told
us that she had always thought of herself as a progressive person.
Now she wondered how she could accept her daughters relationship with Sam, which, as it happened, wasnt an intimate one. They
were good friends.
One who stayed for the rst three summers was Ruth (Meckler)
Laredo; she came to us from Detroit. She was only fourteen, but we
knew right away that she would be a professional pianist. One day
in 1954, our violin teacher, Berl Senofsky, and Seymour Lipkin, the
pianist, told her that they would introduce her to the pianist and
pedagogue Rudolph Serkin, at Marlboro, after the summer. Serkin was the right teacher at the right moment in Ruths life. The
upcoming meeting with Serkin created a problem for me. The only
grand piano was Lipkins in the Ives room. I scheduled it carefully,
trying to give each talented pianist a practice period on the concert
piano. Although the interview with Serkin was supposed to be a
secret, all the pianists knew that Ruth had rst call on that piano.
203
I juggled the practice schedule around her all summer, trying to

satisfy everyone. Ruth is perhaps the best-known musician among
our students; she has an international reputation. Her lecture concerts in the Metropolitan Museum series attract a sold-out audience. When we greet her backstage after a concert, she introduces
us to other admirers as my parents. It is very sad to lose a child.
Ruth died suddenly in May 2005.
Another student who was with us for the rst three years was Jerry
Rosen, also from Detroita whiz kid! When Mordy interviewed the
family, twelve-year-old Jerry was sitting on the oor of the living
room reading a music score and giggling. It was a Beethoven Symphony; what was so funny? Jerry is a wonderful violinist; he also
played piano and ute, and studied composition with Henry Cowell
the rst year, and Wallingford Riegger the second. He cheerfully
accompanied anyone who asked him to play the piano for rehearsals or performances; he also tried out Ruth Mecklers French Horn
when she wasnt using it. An encounter Seymour Lipkin never forgot: One summer day as they met on the path to the barn. Jerry
asked Seymour, Would you give me some conducting lessons?
Seymour was very busy, running between piano lessons and conducting at IH and at Tanglewood rehearsals, two miles down the
road. Teaching as many as ten pianists, he played in our faculty
recitals and then for an audience of 15,000 on a Sunday afternoon
at Tanglewood. But he agreed to give Jerry some lessons in conducting. When can we get together? he asked Jerry. Whenever
you nd me free, said the outrageous boy.
His career was a huge success. He became assistant concertmaster in the Boston Symphony Orchestra until, for some reason we
dont understand, Ozawa demoted him. Because of the union contract, he couldnt be red. Jerry had astounding nerve: He re-auditioned behind a screen for the same position and came in second.
I think that a musician with a dierent personality would have left
the BSO; Jerry could have found a leading role in almost any other
204
orchestra. But he stayed in the violin section of the BSO for years in
a roving position and was also keyboard player whenever a piano,
harpsichord or celeste was needed. On those occasions he was paid
a double salary! Because of shoulder problems he abandoned the
violin, temporarily I assume, and appeared as piano soloist in the
Boston area. An astonishing talent!
Those rst-year students will always be dear to us. I think a
dozen of those thirty-six rst-year Indian Hillers earned a graduate degree. Most of them have careers in the arts or related areas.
Philippa Strum, known to us as Flip, is director of the Division of
U.S. Studies at the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars in Washington. Marc Alain Boss, who came to us from France
for only one summer, is a businessman but still pursues his interest
in music, producing concerts of chamber music in the Paris area.
Mordy told Alain, during one of his unexpected visits to New York,
how much he loves French berets. Alain sent him one when he went
back home. Others who returned for two more summers were Harriet Josephs, a pianist, actively teaching in New York, and Morey
Ritt, who has been on the music sta at Queens College, performing, teaching piano, and coaching chamber music. We still hear
from or about others whom we remember and love, among whom
are the rst enrollees, the two from Cleveland who still live there:
Aaron Balono, a scientist; and Zeda Wainer, who designed innovative childrens toys and now promotes her fathers inventions with
her brothera later IHer.
The rst year we established a theme for our major production
was 1953; it was an attempt to engage all departments in one subject. Dorothy Dehner, our rst art teacher, suggested Bruegel; she
supervised a project to paint a backdrop for the dance performance,
and led discussions about the artist and his work.
In our naivet, we never thought about possible problems of
sexual activity among students, whose parents had courageously
deposited them in our care for two months. Perhaps we were in
205
denial, or it simply did not occur to us, but we learned fast. As our
concern grew, we reassured each other that in eight weeks no one
would become obviously pregnant. And it became clearer that most
of the children were too young to engage in more than brief and
limited sexual experimentation. We decided early on that we would
not search under the bushes at night for missing children. Instead,
we instituted bed check by the sta. We hoped that if our summer students knew that the artist-faculty was concerned about
where everyone was at bedtime, they would be encouraged to go to
sleep. Well, they were teenagersthe youngest thirteen, one or two
as old as eighteen.
Both students and sta in the early years established the tone
of the program, helping us make changes and improvements. We
are proud of their accomplishments. The 53 class includes Perryne Anker, who became a cantor. David Behrman and Richard
Teitelbaum are composers whose works are often heard in concerts.
Richard teaches music at Bard College. Richard and David are
famousor infamousfor a prank they remember with some pride.
One morning when Mordy and I drove from our Cherry Hill cottage
to the driveway at IH, we saw a double decker bed set up with occupants in the middle of the front lawn. Closer inspection revealed
that the two boys had moved their entire room outdoors: not only
the beds, but lamps, dresser, waste basket, clothes rackwhatever
they could move. We tried not to laugh, told them to bring the furniture back into the barn, and reported it to the Student Council
disciplinary committee, then in full force. The committee could not
decide what a proper punishment might be, so the problem went to
the entire student body. They decided to keep Richard home from
Tanglewood; why David was not included, Ive no idea.
In 1995 Richard took the pianist Ursula Oppens to see IH, now
Oronoque. Our friends who live in the Ives room apartment gave
them a tour of the building. Richard told them the story of their mischievous behavior, and added, I stayed home and read Madame
206
Bovary. If they had known, I might have been punished then for
reading that book! Not likely!
Miriam Eisenstein who was a utist at IH recently retired from
her role as a lawyer in the Civil Rights Division at the Justice
Department in Washington. Isabelle Ganz has established a reputation singing Sephardic music with her talented group, Alhambra. She teaches in Houston. Andrew Alpern, a fellow IH student in
1953, is a strong supporter of Isabelles career; he is a lawyer who
has written many books about particularly unusual and interesting historical buildings in New York. We follow Carol (Friedman)
Gilligans books about the psychology of young girls growing up in
todays climate.
The 1952, 1953, and 1954 yearbooks were printed on a mimeograph machine; the faded print is almost impossible to read today,
and the pages are clipped together. At rst we referred to Indian
Hill as a Music Workshop, although we oered dance instruction from the outset. In 1953 Mordy decided to add an art department, so IH became a Workshop in the Arts. He asked his friend
Dorothy Dehner to join the sta and develop the department. I was
hesitant. Dorothy had only recently been divorced from the sculptor David Smith; her 25 years with him were stressful, and he was
abusive toward the end. I wondered how stable she was and if she
could relate to our children and the sta. I neednt have worried.
She was a remarkable teacher, and created an important department for the program.
In the rst year of the art department, students added a few simple drawings to the yearbook. Dorothy Dehner and Seymour Lipkin
wrote entertaining satires: Dorothy titled hers, High Renaissance
on Indian Hill. She created characters:
The parents of Mike Angelo, Leo da Vinci, Jonny Bocaccio,
and a pretty little girl from west Rome, Lucretia Borgia (whose
uncle was the Pope), decided to send their children to that
famed camp in the Berkshire hills . . . Mike Angelo and Leo
207
da Vinci were enrolled in the art department, Bocaccio was a

voice student with a talent for telling very funny and slightly
risqu stories. . . .
Seymour wrote about his rst Sunday night faculty recital:

Having always wanted to review my own concert, I eagerly
accepted the opportunity oered by this distinguished newspaper. The program opened with the Schubert Duo, which is
in A Major, with the exception of several notes which came out
in G# minorsomehow. (Neither of the participants was quite
sure why.) It continued with a group of songs by Charles Ives,
sung by Dr. Bauman, including The Housatonic at Stockbridge. (This song when played backwards is called Stockbridge at the Housatonic, and when sung in Russian is known
as Vladivosstockbridge. Be that as it may, it wasnt sung in
Russian.)
There followed a group of solos by your correspondent in
various keys, time-signatures, meters, rhythms, ngerings,
not to speak of expression marks, phrasings, pedaling and
other items. It was rather remarkable that in this group the
performer played both soft and loud. This is unusual.
The highlight of the concert, however, was unquestionably the intermission, during which the most profound and
touching silence occurred on the stage. It was greeted with
sustained enthusiasm by the audience of 12,000 (which overowed the theater, by the way, well into Albany). They reluctantly returned for the Beethoven Sonata played by Mr. Ives
and Mr. George Bauman who surpassed themselves in many
keys. This concert was without any doubt the nest to occur at
Indian Hill in several hours, and it is sincerely to be hoped.
The nal concert of the summer featured an act of Glucks Iphigenia in Aulis, translated by Seymour.
The group in 54 was much larger and included composer David
Ward-Steinman, who teaches in the music department of the California State University in San Diego. Penny Frank was head of the
dance department at the New York High School of Performing Arts
208
and taught at the Alvin Ailey Dance School; she was featured in the
movie Fame. Edie (Jerchower) Jerell danced in the Metropolitan
Opera Ballet; Edward Murray was the conductor of the Cornell College Symphony Orchestra. Bill Dempsey came to us through David
Buttolph, who was teaching at Dillard College in New Orleans. I
look at the group picture: Bill was the only black face, a tall, handsome boy in the back row. He sent his daughter Julianna to us in the
fall of 2002; she graduated from Harvard in anthropology and now
is a singer; not the only IH grandchild we adopted into our lives.
She graduated from the Manhattan School of Music and, in 2004,
sang in the Zurich (Switzerland) Opera. Bill sang Sarastro in The
Magic Flute in Pittsburgh several times; in December 2004 it was
conducted by Sidney Harth, whom Bill knew at IH.
Richard Foodim is well known as the rst classical musician who
earned money playing his violin on the streets of New York. Nancy
Michelman directs a program for young children in the arts in Madison, Wisconsin. Nancy still sings and played a leading role in a
local production of Menottis Amahl and the Night Visitors. David
Reiss is a psychiatrist in Washington, D. C. We were well aware of
his sixteen-year-old insight. He was very critical of one of our music
sta, telling us that he was using the students to bolster his own
ego. It startled us, but it didnt take us long to agree with him!
Bill Rhein, until his untimely death, was rst bassist in the Boston Symphony Orchestra. He taught Chuck how to nger the bass
keyboard, which led to Chucks career in Jazz. Linda Schreiber
retired as teacher of French and Italian and frequently calls us. We
meet Bill Schwartz, a business man, at Ruth Laredos Metropolitan
concerts; we refer to those events as mini-IH reunions.
Linda and Dr. Ted Kaufman were enormously helpful in the early
years, taking on many and varied roles. They brought Harold Aks
into our lives, another inuential musician who trained the chorus beyond their own expectations. Linda was my rst assistant and
started a diary, trying to keep track of daily crises.
209
In 54 we enjoyed the rst of many regular visiting lectures by

Rossell Hope Robbins, the famed medieval literature scholar, and
his wife Helen Ann, one of the inuential teachers at James Monroe
High School. They visited us every summer for many years. That
summer also found Cornelia Rogers, the widow of Mordys voice
teacher, coming to see what we had created. She introduced us to
neighbors of her generationand thats another, later story.
Elisabeth wrote a charming verse: Twas the night after camp:
Twas the night after camp and through Indian Hill
Not a creature was stirring, not a Jack nor a Jill.
Weve scrubbed and weve cleaned, and packed with care
All the clothing and junk our campers left there.
I was nestled all snug in my bed,
While visions of campers danced in my head.
Mom was exhausted, Chuck and Mordy worn out,
I was just lonely, not a friend was about.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to my window I ew in fast ight
Threw up the shade and looked into the night
Then what to my wondering eyes did appear
But a ghostly mirage of my campmates so dear.
In a small yellow bus so lively and fast,
I knew right away they had come back at last!
More rapid than angels down the staircase I came
And I whistled and shouted and called them by names.
Hey Nicky, ah Leah! Hi Zeda and Perry!
Say Billy and Bobby! Ruthie and Jerry!
To the doorway, the porch, down the steps I ew!
When all of a sudden they were gone
Where? I knew. It was only a dream, and here, as I said,
I am nestled so snug in my own little bed.
The students and sta in the early years established the tone of
the program, helping us make changes and improvements. There
210
isnt one child who was with us those rst three years whose face I
cannot conjure up. That doesnt seem true about students in later
years; perhaps there were too many to focus on.
But we had problems, and as I remember some of them my heart
sinks. The Austen Riggs Psychiatric Hospital was helpful during
several crises. During one of those early summers, a young conductor came to me highly upset. He couldnt convince two boys to
stand next to each other during chorus rehearsal and nally called
them together to nd out why. One said, I wont stand next to him;
he makes me masturbate him every night! The other didnt deny
it. The shocked teacher asked us to call a sta meeting to decide
how to deal with this abnormal problem. We were not as naive
as our conductor, but certainly inexperienced in this area. It was a
problem I didnt want to share with Joe Kruger; he was too proper
and conservative to be comfortable advising us in a sexual matter.
In the middle of the sta meeting, I said I would call a psychiatrist
at Riggs. I knew the telephone operator at the foundation, so I had
no compunction about calling for help. I told her we had a problem
with a couple of adolescent boys, and asked her if she could recommend someone on the sta who might be willing to advise me. The
operator said, Erik Erikson is a sta psychologist; he works with
teenagers, hell know what you should do. And she connected me
with a Mr. Erikson.
We knew a few doctors on the sta and I felt at ease; but I had
no idea who Erik Erikson was. Erik, I said, We dont know what
to do about this sort of problem. The sta is in a state of shock and
wants us to call the parents. The rst thing to do, he advised
me, is to get over your shock. This is a perfectly normal activity.
Forget about it. Dont call the parents; ignore it, and nothing terrible will happen to either boy or to your sta. I calmed everyone
down, including myself, and soon after found out who Erik was.
We met him and his wife frequently in town and local town meetings and festivities; I was comfortable knowing that I had an advo-
211
cate down the hill. Erik became very fond of Chuck; they developed
a brief but close relationship.
Mordy and I wrote a Gilbert & Sullivan parody. We stood up
together at the annual nal banquet and sang it, thinking we would
amuse the gang we loved so much. We thought it was funny. The
children did not laugh.
Banquet Ballad (to be sung to the tune of Ive got a little list):
As someday it may happen that a victim must be found,
Weve got a little list, a very special list,
Of Indian Hill oenders who might well be underground
And who never would be missed, who never would be missed.
Theres the youthful adolescent who never makes his bed,
He drags it to the rafters and sleeps up there instead;
The guy who misses breakfast cause he didnt hear the bell,
Hed miss the call from Gabriel and roast to death in hell,
And all who interrupt and on prerogatives insist,
Theyd none of them be missed, theyd none of them be missed.
chorus : Theyd none of them be missed, theyd none of them be

missed!
Theres the very sloppy waiter who will grab the plate from you
So you dont have time to chew, Im glad his shift is through.
Those out-of-tune musicians, not one but quite a few,
Our instrumentalists, none of youd be missed.
And the pianists who must always practice on the Steinway
grand,
If we let them make the schedule things would all be out of hand;
The dancers who are tired but who stay up late at night,
The artists who have trouble keeping all their pigments bright,
And those who stu the plumbing cause they think were capitalists,
I dont think theyll be missed, Im sure theyll not be missed.
chorus : Theyd none of them be missed..

Theres the innocent invader, who is always on the prowl,
The pantry humorist, weve got them on the list.
And when theyre caught with evidence they set up such a howl,
212
Theyll none of them be missed, theyll none of them be missed.
And the couples who on going to the ruins are inclined,
And the ones who nd that riding in the bus is not rened,
The lobby decorators who need special privilege,
They have to sit outside the hall or else theyll be on edge.
But it really doesnt matter whom we put upon the list,
For theyd none of them be missed, theyd none of them be missed.
chorus : Theyd none of them be missed . . .

Theres the curfew violator whos always found outside,
Hes waiting to be kissed, shes waiting to be kissed.
They never would be missed, they never would be missed.
Theres the character who praises every teacher he has had,
And takes all summer long to nd that we are not so bad,
And the student from the provinces who really doesnt try
To live with other people and to be a real good guy,
That singular anomaly, the individualist,
I dont think hell be missed, Im sure hell not be missed.
Weve got them on the list, weve got them on the list,
Theyd none of them be missed, theyd none of them be missed!
The 55 class was the rst group of more than 100 students; many
were outstanding. That year we arranged for a professionally silkscreened cover for the yearbook, with a classy name: Perspectives.
However, I can still hardly read my copy of the mimeographed text.
This was the rst yearbook with a serious attempt at art illustration
and some poetry, and it was the last printed program my father provided for us. We still see some of those alumni: Samuel Rhodes has
been the violist in the Juilliard Quartet for more years than I can
count. He remains in our minds as the child who scrambled wildly
up and down Bash Bish Falls and nally slid down, luckily unhurt;
he is the reason we never went there again. Jon Mayer has had a
career as a jazz musician; he remains close to Chuck. He started a
Jazz Trio at Indian Hill, perhaps inuencing Chuck. In March 2005
Chuck, Jon, and their old friend Arnie Wise went to Barcelona to
perform together at the Terrasso Jazz Festival. Henry Shapiro was
213
a ne pianist, and has been teaching at the New School for many
years. Miguel Conde has, I think, achieved most among IH art students. He moved to Spain and won many prizes there, but now he
lives and exhibits in the United States. Chuck cherishes his wonderful portrait of a conductor, based on Harold Aks.
Julian Ferholt is a child psychiatrist in New Haven. Ann Froman, also a well-known artist, stays in touch with us. (She is on the
board of PAL, the Police Athletic League, where our friend Bette
Craig works in the development oce.) Louise Lasser, who starred
in Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, rst studied drama at IH. We
remember her as a comedienne long before the TV series. (Perhaps
a few readers remember the program that was so popular.)
An interview we still talk about involved Steve Sewall, who came
to our apartment with his parents. Mrs. Sewall was uncertain about
sending Steve to IH. She asked him, Do you really want to spend
the summer with a bunch of geniuses? Steves answer delighted
us, Id rather be with a bunch of geniuses than a bunch of dopes!
Steve, a Chicago area educator and writer, has a master of arts in
teaching (Yale 66). His father, Richard B. Sewall, taught English
tragedy at Yale and was the founding master of Ezra Stiles College.
His book on Emily Dickinson is considered the denitive biography
of the poet.
Sheldon Rosen, Jerrys brother, became a doctor and lives in
Seattle. He surprised me by writing recently how well he remembers
Mordys singing. That was the rst year Helen and Sara Samuels
came to IH. Their parents had been Mordys friends since the thirties. Irving and Jean were strong supporters for many years, recommending many students to us. Sara established a nursery school,
and Helen was the rst archivist at M.I.T.
Harold Aks was our conductor for several summers; his enthusiasm made music lovers out of artists, drama students, and dancers.
Also our sports director and bus driver extraordinaire, he wrote a
description of his unexpected role:
214
As the 55 season of Indian Hill draws to a close, I think that
some comments and observations from your bus driver are in
order. First let me congratulate you all on a successful summer
of bus riding. To think that we lost only three students is truly
remarkable for a whole season.
Now that you are all going home, the story can be told. OUR
BUS HAS NO MOTOR. It is run by three ex-students who
couldnt bear being away from Indian Hill. They are lashed to
the spot where the motor used to be, under the hood. They run
a small treadmill with monastic devotion. The reason none of
you have seen them is that they are allowed out only after curfew or when some part of them indignantly breaks out to show
that still they live. If you recall Bob Wasserman frantically
opening the hood and pouring water into what seemed like
a radiator, it was actually being poured into the outstretched
glasses of the three ex-students who could go no further without some kind of liquid nourishment.
We have estimated the cost of feeding the treadmill 3, and
compared it to the cost of buying a motor and gas. Next year
were buying a motor..I could go on and on, but the editor is
glaring at me from her lofty perch. So I will end with two wellknown sayings:
1. Old buses never die. They just rust away.
2. Its been a bumpy summer.
We used a picture of the bus, each of our four children looking

out of a window, as a New Years card that summer.
At the traditional nal banquet in 1955, Eddie Schwartz, a student who entertained us with his wit all summer, stood at the head
of his table as we said our good-byes and called out Goodnight
Nina Feinberg, wherever you are. Nina had outgrown our program, and we had no idea where the reference came from; we could
only guess what it meant. But the refrain was repeated at the end of
every banquet for many summers, no one having a clue by then who
Nina was or wherever she had been. And where was she? Talking
and talking half the night away.
215
The 56 yearbook featured a homemade silk screened cover, Song

of Ourselves. It was our Walt Whitman year. We had a dicult time
in August: My father had a heart attack and died two weeks later.
We were going back and forth to New York, my brothers commuted
from California. We dedicated the yearbook to my father.
I think that 56 was the rst time the poetry became less personal, more serious. Carol Burtin, who became a television personality in Toronto, wrote about Germany after the war.
The Door
A large door, leading to nowhere
The last remnants of a once stately residence
Now vanished from the earth
In a pile of bricks.
No future has this door,
Only a past.
A past of what?
Can it be that history was made here?
. . . that events occurred here that inamed the whole world?
Or is it just a replica of mans work
And of the past;
Of wars and death;
Of peace and life;
I shall always wonder.
Mordy wrote a note to the students in the yearbook:

Parents, and students, friends and relatives, all ask us the
same question at the end of every summer, Arent you glad
its over? This is one of those questions that cant be answered
Yes or No. The responsibility of caring for the physical
needs of such a group of young people weighs very heavily
on our shoulders, and it is this concern that we are happy to
relinquish. But to stop creating so suddenly leaves us with an
empty feeling that lingers for a long time after youve gone.
The 1957 group was outstanding. We always referred to them
216
as the fteen-year-old Ph.D.s. It still seems to me that it was the

brightest group we ever had. It was Jake Brackmans rst year of
several as a student; later he returned as a member of the sta. His
lms Days of Heaven and King of Marvin Gardens have become
classics. He met Carly Simon when she volunteered to be on our
sta and wrote dozens of her lyricsto great success, need I add.
Mordy always said that he never turned an applicant down; the student usually made the appropriate decision. One boy who shouldnt
have come to IH was subjected to hypnosis by a few of those fteen-year-old Ph.D.s. I noticed a small group with Bobby under the
big elm tree on the front lawn, and wondered what was going on. It
was an unusual crowd but looked harmless, so I didnt go over to see
what they were doing. Later that evening, Ella Lerner, a friend who
was acting as house mother, came to me very upset.
Bobby wont, or cant, wake up. The boys tell me he can hypnotize himself and put himself to sleep. Its dangerous and I think we
have to take him to the doctor. Another call to the Austen Riggs
Center; Erik was no longer there and the doctor I spoke to said,
Just send him home. Mordy asked those bright intellectuals what
they thought they were doing.
Bobby is sick in the head, the ring leader announced. We
decided that if he would talk under hypnosis for half an hour, we
could solve all his problems! We were shaken by that boys arrogance. We had to send Bobby home.
Another episode I remember with no pleasure we referred to as
the Ten Days of Kleeman, which is not her name; lets call her
Judy. Judys parents wanted their daughter to benet from our program; she didnt want to come but they convincedmaybe forced
her. It happened that she was one of several overprivileged girls
who came that summer from that wealthy suburb of New York,
Great Neck, Long Island. They made an unhappy clique, changing
their cashmere sweater sets several times a day. After ten days they
all went home, the rebellion organized by Kleeman. We promised
217
ourselves we would never accept a child from Great Neck again.

Eventually we did, with no similar problem.
Rick Fanning, the Charles Ives Scholarship winner that summer,
has come back to our lives in a circular way, hardly unusual for us,
but this one has particular meaning to me. One night in 2002, the
phone rang and a voice said, This is Rick Fanning; Im calling you
from Vienna. Rick! I had been wondering where he was and what
he was doing, and had sent a letter or two to him at Indiana University because Elisabeth told me she had seen his name on a program.
But the letters were returned.
Rick told us that when he came to IH from Dayton, Ohio, he had
never even heard the word opera. He has lived in Vienna for many
years, was pianist for Herbert von Karajan for ten years in Salzburg,
and worked with Lorin Maazel when he conducted operas in Berlin.
Now he is an opera coach at the Vienna University for Music and
the Performing Arts. I remember him, and he remembers us and
Indian Hill as though it were yesterday. He sent his memories of us,
emailed on November 29, 2002:
[when] . . . I arrived at Indian Hill . . . I found an . . . institution dedicated to excellence. Founded and directed by an . . .
incredible couple, and a social atmosphere which was refreshingly dierent from southwestern Ohio. Meeting Irma Bauman was unforgettable. Although the word awesome had not
yet come to full bloom in English colloquial usage, it certainly
applied to Irma. I have had an aversion all my life to women
who chopped o their hair, and I can still see Irmas long,
golden braids and her smile as she wafted through the house
and grounds, looking like a renaissance painting, dispersing
motherly love, but at the same time looking completely in control of everything. I think she struck fear into the hearts of
some of the boys, because she squelched their hopes of getting away with certain kinds of mischief which they might have
wanted to get into. I myself do not recall every hearing a sharp
word from Irma, although I had the feeling that if the situation
218
warranted it, she could express herself in a way that would
make a sailor blush: (lyrics by A. J. Lerner). An angelic, otherworldly vision, a Rapunzel radiating intense sexual energy
and great strength.
Mordy was quite dierent. Completely human, as opposed
to angelic, both feet on the ground, what the Germans call
a tausendsassa, an unusually versatile man, who made you
his friend ten seconds after starting to talk to you. Maybe you
didnt always know what Irma was thinking behind her MonaLisa smile, but Mordy was completely scrutable, a joy to work
with, and possessed that skill without which Indian Hill would
have been unmanageablerecognizing what is important
and what not. How did he do it all? Hiring and ring sta,
planning and coordinating lessons and concerts, keeping a
clean kitchen, safety precautions, organizing all the wonderful
excursions to Marlboro, Jacobs Pillow and Tanglewood. Somehow I remember him as singing the lead role in Trial by Jury
and conducting the performance at the same time. Theoretically this is not possible, but he may have done it anyway.
Rick came to visit us during in July 2003, just in time to go with

us to hear Heiner Goebbels EislerMaterial at the Lincoln Center
Summer Festival. It was Ricks introduction to Eisler and our introduction to Goebbels, one of the most important German composers
of our time. As we listened excitedly, recognizing Eislers Childrens Hymn, repeated eight times, I tried to memorize the words
in German. Excerpts follow:
Amnut Sparet nicht noch Mhe,
Leidenschaft nicht noch Verstand.
Dass ein gutes Deutschland blhe
Wie ein andres gutes Land.
Und weil wir dies Land Verbessern,
Lieben und beschirmen wirs,
Und das Liebste mags uns scheinen,
So wie andern Vlkern ihrs.
219
Grace spare not and spare not labor

Passion nor intelligence
That a decent German nation
Flourish as do other lands.
And because well make it better
Let us guard and love our home
Love it as our dearest country
As the others do their own.
As I listened to the repetition (eight times!), I thought of Woody

and his inspired This Land is Your Land, wondering if he knew
Eislers hymn.
Rick and I now have a regular email correspondence. We must
both enjoy it; hardly a week goes by without catching up on current
activities, shared problems and even some solutions.
Chuck and Elisabeth were still with us in 57. The 1958 yearbook is the rst time we became aware that the children called us
The Mordirm. I turned it around and use irmord as my e-mail
name.
Elina Mooney, a lovely dancer, wrote about us:
Because the directors of Indian Hill work as one, and we think
of them collectively, the phrase Mordirm has evolved. The
Mordirm is a two-part animal somewhat similar to Dr. Dolittles
Pushmepullyou. The Pushmepullyou was a unique two-headed
animal, one part of which ate while the other part slept. The
Mordirm, however, is a busier and more productive creature
than its fellow bi-caput. It not only eats and sleeps, but it also
makes sure that we doon time.
The Mordirm has divided some of its duties between itself.
One half gives us singing lessons, and appreciates New Points
of View. The other half mothers us, makes us wear our shoes,
and annually has birthdays with delicious cakes. Together, acting as the single animal that it really is, the Mordirms most
wonderful deeds often go unappreciated by the throngs of
Indian Hillers surrounding it, but here are some of the accomplishments noticed by this reporter:
220
The Mordirm, in spite of the apparent diculties of communication between such an animal and the student body, has
remained a warm, sympathetic and very approachable companion throughout the summer. It has kept us interested in and
amused by many pleasant activities besides providing excellent
facilities for learning. We are very grateful to the Mordirm for
allowing us to invade its natural habitat, and we will always
remember The Mordirms Little Acre, and the people and
occupations that we found there.
The yearbook name was Chronicles, and the Bible was the theme
of the summer. Paul Aelder, father of one of the students, wrote
a long article about the program, which appeared in Dance Magazine (April 1959). It was illustrated with three photographs of the
dancers in action and the article ended with Pauls comment, The
Bible, the dance, and the allied arts had combined to produce more
mature, better-rounded young people.
In 1958, we invited a Stockbridge Indian to join us: Larry Davids,
though somewhat out of his element, managed very well. He
brought some percussion instruments with him and joined in all
the activities. His parents and siblings visited during Parents Day
Weekend. They were still part of the Stockbridge Indian tribe, now
living in Wisconsin. Nellie Rogers visited us again and arranged
for us to nally meet our neighbor, Mabel Choate, who had been so
antagonistic to us, especially anxious about our extravagant use of
Rattlesnake Hill water, our shared resource.
Georey Hellman became a professor at Indiana University, in
mathematics and philosophy. Eden Lipson is on the sta of The New
York Times. Steve Lubinwho was very fond of Elina Mooney, as I
rememberis a well-known pianist, one of the earliest New Yorkers
to perform on the fortepiano, used in Mozarts time. In a New York
Times review (October 2004), Steve was praised for his rich and
creamy tone. He has made his career with the fortepiano.
We see Lenny Hindell in the bassoon section of the New York
221
Philharmonic; he is also visible when Marc produces Live from

Lincoln Center programs on PBS/TV. In January 2004, Marc
invited me to a rehearsal with Thomas Quastho, the remarkable
bass-baritone, singing Mozart concert arias with the Philharmonic.
Backstage briey, waiting for Marc to show me the way to the auditorium, I had a lovely moment encountering Lenny and Jerome
Ashby (whom I heard warming up his French horn as I waited).
They are the two IHers in that orchestra.
The 58 yearbook is notable because it is the rst one that I dared
print on both sides of the page. Lucille Blanch, our art teacher that
summer, involved her students in the yearbook. That meant taking
the typed mimeograph master to the art studio so that the artists
could work on appropriate illustrative comments about the article
or poem. I particularly liked, and still remember, Susan Levins
Meditation, illustrated by a pencil drawing of a young boy lying
under a tree lining one side of the page:
The brook busily bubbles,
The spring softly sings,
What am I in this world?
One small, unimportant thing.
But yet to be considered
What this world might be
If there werent a lot of
unimportant things around like me!!
The 59 yearbook seems to emphasize folk music. It was Ralph

Freundlichs second year teaching guitar, and that instrument
became ubiquitous on our grounds. Marjorie Guthrie visited us and
decided she would join our sta the following year, bringing her
three children with her. The sixties generation inuenced our program, as it did many institutions in that period. A few years later,
there were so many guitars under the beds in the main house and
under the bunks in the tepees that Marjorie suggested we group the
players under the elm on the main lawn, holding their instruments
222
76 Guitars
and sitting on the low branches for an unusual photo: I called it the
76 guitars, although I never was able to hold them still enough to
make an accurate count.
Pete Seeger was a strong inuence on our students; they sang his
songs on the bus, certain that at least one guitar would accompany
them. The theme of the summer was America, featuring works by
American composers as well as evenings of folk dancing. Pete visited; it was not the rst time he came to see us but the rst time
many of the children had seen him perform. One wrote, Meeting
him was like shaking hands with an old pal.
We were beginning to enroll siblings: Mordys nephews and
nieces joined us, children of well-known parents found a summer
home at IH, and we fooled ourselves into assuming that it would be
easier every summer to nd children interested in a serious and disciplined program in the art of their choice. It was Jane Brigadiers
second summer of ve with us; she was the subject of a full-page
appreciation by another student. This was the rst yearbook that
223
featured a calendar of activities, attractively illustrated.

One day in February 2004, Larry Simon, who had played trumpet in our orchestra in 1960, came to see us. It was an extraordinary
period: Almost every week a former student showed up again in our
lives, some on email and some visiting in our apartment. Its touching as well as rewarding. Larry asked if we knew the whereabouts
of half the names on the 1960 list. We dont, but wish we did. I am
certain that many achieved careers they would be proud to tell us
about. Larry, for instance, directs a program at Brandeis, a master
of science degree in international health policy and management.
Funded mainly by the Ford Foundation and private endowments,
about 120 students work on international development policies.
How did Larry get into this? A long and interesting story tells on
the IH web site.
Nineteen sixty was Marjorie Guthries rst summer with us;
her three children started in our program, continuing for several
years. Doon Arbus was in the Horror Room. One girl came to
me, frightened that she had to live in a horror room. Are there
ghosts? I didnt think to change the name: it was an old reference
to the awful wallpaper, long since removedenormous red roses
on a black background, justifying the name. It was really a horrible background to a lovely gable room. Of course we immediately
changed the name. It didnt worry Doon, however, whose mother,
Diane Arbus, was already an important photographer; many of her
subjects were terrifying, even horrifying.
Mimi Baez, Joans sister, was also in that room; she enchanted
all the boys. One was so frustrated by her disinterest in him that he
ran away! He was brought back by the State Police, who found him
hitchhiking on the parkway. His mother handled the situation so
expertly that we went to her for advice and help in other episodes.
There were two foreigners with us in 1960, the rst since Alain
Boss came from France in 1952: Eva Goldberger from Venezuela
and Reiko (later Yumi) Seki from Japan. Through Ezra Schabass
224
interest, we began to nd students in Toronto, and Jackie Israel

came through Ezra from Montreal. She is now a psychologist and
lives on 12th street, a few doors from our apartment; we see her
frequently.
Eugene Rosov established a music camp, using his IH experience and memories. Susan Pogash sent us poems from Chicago,
about IH and her dance teacher, Marjorie. She put us in contact
with her sister, Carol, who lives in California and is a correspondent
for The New York Times. Mordy remembers his interview with their
parentsvery worried parents!
Susans poetic memory of IH:
Indian Hill
Te Deum Laudamus
chime the voices in the Ives Room
after breakfast when
rooms are clean and beds made
the ruckus of kids who would later become poets,
painters, writers, dancers,
actors and musicians
gathering each morning
to begin the learning in song,
under the nurturing eye of
Mordy and Irma,
artists and creators of
the performing arts summer workshop
nights lled with plays,
ballets, and concerts
a solo dance
to Sandburgs
the fog comes on little cat feet
a dance interlude
in A Midsummer Nights Dream
and someones bustle falls

the handsome boy tiptoeing late at night
into the room of the beautiful girl
with creamy dark-skin, ebony eyes, and long silky hair
lively bus trips to Jacobs Ladder,
Williamstown Theatre,
Tanglewood
Always, visits from
talented friends:
Pete Seeger and The Weavers
serenading to We Shall Overcome
Goodnight, Irene and The Lion Sleeps Tonight
An unknown Joan
alighting from a hearse
on her way to Carnegie Hall,
her untrained voice perfection
a local painter
posing us for a group shot
to choose faces
(Jonathan and Anita, the lucky ones)
for his next cover of
The Saturday Evening Post
teeming with life
My Dance Teacher
Fire followed her everywhere
Martha Grahams lead dancer
who taught our ve-year-old
bodies contractions backs arched
like cats, then suddenly
straight, sitting on our
haunches till our chins traced
An arc to the oor
225
226
Marjorie Mazia,
(even her name was beautiful)
applauded us always
her thick black hair brushing
pale, freckled shoulders
and told mother of a
stormy life
with a dicult husband
who was sick, drank
too much and often
wouldnt come home till
one day he was
gone forever
Very sad, my mother would say,
Shes really got it tough
but Marjorie was always
there dancing
every Monday and
Thursday left her
Coney Island home and children
(Nora, Arlo and Joady)
to make the two hour
trip by train through New York City
and Newark, to South Orange
greeting tiny
leotarded girls
eager to become
swans
Years later when I was
old enough to
understand
I learned that Marjories
227
husband had a progressive

disease called Huntingtons
Disease (that the children could inherit)
And that his name was
Woody Guthrie
Nineteen sixty was Paul Breslins rst summer of many with us.
He teaches poetry at Northwestern University and wrote a critical
study of Derek Walcotts poetry. His poem starts this chapter. His
mother is a very old friend of Mordys. He remembers, she denies,
that during one of his Green Mansions summers he noticed Nettie
somehow at the bottom of the lake. He was sitting on the dock, he
insists, saw her down below, and dragged her out of the water by her
hair. Whatever the reality, its a friendship that continues to today.
She later sent her daughter Joanna to IH.
Paul wrote an article in the 1960 yearbook about folk singers who
visited frequently. Paul, Marc Sullivan and Arlo formed a trio that
Mordy dubbed The Beavers. The name stuck.
During the summer several well known folk performers visited
Indian Hill, each one in his or her style. The rst to visit was
Odetta. . . . [She was on her honeymoon and spent a couple
of nights in our house.] Joan Baez was next and she gave a
one-hour performance. She sang songs ranging from Twelve
Gates to the City to the morbidly humorous Lets Have a
Bloody Good Cry. She has a beautiful voice and a haunting
style.
On the twenty-fth of July, we were visited by Sonny Terry
and Brownie McGhee. These two blues singers transformed
their music into a true expression of themselves, as did Leadbelly, Bill Broonzy, Blind Lemon Jeerson and Blind Willie
Johnson. One of the blues they sang for us was written by them
about their own troubles.
Then, not long ago as I write, the WeaversLee Hays, Fred
Hellerman, Ronnie Gilbert and Erik Darling [replacing Pete
228
Pete Seeger at Indian Hill.
Seeger temporarily] came. They performed for us on Parents

Day, along with our own Beavers, joking that it was sort of a
contest. But if it was, the Weavers won it on a TKO in the rst
round. They are perhaps the best-known folk song group, and
they had a fantastically wide repertoire.
The last time I saw the Weavers was from the balcony of a
sold-out Chicago concert hall, and I never would have dreamed.
. . . well, its something to tell people, even if they dont believe
me! All in all, Id say we had some very distinguished company
at Indian Hill this summer.
The 1961 yearbook was called An Indian Hill Sampler. Paul Breslin was the editor-in-chief. That yearbook began annual awards
from the Columbia Journalism School. The artwork illustrated
almost every page, poetry was more mature, and the articles were
more carefully considered. Mordy wrote a foreword:
Friends ask how we do it. Sometimes we answer that we do
it with mirrors, and sometimes we say, We use whips. But
the truth is even more simple. Our success with talented teenagers is based on three fundamentals, and you know how easy
they are to achieve: nd a devoted sta, willing to give of itself
to children with varied talent; two, nd one hundred boys and
229
The Weavers at Indian Hill.
girls who want to spend a summer deriving pleasure from work

in the arts; and three, choose a program to satisfy all participants and observers.
Alan Stern, who came to IH from Chicago in 61 and 62 described

the scene:
A large estate
Somehow lovely
Somehow grotesque
A village of hexagonal pyramids
And a wooden caterpillar stretching in the sun.
An old carriage house
With a small peninsula
Of culture and coee
A funny little house
With a Japanese lantern
Crouched on a terrace
And an air of excitement
A musical buzz that seems
to be always there
and the people
all types all sizes
a friendship and a unityIndian Hill
230
Robert Leicester joined our sta in 1961, and we oered academic courses: English literature, French, and mathematics, We
did not give formal credit, but the students certainly used their
experience to improve school work when they began the fall semester. We included short ction pieces in the yearbook every summer
after 1961, and even a page or more of musical compositions.
I think this was the rst year we printed every program of the
summer, both student and faculty recitals. The drama department
put on the rst two acts of Our Town. What we remember best is
Nora Guthrie weeping, I always cry at funerals, Arlo on the ladder
as George . . . beautiful Barbara Rudnick as Emilyand of course,
our son Josh as the drunken Simon Stimson wandering through the
town.
It was never my favorite play, but it haunted us: Our granddaughter Danielle was a lovely Emily in her nal performance at the Performing Arts High School in New York. When our son Marc produced it for Showtime on TV with Paul Newman as the Stage Manager, it reminded us of our production because he was so dierent
from Arlo.
My oldest friend, James Kunen, sent four of his ve children to
us. We remain closest to Andrea (Angie), and she keeps us informed
about the other four. She lives near Washington and works in real
estate, mainly helping foreigners nd appropriate places to live.
Judy Mazia, Marjorie Guthries niece, came from Berkeley, California, and tells me frequently that she had a wonderful summer.
Both Marjorie and I were under the impression that she was miserablehow wrong we can be! Judy is now a lawyer in San Francisco,
working mainly in estate planning. She and Selma Meyerowitz,
who moved to San Francisco, have remained close. I am aware that
many IHers are still good friends. Little by little, they let me know
who they are.
This was the rst summer when we began to nd students from
Chicago, Washington, Pennsylvania, California, and other cities
231
beyond New York or Cleveland. The Morgensterns older son Daniel reached adolescence, played ute very well, and spent his rst
of many summers at IH. Later he played ute in the Jerusalem
Symphony; even later he produced wonderful chamber concerts in
Cleveland. When we were in Chicago, we called Dan Polsby, and he
came to our hotel for a long chat. Greg Prestopinos father was an
artist whose work Mordy promoted. Greg commutes between Los
Angeles and New York, singing folk music and enjoying his wifes
movie career. I read the list of names in the yearbook, and I remember most of them, but I have little news of their current activities.
In 1962 Paul Breslin was editor-in-chief again, and his eort
made an enormous dierence in the quality of the yearbook. His
editorial still touches us:
When I rst came to Indian Hill, I was not yet fourteen. I am
now almost sixteen. Between these ages one changes a great
deal. But I am surprised as I look back over these thirty-six
months to see how much of my growing up has been done in
my six months at Indian Hill.
At the beginning . . . my raison detre was playing the guitar all day and talking to as few people as possible. It was here
at Indian Hill that I became aware that other types of music
besides folk music could sound good. My real awakening to
classical music was yet to come, but it was a beginning. Also,
that rst year I began to get along better with other people, as
I had to live with them and work with them.
The second year brought some real awakening for me still.
It was then that I took up a real interest in serious music. A
friendship with a literary-minded fellow stimulated my already
present interest in writing, and out of that summer came my
rst three poems..with these last three [summers] at IH I
associate ideas and people, which will always be an integral
part of my life.
This was Marlin Merrills third of fteen summers he would

spend with us. We counted on him for so much. His devotion to
232
us and loyalty to the program added more than we imagined when

Mordy asked him to join us. Marlin once wondered aloud:
Where else do students of high school age . . . have the opportunity to study and prepare an opera by Vaughan-Williams,
such as The Shepherds of the Delectable Mountain, or to present Le Divin du Village (The Village Soothsayer) by the famous
philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau, a work which is not to be
found in a usable printed edition; where could they work out
the musical intricacies of a modern chamber opera like Barabs
A Game of Chance in ve weeks?
Don Quixote was the theme of the summer. Our friend Arthur
Zeiger, professor at City College in New York, visited and lectured
about Cervantes. We took the group to Stratford in Connecticut to
see Henry IV; Rossell Robbins, who lectured to our students annually for many summers, prepared us to see the play.
Two beloved recreation sta members that summer who encouraged the baseball team and aspiring tennis players were Bill Nadel
and Kit Porter, both of whom became psychiatrists. They inspired a
chess tournament. among all sorts of other innovative activities.
I remember many of the students who were with us during the
frantic sixties. Eric Eisner is still a close friend of Nora Guthries.
He lives in Los Angeles and is a lawyer in the movie business. My
friend Shirley Fuchs son Frank spent several summers with us. He
is also in L.A., where he is an active musician, working with Nora
on her many projects. Shirley was Marjories assistant during winters and became mine in summers. I loved her, and am still grateful
to her for all she did. She died so long ago, but we talk about her
often, remembering her wry remark about our gang: Same stories, dierent names. Not quite accurate; it was her eort to calm
me when I was perturbed by adolescent mischief. Joanne Feit came
back to be on our sta; it didnt always work well when we hired former students as sta, but Joanne was one successful decision.
Steve Gerber is a busy composer in New York. He keeps us
233
informed when his works are played and sends us CDs. On March 8,
2004, I had an e-mail from Steve in time to hear two new compositions on the radio and hear Steve talk about them. And on January
3, 2005 he sent another about a performance in New York of his
Sonata for Flute, Cello and Piano. Reminds me how frequently we
hear from our children. (And often, just as I am thinking or writing about them.) Steve came to us because Mordy knew his father
when he was a guest during Green Mansions summers. I cant
count the relationships that lasted from 1937, when Mordy started
to direct the entertainment program at that summer hotel in the
Adirondacks.
Marion Klein is another successa student turned counselor for
us. She also lives in L.A. and calls us when she is in New York. She
was a ne cellist, now a physical therapist. John Parks was a dancer
whose name we saw frequently in modern dance programs in New
York. Lois Shapiro teaches piano at the New England Conservatory,
and Carl Topilow conducts an orchestra in Cleveland. Many of our
music students continued in active public careers. The Weissbrod
sisters, Amy and Ellen, brought many friends from Washington to
our program. Amy Eisen was the rst of three Eisen sisters who
spent many summers with us. Their mother wondered if they were
the only three siblings who were a loving part of our lives: they
probably are. After Amy came Elisabeth and Claudia. Amy is a lawyer; she worked for many years in the National Archives. Elisabeth
is a banker in New York, and Claudia lives in Chicago, where her
husband is a playwright.
Frank Rich and Harry Stein began to add much to our program
and lives that summer and two more. Another student who joined
our sta for several summers is Jake Brackman. He fascinated us;
and I remember Jake telling me that I over-used that word: Everything fascinates you, Irma. He wanted me to use another word
once in a while. But I was and still am fascinated by so much that
happens around us; for instance, how our lives are connected with
234
so many people. Marjorie used to say that if we dont know them

and she doesnt know them and Harold Leventhal doesnt know
them, they dont exist . . . . Our former students come back into
our orbit and tell us how much IHand westill inuence their
lives: thats truly fascinating as well as rewarding. A young man
meets a young woman, they marry. Years later, as they try to nd a
summer program for their teenage children, one talks about trying
to nd an existing Indian Hill kind of placeand they discover that
they both went to IH during dierent summers!
Lynn Warhoftig, IH 63 and 64 as a student, 68 and 69 as a
sta member, reminds me of a story I had forgotten: When Lynn
came to see Mordy about working at IH in 1968, he introduced her
to a young man who had just applied for a position with us. Lynn
was immediately attracted to him and called an IH friend to report
how interested she was in this stranger. Lynn couldnt remember
his funny name. How funny is it? She is Warhoftig, not so simple;
he is Richard Kutner, easy to pronounce and remember. Lynn may
have been so suddenly smitten that his name escaped her. Lo and
behold, Mordy hired both of them; they met again in the summer,
eventually married, and have two wonderful sons. Lynn teaches
cooking at the New School and was responsible for nding a chef
who has been our bi-weekly cook for a couple of years. These episodes continue to fascinate me.
I am certain that Jake titled the 1963 yearbook Improvisations.
Jake and Michael Tracy wrote an introduction, explaining improvisations as a description of the program at IH. An excerpt:
In past summers our unifying theme for production weekend
served as our yearbook theme as well. This year we braved
both production and yearbook without the formal guidelines
of a theme. Our title, IMPROVISATIONS, implies the greatest
possible freedom and diversity in whatever eld of expression
one chooses.
This, we feel, should be the purpose of a successful yearbook.
235
No boundaries other than those of taste and sense should be

imposed upon the contributors, so that our nished product
will be a true reection of the individuals contribution to, and
prot from, the summer.
Does our cover bother you? The columns of blocks on the
left threaten to topple and decimate our namesake cover on
the right. Still, at the instant Alix has frozen this particular
improvisation, the blocks are in exciting albeit precarious balance. We may not speak with assurance of the instant to follow, for, in an instant, the whole conguration may be radically redened.
We do not, of course, play with blocks and columns at Indian
Hill. Yet an improvisation, as a vital tool in each of the four
major arts (and in our daily relations with one another), duplicates the inventiveness and excitement of Alixs blocks. We
seem, at times, like so many skillful jugglersall our Indian
blocks dazzlingly aloft and ying, for that matter, surprisingly high. We almost fear that the whole act will come crashing down about our heads. Yet because an Indian Hiller is not
hemmed in by unyielding structures in the pursuit of his chosen art, he often seems to reach down inside himself and produce a piece of work which transcends even his own ostensible
limitations. And those clubs, bless them, are sent gloriously
ever-soaring. . . .
An improvisation, then, is an inventionoriginal, yet not
without discipline; extemporaneous, yet not without structure.
We do not hallow every eort with the benediction creative.
But we do consider ourselves capable of producing valid, even
valuable work . . . we feel that the yearbook should be a vehicle for some of this uninhibited expression. In this way each
Indian Hiller will have a reminder of his summers activities
and will be able to determine for himself what Indian Hill has
meant to him.
Illustrations, under Don Fabricants guidance, continued to

improve every summer. One page reminds me of rest hour. That
was a sacrosanct quiet period, rarely disturbed by quiet guitar picking, but no piano practice allowed. I breathed a sigh and tried to
236
catch up on oce work; Mordy often held faculty conferences on

the lawn.
Ezra Schabas, former principal of the conservatory at the University of Toronto, joined the sta that summer, bringing three of
his sons. One of his sons, Bill, became a lawyer and human rights
activist. At this writing he is director of the Irish Center for Human
Rights at the National University of Ireland in Galway. Bill has written almost a dozen books, most arguing against the death penalty.
Dick was chief medical ocer of Ontario; now he heads a hospital
in Toronto. Bills brother Michael suered at IH from being teased
because he was small for his age. He insisted on being in a room
of boys in his school level. He went on to own railroads in London
(odd role for one of our kids) but has now sold them and is o to
another career. Big achievers, all of Ezra and Anns ve children.
We went to Tanglewood more than once every summer. For many
of the students, it was the rst time they listened to classical music.
For the 63 summer, Sara Fishko and Derek Herforth wrote about
dierent concerts. Sara criticized Charles Munchs performance of
Bachs Six Brandenburg Concertos:
Munch, making one of his rare appearances since his retirement from the Boston Symphony last year, entered to a standing and highly enthusiastic crowd. I cannot help thinking that
many were let down in the rst half of the program. Many mistakes were made in the rst concerto, and in every case the
ritards were long, heavy and overdone. It is amazing how the
concert improved in the second half. Munch conducted
with the energy and freshness that he began with. If not for
this improvement I would have been sorely disappointed, but
it proved to be enough to make the concert a worthwhile experience.
Derek thought that Benjamin Brittens War Requiem was a

rewarding musical experience. Both of them went on to work in
music careers. We have heard Sara talk about music on radio station WQXR for years.
237
Irene and Howard Meltzer were with us for ve summers. I talk

to Irene occasionally; she is in charge of sales at the Lincoln Center Film Festival. Marc told her about the opening of that position at Lincoln Center; Irene applied and has been there for some
time. Howard teaches music, now at Baruch College in New York. I
remember so many of the 1963 students, possibly because so many
came for more than one summer. Joanna Breslin followed Paul to
IH; she became one of the earliest female sommeliers, and now
owns a ne restaurant in San Francisco. Fred Cohen is a full-time
oboist in Massachusetts, teaching and performing in local orchestras. Betsy Feldman is another former student who joined our dance
faculty, working with Marjorie. She has been teaching dance in New
Jersey ever since IH.
Maxine Orris surprised us by studying medicine in Cuba, and is
now a doctor practicing in New York. When Marjorie and I traveled
to fteen cities in the United States in 1980, we discovered Randi
Ross in the governors oce, but I dont know where she went from
there. Jon Scharer started the entertaining theater program Forbidden Broadway. John Freedson, (IH 70 through 74), bought
the show from Jon, but he didnt know the IH connection until I
told him about it. Bruce Taub, composer and bassoonist, lives a few
blocks from us and comes to visit. He is a composer and is active in
various music projects.
It was probably Jake who also entitled the 1964 yearbook Through
the I. The silk-screened cover is a colorful abstract painting of an
eye. Jake, then at Harvard, wrote a foreword.
Through the I means through the self. I never worry about
too little I at IH. Not that Indian Hill fails to breed altruism
or devotion to the community. (Frequently I have observed, for
example, a quintet of industrious boys hauling rocks about the
groundsa seless contribution to the beauty of our camp.)
Its just that adolescence is a time of natural and voluminous
exploration of the I. We dont have to push to get you busy
238
in that activity. The eye (our title, you see, is a clever little
pun) stands as a symbol for all the senses and through them,
for the arts we study. We hope your work as artists has led you
to a deeper discovery of your selves.
Boys and girls striving to prepare a concerto or nish a painting or choreograph a dance or understand a poem worry less
about their complexions, being popyiluh, and whom they
can get to sit next to them on the Stratford bus. Worry less I
said. Thats still a good healthy lot.
We dont view the arts as a distraction, you understand, but
as a direction. Wed not dream of denying you your personal
tribulations, your joys, your entanglements. We simply want
to give you more. And, really, thats all those famous Mordywords (Program, Experience, Positive, etc.) are getting at.
Open the Eye. Enrich the I. Perceive through both at once
and your world will glitter. We all feel compassion for the man
whose life is without creativity or appreciation of art. And
nothing is as saddening as the artist who is impoverished as a
person. Your friendships with the sta have shown you that an
artist need not be a nut or a neurotic. Let the ne artist who
doubles as a ne person be your inspiration. Cherish your creativity. But enshrine your humanity.
Each section of this book plays a little dierently on the pun
of Eye and I. Our senses, our art, oer at once the discovery and the transcendence of our selves. Let this be the triumph of our summer.
As I look through this yearbook, it seems to have reached a high

point of that activity. Tucked into my copy is a certicate of merit
from Columbia. Jake was the faculty advisor, and I know he had an
enormous inuence on the writing. Poetry lled many pages. Louis
Untermeyer, my mentor who encouraged me to write, visited that
summer. One of the dancers interviewed him about writing and
poetry. In answer he wrote (or perhaps gave me) a poem, Portrait
of a Poet. Remembering his mood of that time, I think it could
have been titled, Portrait of a Disappointed Poet.
239
First he sings of erce and poignant ames;

Passion that bids a timid world be bold,
And love that rides the tempest uncontrolled,
Scorning all customs with a greater claim.
Yet, underneath the ink, his soul is staid,
Calm, even calculating, shrewd and cold.
His pain lives but in print; his tears are rolled
And packed in small, neat lyrics for the trade.
He hawks his passions of assorted brands,
Romantic toys and tinsels of desire,
Marionettes that plead as he commands,
Rockets that sputter feebly, and expire.
And he is pleased and proud, and warms his hands
At the pale reworks he takes for re.
Zeke Berman is the son of one of Mordys oldest friends. We had

no idea what he would do in the real world. We are now amazed
by Zekes photography; he is an original, and exhibits in many
museums including the Metropolitan. Paul Brancato is princiapl
second violinist of the San Francisco Symphony. We see him when
the symphony comes to New York. My nieces, Ramah and Karen
Commanday, came from California that year. Ramah was in the art
department for more summers, and eventually joined our sta.
The famous, or perhaps infamous, Timothy Leary sent his daughter Susan to study in our dance department. She was a slightly
chubby, Irish minx; we loved her. Its likely that Richard Alpert, the
son of my aunts best friend, suggested IH for Learys daughter. He
renamed himself Baba Ram Dass; thats how he became well known
in the sixties.
One day Timothy came to visit Susan, followed by a gaggle of
beautiful dames. It was an impressive entourage. Susan and her
Horror Room roommates were under restriction because they
had walked into town without permission. Accustomed to progressive upbringing, they could not understand what pressure we were
under by town folk. They didnt want our students wandering in the
240
stores; they didnt want or need their patronage. The girls ran to
Timothy to complain about the punishment. He sat them down
and lectured about obeying our rules; what we remember best was
his admonition to them to appreciate the fact that we cared what
happened to them. You wont experience this often in your lives,
he told them. They calmed down. Susan came to a sad end; when I
think of her, I feel like crying.
In retrospect, 1965 seems to have been another banner year with
another wonderful group of hard-working, charming children.
About twenty of them are still in touch with us. Erik Lundborg is
probably the one who calls most frequently when he is in New York.
He works in California, and recently composed the music for the
computer game devised from the lm Matrix.
When I heard from Beth (formerly Betsy) Neustadt, who now
lives in London, she asked me if I knew anything about Erik. I certainly did; whats more I knew he was going to visit his daughter
who studies at Oxford, so I gave him Beths telephone number. They
happily met for lunch and talked over old times. Beth is working as
a management consultant in businesses in London. She mediates
problems among management, sta, and workers. Her father was
Richard Neustadt, Harvard professor of history, close friend and
adviser to President Kennedy. After his wife died, he married Shirley Wilson, a member of the House of Lords, whom we have seen on
TV attacking Tony Blair. Good for her! A close IH friend of Beths
was Jane Amler. Naturally when Jane came back into our lives, I
gave her Beths address. They met on Cape Cod one summer; my
networking works, giving pleasure to me as well as to the friends
who renew old IH aection. Jane is a writer and also teaches writing
and literature at Manhattan and other colleges. She has published
several books, the most recent, Haym Salomon: Patriot Banker of
the American Revolution. She has been very helpful to me, editing
some of my work.
Another one we loved is Richard Lehfeldt. He played the role of
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Scott in a lm Jake wrote for us, about an unhappy camper who ran
away because of a love that was not returned. It was a real Indian
Hill experience we tried to recreate in a movie. Andrew Bergman,
who went on to write many lms (the rst was Blazing Saddles,
written with Mel Brooks), played the part of a counselor who sympathized with a young boy. A copy of the lm is in the Stockbridge
Library; Andrew told the archivist he really doesnt want anyone to
see it. But I think it has a lot of charm.
Jakes scenes between the boy and the counselor, Jerry, are
delightful. Jerry has taken the job at IH in order to study intelligent
children for his masters degree thesis. In a teasing way he asks
Scott, Who wrote Faust?
Scott answers, Which Faust? Jerry then says that the testers
dont provide a place for questions to test takers. Scott remembers
that Gounod wrote the opera Faust. Then he tries, Christopher
Marlowe wrote Dr. Faustus!
Jerry teases again, using a Nazi storm trooper accent, hinting,
Yah, but he vass not o ze fazzerlant, mein vunderkind.
Oh, says Scott. You mean Gothe, mispronouncing Goethe,
and Jerry corrects his pronunciation. Scott says, I never heard anyone say it!
Jakes script was charming and sensitive; he produced movies
that became cult lms. Nothing ever came of our eort to make a
lm at IH; we didnt really try to follow it through because we had
no way of raising money to fund a lm. But it did encourage us,
eventually, to start a lm program.
The 65 yearbook was called Roots. Im not sure what inspired it,
but it may have been the rst successful crop from our enormous
vegetable garden. Lotte Jacobi insisted that we use the meadow
behind our house so that we could feed our hungry community
healthy organic food. We served salad twice a day, corn, tomatoes,
broccoli. Across the road we had bought a house with a 100-foot
greenhouse, where we started tomato plants in the early spring.
242
Mordy wrote his annual editorial, this time signing it Farmer

Bauman.
During the eight weeks at Indian Hill I think of myself as
planting seeds, and the variety of growth there is even more
exciting than my vegetable garden. Every farmer knows that
not all plantings prove to be fertile. Sometimes a seed planted
in one spring, for a strange reason, remains dormant to blossom in a later season. Not all growths are equal. It is this variety in nature that fascinates the farm worker. In the same
way, dierent personal characteristics intrigue the people
worker....
This year we feel that we have planted an especially good
crop. We look forward with assurance and patient anticipation
to seeing the seeds we planted take root and come to fruition.
Andy Bergman, as faculty adviser to the yearbook, wrote what he

called A Marginal Introductory Comment. An excerpt:
The Hill has a kind of careful uidity, expressed in the graceful
ux which is constantly apparent. The dance oor is a chorus
rehearsal room is a symphony hall is a discotheque is a physical tness area. This is accomplished by the moving of a chair
here, a music stand there, and a slight change (perhaps) in
personnel. It all happens easily, but not eortlessly.
We nd an informal consistency in the course of days. The
groups that clump about the main house at one, six and seven
oclock are gaily spontaneous, yet as regular as the sunrise.
The discussions, with the same inevitability, sound alternately
as academic as a conclave of Oxford dons and as giddy and
unleashed as a third grade class on the last day of school.
There is a lack of pretensions at the Hill, which comes as an
unutterable blessing to anyone who has witnessed people talking about, deep-freezing and enshrining Art and Beauty, yet
never confronting it. Nothing less is attempted at Indian Hill
than an eight-week exercise in the perception and expression
of that which is beautiful and excellent, and no one ever pretends that this can be accomplished by anything but endlessly
243
applied discipline. If not everyone comes out of Indian Hill

an artist, surely most come out with a realization of what the
requirements of art are, and this may be equally important.
David Aks, son of our former conductor Harold Aks, and grandson of the prolic composer Wallingford Riegger, spent his rst
summer with us as cellist in the orchestra in 1965. Later we invited
him to conduct and teach as a member of the sta. He is now on the
faculty of the University of California in Northeld. One of our big
stars is Richard Colton. He spent many summers under the extraordinary inuence of Jimmy Waring, and became a principal dancer
with Twyla Tharps company. With his wife, he has his own company and teaches in Concord, Massachusetts.
Van Cliburn was at Tanglewood during the summer of 1965 and
walked past Indian Hill every day on his way from Heaton Hall, the
decrepit hotel on our road, which was soon to be demolished. He
was intrigued by the sight of children practicing on the lawn. Marc
was sitting near the road at the edge of the lawn he had mowed dozens of times, studying the Hebrew part for his upcoming fall bar
mitzvah. Cliburn was puzzed by Marcs
concentration on a book. He leaned over
and read a few phrases in Hebrew. Obviously he had performed many times in
Israel.
Ive been wondering what Indian
Hill is, he said to Marc. Tell me about
it. Marc indicated that there were some
talented piano students practicing and
invited him to visit. Cliburn took him
up on the oer and walked into the Ives
Room, where Pamela Lipshultz was working on a Beethoven sonata. Cliburn congratulated her, making her day!
Later, Marc ran into my oce, holding
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the prayer book like a treasure. I didnt know Van Cliburn was Jewish, he said proudly.
Judy Collins sent her charming brother Denver to us; much later
her son Clark. Denver works in lm and TV in Nashville. Valerie
Girard is an opera singer, her career active mainly in Europeat
this writing, in Munich. Mary Kaplan teaches piano in Princeton,
acts in the local community theaters, and is working on scripts for
movie and theatrical productions.
Closest to us from that summer is David Lasker, even though
he lives in Toronto. He studied bass with Chuck and now plays in
Canadian symphony orchestras. He is an editor for various Canadian publications, and visits us regularly when he comes home to
his parents in Connecticut. Betty Comden sent her lovely daughter, Susanna Kyle, to us that summer; Josh was entranced by her
exciting personality . . . how we remember that! Erich Leinsdorfs
daughter Jenny was part of that years group. Carolyn Fabricant
keeps us in touch with Jay Peterzell, who has had a high position
with Disney World and at Radio City.
Ccile Gross began her rst of many summers in charge of our
kitchen and dining room. One of the youngest girls under her supervision was Valerie Pitt. She was so naughty that Ccile announced
that if Valerie came back the following year sheCcilecertainly
would not! Chuck told me once that he would not like to be judged
by any eight-week period in his life. His concern inuenced our
severe judgment, and we did allow Valerie to return the following
year. We did not anticipate that she would spend a total of ve summers with us, winning Cciles heart as well as ours. She was a violinist at IH, became a lawyer, and has a busy career in Florida. Who
would have guessed that?
It can be said that I picked up our chef de cuisine. When I was
working at the Armed Services Editions during the war (WWII), I
noticed a man staring at me every lunchtime in the crowded elevator. Eventually, of course, we smiled, and eventually said hello,
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and nally met for lunches. He was Gordon Gross, known to his
family as Gad, a fascinating, eccentric man. He was divorced,
allowed only occasional weekends with his sons. I wrote to Mordy
about him, He speaks only in hyperbole, I said. One day after
Mordy came home from the army, we bumped into Gordon on a
Fifth Avenue bus. He looked seedy, dreadfully thin; he was out of
work. We saw him infrequently, but we were moved by his misfortune and depression.
It wasnt too long, however, when he called to tell us that he was
remarried and wanted us to meet his wife. He was attracted to a
young woman in a Greenwich Village restaurant; a year after they
met, they were married. She is Ccile de Segovia, from an old, wellestablished Provence family. When we met Ccile, I said to Mordy,
If she can live with this crazy man she must be made of steel. Lets
ask her to handle the dining room and food at Indian Hill. Shes
French, she can do it! Ccile did the job for seven years; we even
allowed her to bring her baby boy to live in a small cabin built especially for her, although we were very concerned about his survival
in our teenage atmosphere. Louis-Daniel did very well, indeed, and
we felt fortunate to have Cciles input and interest in feeding our
gang and controlling our kitchen.
Ccile had a second child, ValerieI say she was almost born in
my lap at IH. Did Ccile name her Valerie remembering Valerie
Pitts great success story? Gordon died before Valerie was born;
among his papers she found his valuable comment: An editor must
have an innocent eye. I loved to tell her our favorite food story
of the summers: the children complaining about Cciles menu:
What broccoli sou again for lunch?! Ah, those blas, sophisticated teenagers!
Ccile was also a ne photographer. She knows kitchens need
a window, even if it isnt real. A large poster from her photo of a
window in Chevallet, her family Domaine in Haute Provence, now
hangs in our windowless New York kitchen.
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Helen Kent was with us for two summers, 1963 and 1964, and her
sister Jane followed her for the next two. Helen wrote us recently
that she has had a thirty-year career in dance, mainly with the Murray Louis Dance Company. She taught dance and performed in
Montclair, New Jersey, for fteen of those years and is now writing
a book. Jane is a print maker who studied at the Philadelphia College of Art. She invited us to an opening at a gallery familiar to us,
Hirschl and Adler, one happy day in 1999. She was working with
the distinguished novelist Richard Ford; their latest work together
is scheduled for publication in May 2006. Jane is now a professor
at the University of Vermont, teaching print making. Those girls
meant a lot to us.
I nd it dicult to explain what John Posner meant to us. He
remains in our hearts as one of the most remarkable of our kids.
He is the only one I know who earned 800 in both English and math
SATs. (When we saw him in April 2004, he said the 1600 score is a
myth! But then, who told me that if it wasnt true?) He created the
tradition of waking the boys every morning, playing reveille on his
trumpet. He joined our sta: I dont remember what he didnt do for
us! An expert in computer software, he has done remarkably wellI
am not surprised. I look at the list of 125 students that summer and
realize that I can see the faces of almost all of them. Obviously it
was an exceptional group. (I wonder if there ever was one unexceptional group!) And they continue to come back into our orbit. In
the summer of 2004, Carolyn Seley found the Indian Hill web site
and immediately wrote us to ask about others she rememberssuch
fun for me as I write her about our memories, joining hers.
John was editor of the 1966 yearbook, titled Collage. Another
Columbia Scholastic Press Association certicate of merit is tucked
into my copy. In his editorial, John wrote:
. . . We are a gathering of many individuals, a collage of personalities and interests. The search for an artistic ideal is our
common goal, binding us into a closely knit society. . . . Indian
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Hill makes possible the discovery of ambitions and talents

within ourselves which will enable us to bring to this world the
very best we have to oer. We have been given the opportunity
to experience the arts as an integral part of our lives.
When Marjorie decided she couldnt spend summers with us any

longer, she recommended James Waring to teach dance. We knew
nothing about him, and at rst we were startled by his personality
and interests. He was so dierent from anyone we had ever known. I
said that he stretched our aesthetic. He talked in astrological terms;
as a Leo, he told me that I was a lion outside, a pussy cat inside.
That changed my perception of myself! He read the I Ching; he
planned happenings; he sat outside the oce door sewing costumes, embroidering gorgeous accessories that the children proudly
wore. Its interesting to note that among all our talented sta those
two dancers, Marjorie and Jimmy, had the most profound inuence
on our students. They were more than dancers and choreographers;
their interest in and involvement with each person led to personal
relationships that lasted through the winters and years after Indian
Hill. Deborah Jowett, well-known dance critic, wrote about Jimmy
at Indian Hill for the New York weekly The Village Voice on September 11, 1969, and again on August 27, 1970. In an article about
a dance concert at the Judson Church in New York in The New York
Times on September 4th Don McDonogh wrote, James Waring
makes [Indian Hill] one of the most interestingly directed camps
in the [Berkshire] area. Katharine Cunningham, a local Berkshire
dance critic, understood and appreciated Jimmys special quality.
She spent more time watching his classes and listening to him than
we were ever able to. Jimmy had a small apartment on Avenue A,
the very eastern part of the Lower East Side where he lived a spartan existence. I joked that we fed him enough during the summer
to last him through the winter, but occasionally I would insist that
he come and have lunch with us in our apartment. He did have a
group of close friends, but most of them were artists who had about
248
as much money as he. One who did rather better than others was
Kermit Love, who designed the Big Bird for Sesame Street. I imagine that Kermit the Frog was named after Love.
We came to respect Jimmys brand of humor and creativity; we
were especially grateful for his warm response to all our students,
not only the dancers. Anyone who sat at Jimmys dining room table
fell under his spell. There was no way that a cult or clique could
form; everyone wanted to be with Jimmy. Matthew Nash and Richard Colton were two of the dancers who carried on his style, Matthew with his own company and Richard dancing with Twyla Tharp
and later his own company. Our IH talented dancers joined Merce
Cunningham and other avant garde groups.
In the 1965 yearbook Betsy Neustadt wrote about Jimmys happenings:
One of the most unusual evening activities of the summer took
place on a Monday night at the theater. It was actually a Lecture Demonstration, organized . . . by Jimmy Waring, but it
has since been more generally referred to as The Happening. I went to Jimmy for an interview, and discovered, on later
looking over the notes I had taken, that in a very Jimmyish
fashion he had managed to dictate to me all the facts about
the performance, but had refrained from making any personal
comments. My notes looked pretty much like this:
WhoJames Waring, John Herbert MacDowell, Deborah Lee
(these improvised with no restrictions other than those presented by the stage itself) and a cast of thousands, made up of
both sta and campers (these were assigned certain actions
to perform, including, for example, a group of campers who
played in a grass orchestra.)
WhatLecture Demonstration No. 6
WhereAt the theater
WhyTo Lecture and Demonstrate
How -- By use of such techniques as Illumination, Illustration,
Edication and Explanation.
Jimmy Waring as guru.
After I had reread my notes ve or six times I felt completely

lost. After all, they didnt appear to give me much to go on... So
I put Lecture Demonstration No. 6 to the back of my mind,
and tried to avoid thinking about it as much as possible. However, it suddenly occurred to me that there wasnt, after all,
that much to think about. The Lecture Demonstration was
simply something that happenedit was just a Happening.
Of course certain things that were done could be interpreted
as having deep inner meanings, or as being extremely satiricalbut the fact is that what went on, on stage, was all improvised, and any analyzing was left completely up to the audience. The audience reaction was amazing. Some were bored
because they said nothing happened. Some were terried
because they didnt understand what it all means. One of
the actors felt that the whole thing was meaningless, and in
explaining, said that he was in it and hadnt even enjoyed it... I
should have asked him if he had enjoyed himself.
As for myself, I found the Happening very funny and
249
250
havent laughed so much in a long time. Of course I was in the
grass orchestra, and this happened for six minutes.
Perhaps the Happening was really just a reversed situation on a more common form of entertainment, such as a play.
Perhaps it was the people in the audience who were really
entertaining. Perhaps that is what was really happening.
Jimmy Waring astonished me again and again with his whimsical, yet serious thoughts. He wrote in Nature Dances:
The smile of a rey, the frown of a cloud. Put your hand on a
birch tree. Eat a red poison berry. Listen to gravel underfoot.
All the leaves move dierently. Have you heard the swimming
pool at night? Disturbing and strange. Watch moths ying in
and out of colored light: red moths are suddenly purple moths,
or blue ones. Suppose all the trees on the lawn were able to
jump? And at the same time.
As ugly as a oweras beautiful as a mud fence. Each blade
of grass on the front lawn is dierent. Is it important? Where
are the birds going? How do they decide? Watch a robin watching you. What is the quality of his attention? It is the time
of the Perseids, the showers of meteors we pass through in
August.
Are you missing them? There is one every minute. Can you
enjoy everything? Can everything enjoy you? It is a beautiful
day, rainy and gloomy. The trees are patient.
I realize that those students must have cherished the yearbook

as a souvenir of that class for a long time. It includes wonderful
drawings, again supervised by Don Fabricant, printed for the rst
time on heavier paper so we could add photographs: Jimmy and his
dancers; John with his yearbook committee conferring on the lawn;
Josh with his guitar; a page of performance pictures; Judy Collins,
comfortably at home among her admirers. The poetry indicates the
anti-Vietnam feeling pervasive among thinking young people in the
sixties. Judy Greenspan asked, Small Questions:
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Is there really someone above,

Beyond the stars, beyond the sky,
Someone to protect and defend us,
Someone to trust and depend on?
Is he really worth praying to,
Is he worth the singing and soul-saving?
Oh, he wrote the Ten Commandments,
And brought us the promised land,
And opened the river for Moses.
But where was he during World War II,
Where was he when six million Jews were butchered,
Where was he when Negroes were beaten in the south,
Where was he when Truman dropped the bomb on Hiroshima,
Where is he, now that we are killing people in Viet Nam?
Out to lunch?
Paul Breslin, now on our sta, taught poetry and introduced our
guest, Lewis Kruglick, editor of the literary magazine Eclipse; Paul
read six poems, ranging from the topical and satirical to the personal and emotional. His King David dees category:
The people prayed for Saul to die
And David wept Gilboa dry.
The people drank, the battle won,
When David mourned for Absalom.
Tonight King Davids blind and dead;
Theyll bury him in scarlet red.
The women put their sackcloth on
And wait in heat for Solomon.
I look at the list of students, and again recognize names and

remember faces. Andrea Borak, a dancer who teaches at Berkshire
Community College, moved to Pittseld, joining quite a few former
IHers who stayed in the area, in love with the scenery and the community. (Her daughter, Antonia, is studying with Mike Krawitz at
252
the Berkshire Community College; Mike is tickled to be teaching

the child of someone he knew at the Hill!)
My niece, Channa, followed her sisters, Ramah and Karen, wanting to be part of the IH experience. Ramah stayed on to start our
Lotte Jacobi-inuenced-bread-baking routine. We did not expect
her to make bagels, but she did and that became a Sunday morning specialty. Once in a while Mordy went to Pittseld and brought
smoked salmon back for those who didnt skip voluntary breakfast.
Karen married a Frenchman and moved to Paris. Channa, who had
a turbulent childhood, changed her life and became a triage nurse,
teaching that dicult profession to nurses around the world. She
happened to be visiting friends in a Nairobi Hospital when the U.S.
embassy was bombed. She took over triage decisions, was featured
in news reports, and was asked by Federal prosecutors to testify at
the New York trial of the terrorists. That gave us the opportunity of
visiting with her and her doctor husband. Channa still lives in Nairobi, and has a house in the wilds, but we never managed to make
that trip.
A very important person to us is Jason Buzas, who was in our
drama program for two summers. Jasons involvement with IH came
about in an unusual fashion. His father owned the minor league ball
team in Pittseld. One summer (1966), he didnt know what to do
with his son, who wasnt terribly interested in baseball, or in selling
popcorn and hot dogs at night games. Jason read an article about
IH in the Berkshire Eagle, and immediately told his father that he
had to come to Indian Hill and study drama. He was also a student
at the Lenox School and knew our boys, who had told him about
Indian Hill. Always involved in theater, he developed close rapport
with our long-time drama teacher, Don Emerson, and then studied
at Carnegie Tech. We see traces of Don Emersons humor in Jasons
work, but I dont think Jason or other drama students quite understood how Don guided them to creative work in theater. He was
such a calm, quiet person that his inuence for fteen summers was
almost imperceptible.
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During the summer of 1992 we introduced Jason to Vincent

Dowling, who directs a summer theater in Chester, Massachusetts,
the town next to our Huntington retreat. Vincent engaged Jason
to direct our friend Ken Tigar in a one-man play in the summer of
1993. This recent contact renewed our friendship with Jason. We
sometimes go to theater together.
David Ivess six one-act comedies, under the title All in the Timing, were an o-Broadway hita palpable hit! And thats how
Mary Kaplan found Jason. They hadnt met in twelve years. I asked
Jason if Mary is still so beautiful; I remember her very well. Yes,
he said. She looks like Debra Winger and is studying acting at the
HB Studio. She lives in Princeton, New Jersey, and also teaches
piano at home.
Dennis James, who also studied bass with Chuck, recently visited
us when Chuck was in town. He has been in symphony orchestras,
continuing his career in jazz as well. Fred Small had a ne career
as a folk singer and thensomewhat to our surprisehe became a
minister, heading a congregation in Massachusetts.
Steve Harris, son of my close Stockbridge friend, Malvina Harris, wrote a prose poem that surprises me today. It is introspective;
I remember quiet Steve.
In the Light of a Creative Sun
Vexed by my own reection, I smashed the mirror of my vanity and played upon the soiled knee of humbleness, uncertainly
stumbling in and out of attentions attractive traps.
Through the fertile, opportune forest of life I wandered,
ourishing and growing in the eyes of my fellow sojourners,
until I became taller than the largest of pines and stronger
than the sturdiest of oaks, as I stood secure and sound deep in
the center of the grove.
As I stood tall in my forest kingdom I was suddenly attacked
by the rest of fearsome self-pride, and a desire burned within
me to return to the humble seeds of my beginning . . . but too
late now.
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I could do nothing but grow or decay and, thus, in perplexing fear and dependence, I continued to grow, bearing the
remorseful fruit upon my boughs as it gleamed and shone
brightly in the light of a creative sun.
Lisa Schwarzbaum was a violist and pianist in her early years at

IH; then she joined the sta and accompanied Jimmy Waring, and
they became close friends. Her career led to movie criticism. She is
on the editorial sta of Entertainment Weekly; we often see her on
television. Excerpts of her reviews constantly appear in advertisements for lms. She has written extensively about IH, to our great
amazement and pleasure.
Shelley Carleton Seccombe had taken a year o as my assistant, but returned for a sixth summer. She has become a serious
photographer. Pictures she took in 1970, when she moved into
Westbeth (facing the West Side Highway), came to the attention
of the Friends of Hudson River Park, who have since sponsored a
year-long exhibition of them at South Street Seport Museum. She
is one of my close supporters. Mike Krawitz joined us for his second of seven summers on the sta; he taught music and conducted
a jazz group every summer. Some summers he joined the drama
sta, and in 1971 he brought his soon-to-be-wife Josie Abady to IH.
Although Josie was only with us one summer, she remained part of
our extended family until she died. A remarkable theater director
and producer, she left her mark on many students and even inuenced our inuence on our talented granddaughter Danielle. We
thought Dani should go to the Professional Childrens School, but
Josie said, Let her have her childhoodgood advice to which we
listened. Dani occasionally went to talk to Josie, who guided her
as she excelled in the drama program in the Performing Arts High
School and continued in college.
John Goberman is the son of Max Goberman, a close friend and
colleague of Mordys who had conducted his solo performances at the
Ballet Theater. One summer John joined us to conduct the orches-
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tra and chorus. Life is funny; the circles of relationships always fascinate me (pace Jake). John created the television program Live
from Lincoln Center. When it became really real, he hired our Marc
as producerhis current title: Coordinating Producer. Im only
worried that Marc will be bored, he told us, as we only produce
six or seven programs a year. That led to the arrangement freeing
Marc to produce TV programs on a freelance basis. He has earned
ve Emmys (I am writing in 2004) and was named Producer of the
Year for television in 2003.
The 1967 yearbook was named simply Indian Hill 67. I remember the period was one of self-doubt, angeror at the very least,
concernabout the Vietnam war. Jimmy suggested that they name
the yearbook Maybe, or The Maybe; I remember the controversy.
As the publisher, the role I assumed from the beginning, I didnt
approve of what seemed to me to be a negative title. John Posner
was the editor again, and he wrote an editorial titled, An Unhesitating Maybe.
The world which confronts us is too often a bipolar one. The
answers to our questions must be yes or nono middle
ground is permitted to exist. The reply Maybe is disdained
as a stall, a cowardice, a cop-out. . . . The concept of a positive
uncertainty is very much a part of our lives, especially here at
Indian Hill. So many of the questions that we campers ask ourselves can be honestly answered only with maybe; will I have
a good summer? . . . Am I an artist?
We argued long and loud! Since I was in charge of course, I

won. I wonder now why I felt so strongly about it. Perhaps I didnt
understand the mood of the moment. In any case, the yearbook was
as successful as those before it: wonderful drawings, more photographs, inserts of woodcuts by several art students, more interesting poetry. The result of a long questionnaire circulated by Faye
Levine, one of our more avant garde sta members, enlivens the
book. Carly Simons visit extended to the entire eight-week sum-
256
mer to the excitement of the gang. Her career was just starting, but
the kids knew very well who she was. She organized a small rock
group called The Jug Band.
It was the rst summer that my nephew David Commanday joined
us to play cello in the orchestra; he went on to a successful career as
a conductor. Julie Taymors success in theater, lm, and even opera
direction is so well known that I dont need to say another word
about her. She married an Indian Hill composer, Elliot Goldenthal.
They werent with us during the same summer, but found each other
and have worked and lived together remarkably well. Julie designed
a production of The Magic Flute for the Metropolitan Opera. We
were invited to a dress rehearsal, a small audience of about two hundred friends. We felt privileged, continuing our attendance at many
of her productions. Elliot and Julie recently produced an engaging
opera based on John Irvings GrendelI enjoyed it greatly.
Robert Edelstein started our lm department in 1967, an important and nal addition to the program. Some of those students went
on to Hollywood: Barry Strugatz directed Married to the Mob, and
David Wise, whose father pushed us into starting IH (Why dont
you start your own school!) works in Hollywood. Elliot Gamsons
business was called Immaculate Matching. When we produced a lm
about Bach, he immaculately matched the negative to lm, later to
be transferred to video. It was a great pleasure to work with him.
There are probably other IHers making lms I dont know about.
Seven of the lm students produced short but complete lms.
Bob Edelstein made a 45-minute lm featuring a dozen boys and
girls titled, The Boys and Their Girls. Lester Cole, our old friend
who survived the Hollywood Blacklist, visited us and discussed the
work of the lm students, encouraging and exciting them.
In 1968 John Posner was faculty adviser for the yearbook, which
was not given a name: again, just Indian Hill 1968. Our old Cleveland
friend, Kalman Kubinyi, moved to Stockbridge and was available to
teach art. Kalman was a dear man; his son Laszlo was a student
257
Kalman Kubinyi and students in the art studio.
with us in the early years and remains a close friend. He painted a

beautiful map of Bachs stations, the cities and towns where he
studied, lived, and worked. It appears in our TV program about
Bach; each site in Bachs life is drawn meticulously. The camera is
focused on the drawing, then the picture dissolves into the actual
church or important building. Laszlo inherited Kalmans touch,
which is obvious in his fathers work as faculty art adviser, and his
meticulous drawing technique inuenced the students. Articles are
illustrated by Kalman, Shinichi Miyazaki, and Vicki Thaler, all faculty artists.
This was Jimmy Warings sixth summer with us. Donna Jacobson wrote about his teaching, hard to describe. Because she participated in his classes, she was able to write about his work much
better than I was ever able to do.
We learned that a focus is a center of concentration with qualities like weight and color, which travel inside or outside our
bodies. It was necessary to completely relax our minds and let
258
a focus come naturally. We had to indicate its existence only
by our bodies natural reactions to it. The eects were amazing. The class often found it knew the color of the focus, its
density, texture, and weight, and the way it traveled just by
the reactions of individuals. Jimmy went into other topics such
as themes and variations, improvisations and structures. We
became more aware that dances consist of more than technique. I also think our sense became more attuned to details
in our lives. We found it was necessary to learn to relax and
save energy for things that meant something to us. Our minds
became more organized and open.
Jimmy taught us all unforgettable lessons. I say that he stretched

our aesthetic.
That Stephen Hartke became a ne and successful composer
is hardly surprising. He wrote a short four-hand piece that summer, Colors, as well as some very good theater music. The Color we
printed in the yearbook, Number II, was Green. He won a commission from the New York Philharmonic in 2004 to commemorate
the 9/11 World Trade Center disaster. It is an astonishing work.
Steve found a poem from the eighth or ninth century, one of whose
lines is Roofs are ruined, towers toppled. . . . The entire poem is
evocative of the World Trade Center collapse. I went to the concert;
the music has an astonishing, original sound. Mordy was not able to
go, but Leonard Hindell sent us a cassette of the symphony. Mordy
and I listened to it together, remembering the morning when, from
our bedroom window we watched the World Trade Center fall. Steve
has been awarded a three-year Charles Ives fellowship, which makes
it possible for him to give up teaching at the University of Southern
California for that period. The connection with Ives gives us much
pleasurehe was our Ives Scholar early in his career.
Barbara Chae, IH 68 and 69, is a utist in the San Francisco
Ballet Orchestra, and often is called on to play with the San Francisco Symphony. She was in New York during June 2004. After she
went home and was straightening out the papers on her desk, she
259
discovered a letter I had written to our IHers in 1998. She was very
distressed that she hadnt called us when she was in New York and
wrote us a long letter, reconnecting to us.
Weve heard from Scott Kosofsky frequently in recent years. He
advertised himself during his four summers at IH as the second
best recorder player in the country. The rst, of course, was his
teacher, Bernard Krainis. Scott is now a successful book designer,
producer, and author. He brings us copies of beautiful books as
they are published; most of them are on Jewish subjects. A recent
one, The Book of Customs, which Scott both wrote and designed,
is a thorough and readable guide to the Jewish year, published by
HarperCollins. It won the 2005 National Jewish Book Award for
Contemporary Jewish Life and Practice.
There are many children from that summer whose activities we
know something about. Richard Colton and Matthew Nash studied
with Jimmy; each has his own dance company. Theyve had a long
career in dance: Matthew took his dance company all over the world;
Richard danced leading roles with Twyla Tharp for many years
before starting his own company in Massachusetts. Ben Simon lives
in the San Francisco area: he was head of a conservatory but later
formed his own chamber music group, which he conducts. Peter
Gelfand, a ne cellist, plays in the San Jose (California) orchestra,
but is often called to play with the San Francisco Symphony.
The 1969 yearbook has no special name; the cover is a drawing of
the back of a long-haired girl playing a cello. There are many more
photos and wonderful art department contributions. The big event
of that summer was a performance at Tanglewood, where our dancers appeared in a work titled Beyond the Ghost Spectrum. I remember very little about it except that the music was avant garde.
We know that Desimont Alston is in the violin section of the
National Orchestra in Washington, D.C. Stacey Bredho, who
works in a government agency, was in touch with us and told us she
sees Desi. Thats how we nd IHers!
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Jill Bender, who was one of the dancers in the Tanglewood performances, is still dancing in the New York Metropolitan area. Candi
Gevirtzman suddenly wrote to us, reminding me that she announced
that she was a witch that summer. I remember I said she had to be
very careful, as I am the real witch at IH! I think she didnt nd that
funny, then or now. Candi and her musician partner created a series
of lectures teaching musicians how to become better at business.
She wrote that they live in Maine and rescue abandoned rabbitsan
occupation none of her IH friends would believe.
Peter Grunwald, whose father Henry was editor of Time magazine, was in the lm department, learning a great deal about that
art from Bob Edelstein. Everyone at IH loved Edel. We do too.
Lisa Kirchner, daughter of composer Leon, sends us announcements of her night club performances in New York; we have not
been able to attend any yet. Liza Lorwin produced a moving lm
about children of the Holocaust, which we went to see. Bob Putnam
married the daughter of our doctor and lives in Pittseld, Massachusetts. I dont know if hes continued his folk singing career.
As I write, more students continue to nd us, mainly through
searching for a web site, and nding it! Most recently Judy Mazia,
who continues to look for old friends, sent us Irene Biedermans
name; she teaches in a community college. And two from 1964 (that
was a very good year!) appeared: Lisa Berdann, who is a psychotherapist living near Washington, D. C., and Rob Stulberg, who is
a partner in a New York law rm. He is responsible, he wrote us,
for establishing a New York City law requiring the city to lower
sidewalk corners so that disabled people, perhaps in wheel chairs,
can more easily cross streets. At IH he was a cellist, and still plays
regularly.
263
Chapter Nine
Tausendsassa
(A Man of Many Talents)
HEN MORDY launched Indian Hill, he hoped that if he

spent summers directing the school, he could be free in
winters to pursue his career in music. As it turned out, he had to
nd employment to support Indian Hill. He wore several dierent
hats in the early years. One was selling bonds for Israel. After he
worked with Nathan Korshin in Cleveland and New York, he held
dierent assignments for the Israel Bonds organization: one year in
Perth Amboy, New Jersey, and in Canada (Sydney, Nova Scotia and
Calgary). One winter Mordy drove the fty miles to Perth Amboy
from Yonkers every day, sometimes a foggy, dangerous trip on the
New Jersey Turnpike.
The assignment in Canada made it possible for us to visit two cities at opposite ends of the country. We spent a couple of weeks in
Nova Scotia in 1956. Sydney, at that time, was hardly a metropolis.
One prospective customer had a small second-hand clothing store.
Another had a sort-of restaurant, really a coee shop. The food was
barely palatable. One noon, tired of the meager fare, we decided
to buy bread and cheese and nd a pleasant spot for a picnic. We
drove to the most eastern point of the country and parked on a
blu overlooking the ocean. We heard waves crashing down below,
and left the car to see the view. We had unknowingly parked at the
264
town dump. When the garbage

trucks unloaded the cans onto
the beach so that the waves
would wash the refuse away, it
was hard to swallow our sandwiches. Later that year I took
Josh, who was six, and Marc,
who was almost four, to join
With Josh and Marc in Calgary.
Mordy in Calgary for a month,
staying in an uncomfortable motel while Mordy interviewed local
merchants and professionals.
The goal of the Israel bond drive was to raise money to help
develop the economic structure of Israel. In as depressed a community as Sydney, Nova Scotia, it was hard to believe that anyone
would have money to invest in Israel, but they did. Calgary had
the character of an old cattle town; oil men paraded on the streets
in boots and wide white cowboy hats. A news photographer took a
family picture, our small boys wearing oversized white hats; they
loved every aspect of the town except the gas heater in the motel
room, which made us all a little sick. We drove to Ban and they
saw a herd of bison and lots of deer.
Mordys favorite story was about one wealthy, but reluctant merchant. I cant invest in Israel bonds, he said. I dont have that
kind of money.
But I was told you are one of thirty Jewish millionaires in Calgary, Mordy responded. The businessman thought about it.
Oh, I dont know, he said. And he thought about it a little
more: Well, maybe I am. I owe more than a million. He never
bought any bonds.
Like the United States Cavalry, Joe Kruger came to our rescue,
not for the rst or even the last time. Manuel Batshaw was director
of the Jewish Community Center on Chancellor Avenue in Newark,
New Jersey, where Joe was an active board member. Batshaw vis-
C h a p t e r N i n e : Ta u s e n d s a s s a
265
ited Joe at Camp Mah-Kee-Nac one summer and talked about the
need for an education and cultural Director at the Y. Joe recommended Mordy, knowing that it was a job he could ll successfully
on a part-time schedule. The position at the Chancellor Avenue
Y in Newark began in 1960; later, when the suburban facility on
Northeld Avenue in Livingston was built, Mordy organized education and cultural programs for both buildings. For ten years, that
part-time position gave Mordy the freedom to be at Indian Hill in
the summer.
There were some pitfalls along the way. During a budget crisis in
the planning stages of the suburban Y, the committee in charge
of the cultural program met to discuss how they might reduce
expenses: One solution would be to re Mordy! But he had lots of
support. One committee member gave Mordy her notes after the discussion. We need culture! said one. All for M. B. said another.
Dr. Eugene Parsonnet, a surgeon-violinist who appreciated Mordys
commitment to culture, said, We would lose prestige if we lose the
man who built up the cultural department. Jerry Ben Asher, who
became our very good friend, was concerned about it but could see
no alternative when he attended the budget meeting. An IH parent
wrote a letter which stated that this kind of procient person was
hard to come by. One of Joe Krugers close friends, Janet Lowenstein, reminded the committee that the Y on Northeld Avenue
might not need a xed-seat auditorium if Mordys role was eliminated. She was anxious to convince the board members that a new
local auditorium for concerts and lectures was the most important
gift to the community.
The xed-seat auditorium was added to the building through
Mordys eorts, and became an enormous success after some
dicult years. One of the problems was to nd an architect who
would be acceptable to all. Political and personal debates surfaced
during the search for an architect. Discussions among committee
members, each of whom had his particular friend or (perhaps) rel-
266
ative who should get that plum, created delays and dissension.
Mordy had heard of Abe Gellers work and recommended him.
Geller was eventually engaged, designed a prize-winning building,
and, over the objections of many in the community, added a 500seat auditorium. Mordy asked an old friend, the well-known theatrical designer Howard Bay, to look over the theater plans; he suggested some changes in the sight lines and lighting design that were
incorporated and improved the auditorium. That hall, which Mordy
had insisted was vital to the program, was not easy to ll during the
early years; now it is almost always sold out. The Y in Livingston
is not the gym and swim program it might have been; the auditorium added immeasurably to the cultural life of the entire local
community.
Mordy produced concerts and organized classes in dance, art
and music. He brought some Indian Hill teachers to the sta at
the community center: Marjorie Mazia Guthrie had already taught
dance at the Y for several years: Mordy recommended IH faculty
members Marius Sznajderman and Don Fabricant to teach painting,
Ralph Freundlich to teach guitar. Later Mordy hired an IH student,
George French, also to teach guitar. Herb Kallem taught sculpture
and became a very close friend. He gave us a portrait of Mordy,
a heavy found sculpture portraying the many hats Mordy wore
over the years, his round steel mouth wide open in song. Every year
Mordy presented a series of lectures and organized the Book Fair for
Jewish Book Month. Probably the most important event was the art
exhibit at the opening of the Northeld Y: WPA Artists, Then
and Now. [WPA is the acronym for the Works Project Administration, one of the great contributions of the Roosevelt administration
for the unemployed, including artists. The Federal Theater Project
was one that helped many of our friends.]
The catalogue thanked committee members, as well as gallery
and museum directors. Mordy wrote, We oer this exhibition as a
beginning. We hope the word is outthat art is in. Many of the
267
artists represented in the exhibit are quoted in the catalogue:

Moses Soyer:
The WPA Art Project has given dignity to the artist. It gave
them a feeling of belonging, of being useful members of Society. They worked with enthusiasm and have produced ne
work in many media. Some of the most important artists today
started on WPA. It was a ne and hopeful period for American
Art. It was a time of progress and high hopes.
Anton Refregier wrote in 1961:

The list of artists represented in that exhibit is astonishing;
among them are many whose reputations grew since then:
Milton Avery, Will Barnet, Adolf Dehn, William DeKooning,
William Gropper, Don Kingman, Jacob Lawrence, Reginald
Marsh, Isamu Noguchi, Ad Reinhardt, and Rugino Tamayo.
Mordy had many criticisms of the Jewish Community Center

program, and he found ways to express his point of view in articles
and speeches:
The Jewish center movement has failed to recognize the
change in the Jewish community. When it began, the need was
to help immigrant Jews integrate into American democratic
society . . . it was a place for wandering Jews to meet each
other and learn the language and customs of a new country.
The gym and swim aspect of the new world was a new experiencelearning games and skills had not been part of ghetto
background. . . . Emphasis in center work was on developing
the ability to socialize, so that men and women might feel comfortable in the total environment. . . . [These were] important
contributions of the original center movement. The movement
is continuing in another stage during this period of third generation Jews in America. . . . There is wide agreement that the
great need in the Jewish community of today is to nd means
of Jewish identication with each other, not with the general
community any more . . . .
268
The economic condition of the Jewish community at large
has placed them squarely in the middle class. There is no longer a need to underwrite their recreational and athletic activities through community fundraising in most suburban areas
where Jews have congregated.
If the center is to become a fortress for Jewish identication,
the number one activity must be in the eld of education and
culture. Financial support which has been used to maintain
the recreational, athletic and social facilities has to be put to
use in a serious way for the educational and cultural facilities
and programming. Free use of the gym, pool, social and recreational clubs is oered. None of the services in the educational
and cultural areas are covered by the membership fee. The
question is not whether the community should contribute for
these purposes, but if the community is expecting the center
primarily to serve as a source of Jewish identication, isnt it
avoiding the issue when nancial support is denied a program
of specic Jewish character?
The important question to be tackled is the need for seriousness in the Jewish community. There is no longer the need
to concern ourselves with whether our children know how to
swim, play baseball or feel comfortable socially in a boy-girl
situation.
The scandalous lack of place for study in a center is an indication of how unimportant we think study is, yet we all know
that the study of Torah is the rst indication of Jewishness.
If we continue neglecting to provide books in our centers so
that young people can read about Jewish history, ideas, life and
tradition, we have only given lip service to the concept of Jewish identication. We must invest our resources in unpopular,
unattended areas of Jewish life if we mean to sustain them. We
must make the educational and cultural life the heart of the
center movement, not its tail.
Mordy had a decided impact on the cultural life of the whole suburban population, not only the Jewish community. Residents of the
area who were interested in studying or participating in any of the
269
arts came to the Northeld Avenue Y to enjoy programs Mordy

had instituted.
He scheduled foreign lms and lectures on Jewish history and
the Bible, in addition to regular classes in music, art and dance. It
had become increasingly diculteven hazardousto travel across
the river to attend concerts in Carnegie Hall or at Lincoln Center.
Now suburbanites could hear chamber music groups from all over
the world in their own community.
And he saved quotations from The Living Talmud for use in
future speeches and lectures:
For the blind of mind there is no physician.
A town which has no school should be abolished.
The timid cannot learn. The short-tempered cannot teach.
Teachers are guardians of a state.
Be eager to acquire knowledge; it does not come to you
by inheritance.
Say not: When I have leisure I will study; perchance you
will have no leisure.
A new director was later hired at the Y, and he required Mordy

to be a full-time education director. His life work, Indian Hill, prevented that. Fortunately his reputation in New Jersey led to two
years as manager of the important Newark concert hall, Symphony
Hall. He brought many great performers to the area, which had
long been starved for star attractions: Artur Rubinstein, Margot
Fonteyn, and many others. Now a beautiful performing arts center
has been built; New Jersey residents need not travel through the
tunnels to New York for the cultural events they longed for.
Excerpts from an interview in New Jersey Business: A Magazine
of Industry and Business, a publication of New Jersey Manufacturers Association (October 1970), by Jacqueline Juster, managing editor, the City of Newark:
If you look south on Newarks Broad Street, youll see encour-
270
aging signs of the citys revitalization . . . and one of the most
encouraging is Symphony Hall, with its showcase of the worlds
greatest musical talent. Newarks business community is playing a dramatic and continuing role in Symphony Halls development. Bauman, who strongly resembles a jovial Mephistopheles, was enthusiastic:
In 1964, Symphony Hall was taken over by a board of trustees from the business community. It was really going down the
drain and the board was able to get the City of Newark to buy
it. Now they lease it from the city and operate it. Businessmen
have maintained the cultural institution that the city most
needed in terms of performance, and I think theyve spent
close to $1 million doing it.
Mordy estimated the operating costs at that time as $200,000

a year; he said that at least $250,000 worth of tickets had to be
sold. The big break is were charged a very low rental by the city
of Newark.
The interviewer wondered about convincing Garden Staters
that they didnt have to go to New York for excellent artists performances, and wrote:
I dont think its fashionable to come to Newarks Symphony
Hall, while it is fashionable to go to New Yorks Lincoln
Center; if people are going to support their concerns and back
their attitudes, they must come here.
When Mordy nally left Newark it was much to my relief. I used to

say that I would be very happy if he never went through the Holland
Tunnel again. But he did for years. Janet Lowenstein told us that she
remembers how Mordys role was dierent from that of other sta:
he involved volunteers with his programs. She also said that it was
unusual for a member of the Y sta to maintain such close relationships with members of the board. We have many friends from
that era; we feel at home in Essex County, New Jersey.
271
A s josh and marc grew older, we began to be concerned about the

education they were receiving in the small local school. The elementary school was ne, up to sixth grade. Local children continued on in that small building through high school, but the courses
were limitedan understatement. We werent the only concerned
people in the town. The Austen Riggs Center, attracted progressive
psychiatrists and psychologists. Some had children of high school
age, and were anxious to improve their local educational opportunities. We began to try to convince town residents to join a regional
school. That was dicult! We went to annual town meetings and
met in private homes for endless discussions. How could we make
it work?
We tried to gure out which neighboring town might join Stockbridge and build a regional school. If Stockbridge was snooty,
Lenox was almost as snobbish. If West Stockbridge was dclass,
Lee was even lower class to Stockbridge residents. I was astounded
at local resistance to change. It seemed to me to be so obvious: Education would improve if several small towns cooperated to nd more
qualied teachers. A larger group of high school students would add
interest and excitement, and much more money would be available
for a newer, larger regional building. It was impossible to convince
the voters. For several years town meetings were engaged in classconscious debates.
One of our neighbors, Charles Earnshaw, was determined to promote a local high school. I thought it was a foolish idea; there were
only forty children in the graduating class. Earnshaw found that a
large piece of property at the bottom of the hill behind Naumkeag,
the Choate family cottage designed by Stanford White, might be
available for a local high school building. My granddaughter, Jessica, called the Choate estate the castle next door. I was horried that the view from our west windows would change from the
bucolic pastures of Naumkeag to a great new school, playing elds
and screaming kids.
272
Charles Earnshaws son Billy was in Joshuas class; it was in the

third grade that Josh won the class rst prize, Billy, second. As we
arrived from New York at Aggies house on Goodrich Street where
the boys were staying, we saw Josh and Marc running around on
the street. Josh called out, I won rst prize, I won rst prize! We
were so pleased; I knew how important it was to him. Why didnt
you call me in New York and tell me? I asked Josh. Mothers joy
is for after school, was his classic response. All through elementary school, Josh and Billy continued to vie for rst place. The four
parents, Earnshaws and Baumans, came to know each other quite
well.
Agnes Lammie and her husband, Bill, had emigrated from Scotland during the war. She worked hard, and became devoted to our
boys. She cleaned up after all of us, even our Labrador and her puppies! One winter day when I was driving Aggie home in the early
afternoon, we talked about Mr. Earnshaws suggestion to acquire
the Naumkeag meadow for a high school. We werent exactly sure
where that property joined ours, so I decided to drive into our back
driveway from Yale Court and investigate. Although we had lived in
the house for some years, I rarely drove through that small alley and
was unfamiliar with the road. I got stuck in the snow immediately.
Aggie knew one of the neighbors, and we asked if we might use her
phone to call a tow truck.
While we waited, we began to talk to her and her neighbor. I
wondered how they felt about the prospect of a high school behind
their small houses on Church Street below the Choate estate and
our land. Those houses had been built for servants and other workers for the great estates on the hill. They are perfectly ne houses
today, but in the early sixties they were beginning to look run down.
I expected our neighbors to be happy about a new high school
behind their back yards; it might have reduced their property taxes.
I was wrong.
I began to hear angry comments; bitter words about the way
273
Church Street residents were disregarded. Earnshaw had reported

that a consensus of those residents indicated that they accepted the
idea of the local school. Not so; they told me they had not even been
asked!
It wasnt long before I took action, convening a meeting in our
house. People came whom I knew only casually from daily encounters. I invited our plumber and neighbors who had worked at our
school. There were about forty people, most of them strangers
to each other as well as to me. The big drawing card was Simeon
Domas, who was the School Buildings Assistance Commissioner
from the Education Department in Boston. He had been trying for
years to convince small towns in Massachusetts to consolidate and
build regional, not local schools. To the surprise of everyone, he
suggested that Stockbridge and West Stockbridge join with Great
Barrington and build a high school for children of all three communities. It was a new, and maybe acceptable, plan. Stockbridge
residents had never thought of Great Barrington as a partner.
Mr. Domas recommended a large property easily accessible on
Route 7, south of Stockbridge, north of Great Barrington. And
thats where it was nally built. It took some years to accomplish
too long for it to be useful to our sons. The clearest memory I have
of Simeon Domas is his comment to us, One person can change
the course of history. He was referring to Earnshaw and to me.
Charles Earnshaw eventually apologized for any unpleasantness he
had caused, and agreed this was the best solution.
An article in The Berkshire Eagle on August 11, 1964, tells the
dnoument. The headline reads: VOTERS AUTHORIZE COMMITTEE ON REGIONAL SCHOOL ISSUE.
The committee was to meet and consider the proposal to merge
the three community high schools into a regional school. Mr.
Domas strongly implied that he would give no further consideration to Stockbridges [regional high school] plan until
. . . a meeting between appropriation ocials from each town
274
had taken place. Mordecai Bauman observed that the towns
opposition to a regional high school didnt make much sense
since we have had a de facto regional school already for many
years, referring to the students from West Stockbridge who
presently attend Stockbridge schools. In addition, he added,
its unrealistic to suppose that the town can aord to build a
$1 million high school by itself without state aid.
Domass inuence is still felt on education in the Berkshire community.
We
think about our years as parents pro tem of so many children, knowing something about their relationships with their real
parents. Mordy is concerned about his relationship with his sons,
well aware of his limited time with them when he was traveling to
and from Stockbridge, to work in New Jersey or New York. He worries: Am I a stranger to my own children? He writes about an episode about Marc with some sadness:
In 1943 I was drafted and served two years in the army. My basic
training was at Camp Van Dorn, in Centerville, Mississippi. The stories I listened to daily from ordinary G.I.s in my outt surprised
me. I thought they would make the outline of a grand novel, rather
like Balzacs Human Comedy. Ive told some of my experiences to
friends, many of whom urge that I put them in writing. The idea
of writing about my life never appealed to me. My life hasnt been
that unusual, or outstandingly successful; it didnt seem especially
interesting, although I am not shy about telling the stories. My life
was just that: my life. Writing about it has a nality that doesnt
satisfy me. Whenever I gave the idea serious thought, what held me
back was the nature of my career. I was a singer of other writers
works and not an interpreter of my own life. I admire good writing
too much to burden a reader with my literary expression.
But when my son Marc brought hidden resentment into the open
concerning choices we made about his life, I realized there might
be a value in writing my story. His distress impelled me to try to
275
Chuck, Elizabeth, Josh, and Marc. ca. 1966
explain to him what happened. If I have to write down our parental

decisions in order to make them understandable, I must try.
Sibling rivalry between Josh and Marc was classic, although I
was rarely involved in it. Joshua was doing well at school, though
not too well at home. Reports of his school behavior were excellent.
Why cant you be that nice at home? I asked him as I signed his
report card. You have such a good report from school. Why cant
you do better at home? Which would you prefer? he asked us. I
cant be good at both places!
When Josh was four we sent him to day camp. Every morning
was a struggle to get him into the car. I drove him to the camp,
in Lee, alternating the route daily to give him a chance to calm
down. I would meet the bus bringing children from Pittseld and
watch them greet my little boy in a happy, childish way. It seemed
to me that he was popular. How can you be lonely when you have
so many friends? I asked him one day. Theyre all lonely too, he
told me.
In Stockbridge, Josh and Marc went to the local public elementary school. We lived in a comfortable house on Prospect Hill.
276
Indian Hill was a succs destime, but nancially a bust. The income
from Indian Hill never justied a reasonable salary for us, although
there were certain perks: the New York pid terre, a car, some gardening and household help. But moneyno way.
Irma always claimed that Indian Hill was my hobby. I had to nd
part-time work during the winter so that I would be free every summer to work at Indian Hill. For ten years, from 1960 to 1970, while
I was Cultural and Education Director of the Ys of Essex County,
my routine was to commute from our New York apartment each
week, Monday through Thursday, across the river to New Jersey.
Thursdays I drove to Stockbridge to perform my role as Cantor at
Temple Anshe Amunim in Pittseld, every Friday night and Saturday morning. There were no summer services at the Temple, so I
could be at Indian Hill every day.
When the summer school recruiting season started, usually in
December, I left Stockbridge early every Sunday morning, sometimes Saturday night, to interview parents and children in New
York. My two sons saw little of me. My time at home was limited to
Saturdays, some holidays, and summers, when I was busy sixteen
hours a day at Indian Hill.
Marc was born in 1952, after Irma and I had started Indian Hill.
Many years later, when he was almost thirty, we were in our New
York apartment telling our friends why we moved Marc to New York
and enrolled him in the Grace Church School when he was twelve.
Marc happened to be with us, listening. The reason for our decision
was obvious to us, but eye-opening to Marc.
We had tried a series of baby-sitters for him. By the time he was
ve, we realized that it wasnt working well. Marc wanted to be with
us, insisting on being at Indian Hill, upsetting the routine, upsetting us. A touching record of that summer is a portrait that Vincent
Bruno painted. He was our art teacher and tried to help us by using
Marc as a model. Our unhappy child stands there deantly in his
baggy shorts, hands clenched at his side, daring us to send him
back home.
277
Finally, we enrolled him at Joe Krugers Camp Mah-Kee-Nac,

two miles down the road, where Josh was already a happy camper.
Enrolling Marc was easy, getting him to go was torture. Joe thought
it would be easier if I took him; he was sure I would be tougher than
his mother. I drove him to camp on opening day, but soon brought
him back. He carried on, and I couldnt stand it.
Stuart Auerbach, a journalist working at The Berkshire Eagle,
who was close to the boys, oered to be the villain and just abandon Marc at camp. We never felt good about any of this, but Joe was
understanding and helpful, and the boys developed social as well
as physical skills they might not have learned so early. After a few
years at camp both boys began to resist being just two miles away,
wishing they could join the exciting Indian Hill program.
When Marc was eleven he refused to go back to camp, insisted
on being at Indian Hill, where Josh was already part of the crowd.
He was really too young for the program, and we agonized about
how to handle it. Adding to that worry, the boys were constantly
teasing and irritating each other, and we didnt know how to stop it.
An Indian Hill parent, psychologist Dr. Anne French, had become
a good friend. We admired her objectivity about her own son, and
often called on her for advice. She was visiting us in the New York
apartment one winter day, and I told her about our problem. Ill
come and spend a weekend with you, she suggested. Ill see what
I can do. She came, she saw, she did. The picture was obvious to
her. We were treating Josh as the favored son while, in his own subtle way, he was dominating his brother and manipulating us. Anne
watched as we blamed Marc for some naughtiness that was really
Joshs doing. Anne wanted us to move Marc away from his older
brother and bring him to live with us in New York during the week
to show our devotion to his needs. She would use her inuence to
get him into the Grace Church School.
We bought the total package. We would demonstrate our love
and concern for Marc, and help him in this dicult period. Marc
278
came to New York with us; we put a bed in the living room where
he slept during the week. He managed to survive the Grace Church
School for two years, and missed ghting with his brother. One
activity he enjoyed was walking our neighbors dog. One evening
he encountered Arthur Levin with his dog. That meeting led to a
lasting friendship with Arthur, who lived in a building close to ours,
and we have been close to Art ever since. Marc would probably say
that the association with Arthur was the only positive result of our
decision to bring him with us to New York.
We always felt terrible about leaving Joshua in Stockbridge when
we were in New York, and we began to wonder how he felt about
that period. He was left in our housekeeper Aggie Lammies care,
sometimes in our house, often in hers. Both boys suered in some
way because of our life style. But that Marc never understood the
motive behind the move was not apparent to us. We had so many
problems in those years that we never recognized his anger.
Fifteen years or more after these events, as we were in our New
York apartment, telling friends about our complicated schedule, I
realized that something was gnawing at Marc. I sensed it in his voice
and vocabulary. What kind of inconsiderate parents were we? As he
warmed to the subject of how he was separated from his real home,
school, and brother, he showed his anger more and more clearly.
You were cruel, he accused us. Marc, whom Irma and I loved
so dearly, thought his parents were cruel. It was hard for us to
believe. We tried to explain, reminding him of Anne French and
her inuence. We told him that his education at the Grace Church
School was superior to the Stockbridge public school. We certainly
didnt know what had been smoldering in his psyche all those years,
and repeated that we did what we did for his benet. We suggested
that Josh must have felt abandoned in Stockbridge ve days a week.
Marc was astonished.
I thought you were punishing me! he exclaimed.
It was unbelievable to me that Marc had been thinking of us as
279
cruel all those years. Punishing him was so far from reality it never
occurred to us as a possible interpretation of our actions.
The more I thought about the unexpected exchange with Marc,
wondering how abandoned Josh must have felt, the more I realized
how little we know about our own children, and how the parent is
misunderstood by the child. One reason to justify the eort to write
all this down is to not go as a stranger when the time comes. No
one wants to leave thinking that he has been a stranger to loved
ones. Harold Ickes, long time associate of Franklin Roosevelt,
expressed the same regret:
I have often wished that my father and his father, to say nothing of ancestors back of them, had left some written record,
however brief, of their lives and times. To most of us, if we go
back to our fathers generation, our ancestors are only names.
They may not even be that. They are not living realities. We
speculate about them: we wonder how they lived and what
they thought, but except for an occasional isolated and unconnected fact or legend they are to us total strangers.
[From Harold Ickes Diary, published 1953,
quoted in New York Times Book Review, 9/21/97]
280
281
Chapter Ten
Woodys Wife, Arlos Mom
WORE a thin gold chain for a dozen years after Marjorie died,
a small enamel and gold wedding band dangling from it. When
curious women asked me what it was and I told them it was Marjorie
Guthries fth wedding ringShe was married ve times?they
were incredulous. Who gets married ve times who isnt Elizabeth
Taylor? That tiny, modest, fastidious, fragile-looking Marjorie did.
Marjories rst four marriages ended in divorce. Emotionally,
however, she was never divorced from Woody, her second husband.
Even before he was diagnosed as suering from Huntingtons disease, doctors told Marjorie that he would need constant care. The
only way she could provide that was to hospitalize him, and there
was no way she could aord that. By divorcing him, she obligated
the state to assume the cost, and Woody lived in various public hospitals for his last fteen years.
Marjorie may have looked fragile, but she was made of steel.
Her choice of third and fourth husbands was practical. She met her
fourth husband at our summer school, when he visited his daughter, who was an art student. Marjories last husband was well-to-do,
proud of her accomplishments, and a contributor to her work in
every way. He was at risk for Huntingtons disease (HD), but
never developed the illness, eventually dying of cancer.
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Marjorie always used her rst husbands name: As a dancer she

was Marjorie Mazia. She was still married to Joe Mazia when she
met Woody. When she was on stage in the early years, the dancer
Sophie Maslow told me, she glowed, she lit up the stage. Her technique might not have developed yet, but her personality and excitement caught everyones eye, and she is the one who captured all the
attention. She was invited to join Martha Grahams dance company and remained in the group for eighteen years. She appears
in early photos of the dances Every Soul is a Circus (1940) and
American Document (1938). Marjorie was the rst member of
the group allowed to teach Marthas technique. She was an inspiring teacher, with pedagogy learned from the master.
Though an untrained musician, she accompanied young dancers
on the piano with rhythmic chords, charming melodies. She made
costumes for student performancesnothing fancy. And she certainly didnt pressure the children in her own school in Sheepshead
Bay, Brooklyn; rather, she stimulated their imagination and gently prodded them into her own movement patterns. Her eyes were
everywhere; her warmth and devotion came over each person like
a security blanket, not smothering yet protective and comforting.
She could get the best result each dancer was capable of with her
soft voice, her tiny hands pointing, her small body demonstrating.
Hundreds of women still talk about their dance classes with Marjorie. They remember those sessions as more than just classes in
dance. They were classes in humanity and passion for the arts, the
Martha Graham inuence.
When Marjorie, the dancer, met Woody, the folk singer, everything else faded into the background; all that remained was their
need to combine their talents and their lives as world-hopers and
world-changers, their favorite self-description. When Marjorie discovered she was pregnant, she divorced her husband and married
Woody. They were two poverty-stricken idealists, bound to amaze
the world. They had no way of knowing how it would happen, but
C h a p t e r Te n : Wo o d y s W i f e , A r l o s s M o m
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Marjorie (at right) dancing with the Martha Graham Company.
its certain that both of them knew from the beginning that it had to
happen. Words poured out of Woody, and he signed and dated every
bit of writing for posterity. Marjorie supported him by dancing and
teaching. In between she found time and energy to produce three
more children.
Marjories mother, Aliza Greenblatt, whom we all called Bubbie, was the important role model in her life. Aliza was a poet who
wrote in Yiddish. She wasnt a stereotypical Jewish grandmother,
but she babysat for Marjories children and was famous for her blintzes. She sang Yiddish folk songs and taught Woody Yiddish phrases.
He adored her, read his poetry to her, listened to her tales about her
parents and grandparents, and lapped up her motherly concern.
She spoke of Marjories children as the blending of the best, their
heritage from the Jews of Bessarabia joined with the Guthrie clan
from Scotland, Ireland, and England.
Bubbie came to Philadelphia as a teenager from Russia. She
helped organize workers in the early days of the ILGWU (International Ladies Garment Worker Union), existing on a piece of bread
or a meal of a sweet potato, yet singing, writing Yiddish poems, and
284
walking door-to-door after work asking for pennies for the poorer.
We used to call her the original hippie: hers was a free spirit. She
was wildly unconventional in her youth and mildly unconventional
as an elderly grandma. She and her idealist husband were early
Zionists. He went so far as to take their meager savings in 1920 and
try to start a rug-making factory in Palestine. It was a dismal failure, and the months there were dicult and heartbreaking.
Housework wasnt Bubbies favorite activity; she lived for quite
a few years in an Atlantic City hotel or boarding house. She was a
socialist with leanings toward anarchy, and she spent much of her
time organizing fundraising activities for various charities. In 1972
I helped rewrite her autobiography, written in Yiddish, and edited
it with her. I dont read Yiddish, so Bubbie translated; I asked questions and added her newly remembered stories. The English version, Im told, is much better than the original. But its all Bubbie.
During the summer of 1978, I was staying in Mike Krawitzs and
Josie Abadys house in Amherst, Massachusetts. In the local newspaper I noticed a small announcement: Anyone who has Yiddish
books please contact Aaron Lansky. Hooray, I thought: heres
where we can put Bubbies collection of about 300 books in Yiddish, most of them inscribed to her by the authors. They were in
cartons in the cellar of Marjories house in Howard Beach, Queens.
Marjorie was delighted to nd a repository for the collection, and
wrote to Aaron.
Dear Friends:
I read of your project and I am writing to inquire if you would
be interested in a collection of books which came from my family. My mother was a Yiddish poet, Aliza Greenblatt, who was
friends with many outstanding Yiddish authors. . . . Her friends
presented her with their own books . . . and I have a collection including many new copies of my mothers two books. . . .
Please do let me know more about your project.
LOVE & PEACE, Marjorie Guthrie.
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Love & Peace was Marjories style; every letter she wroteand
there were hundreds, maybe thousands every yearwas signed with
that greeting.
Bubbies strength was Marjories fortier when Marjories rst
child, Cathy, died in a tragic accident, an inexplicable re. When
Marjorie rst told me that terrible story, she added, You know, we
were fortunate to have had four years with that marvelous child.
Bubbie, a staunch supporter through the heartaching decade that
followed, wept when she tried to describe Cathy. Woody called the
baby Miss Stackabones. Bubbie told me that Cathy was a glorious child, singing in the hospital, helping everyone bear that awful
night . . . she was so burned she didnt even feel any pain. Each
friend who wrote Woody and Marjorie received a special, long,
handwritten or typed single-spaced letter, describing Cathy as a
war casualty: The poorly-made radio set shorted and caused the
re, another result of hectic war production, Woody thought. Copies of the letters are in the Guthrie archives.
How does anyone survive the death of a child? Yet Marjorie carried on. Arlo, Joady, and Nora were born. Marjorie opened her own
dance school, all the while watching Woody begin to behave in more
and more bizarre ways even while he spent hours at his typewriter,
pouring out oceans of words and music.
For many of the fteen years during which Woody was hospitalized, Marjorie took him home on weekends, cleaned him up, and
gave him cigarettes. The children sang with and to him in the backyard at Howard Beach. Meticulous Marjorie would light his cigarettes although she hated it. His hands shook and his body jerked
with chaotic movements; he was never still. There were many years
of misdiagnosis, and he was often in a psychiatric warda terrible
environment for a man who still had all his marbles.
In a study of psychiatric consequences of HD in one hundred two
patients, K. Dewhurst reported in the British Journal of Psychiatry
(1970, no. 119):
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Self aggression was common, one patient committed suicide,
ten others made suicidal attempts, and thirteen patients mutilated themselves; there were nineteen cases of alcoholism.
In twenty-three . . . of the married patients, the marriages
broke up and divorce or separation occurred. Sexual aberrations were common in both sexes; in women promiscuity commonly led to illegitimacy, and in males various abnormalities occurred including indecent exposure, hyper-sexuality,
promiscuity, and homosexual assaults. Criminality occurred
in eighteen patients; the oenses included assault, oenses
against property and cruelty to children. Of the 172 children
at risk, twelve were known to be illegitimate, seventeen were
seriously neglected and nine had been subjected to oenses of
extreme violence.
Woodys personality followed the pattern described in the Journal in some respects. His temper outbursts were unpredictable: He
would blow up wildly, out of all proportion to the cause of his anger,
imagined or real. At rst, when Marjorie saw him walking lopsided,
she was amused. Accustomed to carrying her dancers clothes, feeling lost without them, she thought Woody imagined he was carrying his guitar slung over his shoulder, even when he had left it
home. But when his behavior became violent, when his drinking
was more than she could bear, and when he disappeared for days
at a time, she convinced him he had better go to the hospital and
nd out just what was the matter. The convincing wasnt dicult;
Woody knew very well that something real was bothering him. He
remembered his mothers outbursts and knew she suered from
Huntingtons disease, then referred to as Huntingtons chorea.
He thought he couldnt inherit it because he was male. Gender, it
was later discovered, had nothing to do with its transmittal. It was
when he was at Creedmoor State Hospital in Queens that young
Dr. John Whittier startled Marjorie by telling her that he knew the
problem: It was Huntingtons Disease. After the diagnosis, Marjorie had to face the realization that they were beginning a downward
287
slide, and that she could no longer care for Woody at home.
Mordy remembers meeting Woody when they both sang at a benet for Spanish War Relief at Mecca Temple, now the City Center
in New York. It was February 1940, Woodys rst New York appearance. Mordy recognized right away how gifted he was. Some years
later, when he met Marjorie, he was already aware of her reputation
as a dance teacher. But we could not have predicted the inuence
she would have on our program, on our sta, and on us for the rest
of her life. Marjorie was at Indian Hill for ve summers.
The rst tepee we built was an unsuccessful experiment; it was
too small, so it became Marjories tepee. More than her bedroom,
it was a community lounge, a refuge for the junior high school girls
under her care. As soon as she moved in, she had a square hole cut
in the wooden door so that she could look out and her girls could
look in to see if she was ready to welcome them and their problems. She built a shelf for her record player and brought a small
rug, pillows, and a cover for the bed; she even hung pictures on the
slanted walls. Next to the record player was her set of stapled notebooks, ruled into separate columns: name, date, time of visit, reason for visit, and Marjories adviceusually to the lovelorn. Here is
a sample of her record of youthful weeping, dreams, shattered and
shattering teenage romances, friendships made and broken... with
Marjories considered responses:
Nancy . . . headache. Aspirin. Andrea . . . homesick. Comforted. Sheryl . . . boyfriend. Listened, gave advice. Ellen .
. . ght with Ruth Resolved. Beth . . . dress too long. Shortened it. Nora needs music for her dance. Picked it out with
her. Andrea . . . relapse!
It didnt take us very long to ask Marjorie to be our assistant director; it was a role she assumed naturally. She was wise and brave, and
expert in interpersonal relations. I watched her reproach a parent
one visiting day in her soft voice,
288
You dont deserve such a wonderful child. I no longer remember why she was scolding him, but I do remember his reaction.
Thank you, he said, hearing only wonderful child. Marjorie
wrote a diary of some of her days at IH; here is a page from her second summer, June 30, 1961:
They come . . . racing down the hill . . . our new home is so
lovely . . . the little patio between the tepees looks almost like
a stage set . . . grass is new and fresh and the little pine trees
look almost too perfect . . . the girls smile and we assemble in
the JUNIOR LOUNGE . . . Welcome to Indian Hill . . . Meet
each other and your faculty . . . Joan, Carol and Melaine [sic]
. . . Unpacking details . . . Nails for laundry bags, belts, etc . . .
defacing property . . . other peoples belongings . . . bathroom
. . . no changes until after three days . . . Jr. and Inters . . . My
tepee . . . Jr. Lounge . . .
No one is over-dressed or over-made-up . . . everyone sits
with dignity and interest . . . only Selma is weepy . . . she would
like to be a senior . . . she droops in the corner . . . Marcia P. is a
bit over-anxious, nervous over-talker . . . the youngest group is
quiet, a bit scared . . . Barbara R. needs a bit of help to push her
into the group . . . Nina M. is delightful, condent . . . Andrea K.
still a bit worrisome . . . not more than usual . . . Judy R. much
more condent than last year . . . more positive . . . Joanne gets
the call to serve the rst day, last year such tears . . . switched,
this time we laugh . . . and o she goes . . . how nice to see her
moving ahead. . . .
To the tunes of THE WEAVERS, we unpack all afternoon
. . . no disturbances . . . its easy and pleasant . . . nails here
and there . . . soon all the trunks are out . . . everyone chats . . .
names in the bathhouse . . . washing up . . . supper . . . Spray the
bunks and up I go . . . How can I thank the parents for letting
us have such lovely girls . . . this is going to be a very very nice
summer . . . if I can only catch my breath . . . .
After supper . . . work on schedule for counselor supervision
. . . my record player is invaluable . . . the girls get ready for the
big meeting . . . sta is introduced and talk a bit about their
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Indian Hill dance class, Marjorie at right.
work . . . the girls are eager to try everything . . . it all sounds

so wonderful . . . at bedtime I talk individually about their programs . . . something to think about overnight . . . Joanne F.
reminds me to make the rounds . . . a kiss to all and a truly
quiet good-night . . . only Marcia P. can be heard above the
whispers . . . by 12: all is still . . . .
My tepee looks most welcome . . . oh yes . . . Nora, Lois,
Heddy and Tobie were huddled together at good-night . . . discussing camp . . . Nora whispers, Its a great group, but they
will soon be o to bed and I know they will . . . thats how sure I
feel about our girls . . . they are indeed a great group
After ve years, Marjorie no longer could spend summers at

Indian Hill; she was too occupied with Woody and trying to create
an organization to locate HD families. After Woody died, in 1967,
290
the year Arlo wrote Alices Restaurant, Marjorie began to work in

earnest, campaigning for public education about HD. She attended
conventions of neurologists all over the country, setting up a rickety
card table at the entrance to the largest conference room. She collared anyone who stopped to look at her small, hand-lettered sign,
Information about Huntingtons Disease. At that time, scholarly
books about neurological diseases had only a brief paragraph about
Huntingtons. Doctors passing by would see the sign and ask, Huntingtons Diseasewhats that? Others might say, I didnt know
anyone was doing anything about that! Marjorie engaged them in
conversation, introduced herself, talked about Woody. Many young
doctors signed Marjories yellow sheets and were put on a mailing
list. Her newsletter no. 1 was sent to about 300 names.
Marjorie referred to HD as the not-so-rare rare disease. Some
young doctors asked her, Why are you working on HD? Its the easiest genetic disease to eradicate: Just sterilize them all. She would
reply in her usual unappable manner, Thats true. It would be
the easiest and cheapest, but rst wed have to nd them. How to
nd them, how to unlock the suerers-in-silence from their closetsthat was Marjories rst goal. During one of the medical convention visits in Chicago, Marjorie arranged to meet two relatives
of Huntingtons patients in a hotel room. The three women lived
in dierent cities, and so dared to establish CCHD as a national
organization: the Committee to Combat Huntingtons Disease.
Woodys friends, whose names are now household words, joined to
perform in two concerts given in his memory, one at Carnegie Hall
in New York and the other at the Hollywood Bowl. A recording was
issued, its proceeds nancing the beginning of CCHD. Unfortunately a conict developed between Marjorie and Dr. Milton Wexler, a psychiatrist to the stars who helped organize the Hollywood
concert. Dr. Wexler wanted funds to be allocated for research into
a cure for HD; Marjorie was more interested in care for the chronically ill. She wanted to nd families and help them cope, while his
291
goal was to fund researchers and nd a cure. Because the record

company was reluctant to be involved in the controversy; the record
wasnt promoted and not much money was raised. Dr. Wexlers wife
died of Huntingtons; his daughter Nancy became the most publicly
recognized expert on the disease.
Woodys records reached lovers of folk music, and they read
about HD on the jackets. Soon they wrote to Marjorie, to record
companies, and eventually to CCHD for information. Some fans
requested an autographed photo of Woody or wanted material for
a term paper. Some were in a panic, seeking help, because they
recognized symptoms that now had an identiable name. Queries
asked in later years were dierent from those of 1967. Early questions were more likely to be:
My father has involuntary movements, no one knows why he
does the weird things he does. But I remember people telling
me his mother used to act the same way, and she died in the
state insane asylum. Is this going to happen to me? To my children? Do you think this is Huntingtons? What can I do? Do
you know a doctor who can tell me whats wrong? Im scared to
know, but I think I have to know.
Later the questioner might share his concerns with Marjorie:

Everyone thinks my wifes an alcoholicjust like your experience with Woody. I saw you on TV and I must ask you for help.
Ive spent so much money on doctors and nurses and hospitals;
Im at my wits end!
Because of Marjorie, those questions are no longer asked. Not

that there are nal answers, but the Huntingtons disease organization support groups oer practical advice and help. Before she
died, Marjorie was convinced the organization would eventually
reach those goals. And she knew that the identifying chromosome
would be found.
292
When we moved permanently to our apartment in Greenwich

Village in 1978, I went to work with Marjorie at the Woody Guthrie
Foundation and CCHD. It was a rewarding experience and brought
me closer to all the Guthries. Marjorie needed an assistant to work
on Huntingtons with her at the Woody Guthrie Foundation and the
CCHD oce. We publicized the Woody Guthrie legend. Every time
Woodys name appeared in periodicals or on radio, TV, and then in
movies, it helped promote knowledge about HD and kept Marjorie
busier than she could manage. There is conict in every organization. Some of Marjories criticsits hard for me to believe that
even she had somethought she used CCHD to promote Woody.
She didnt need to do that; it was really the other way around: she
used Woodys popularity to increase knowledge about Huntingtons
disease.
I sat at the desk in a small room in Harold Leventhals suite of
oces; she sat in chair next to me or opposite at the back of the
desk. I answered the phone, typed her letters, arranged for her
appearances, organized meetings with other self-help organizations, and told Joe Klein and others she was too busy to see them.
The demands on her time and strength were almost more than I
could bear to watch, but she handled everything and everyone with
good grace.
Another role was to organize the WG material. Much of it was
in Marjories Howard Beach home, but a great deal was kept in a
disorganized state in her oce or Harolds. We knew that it was
important and should be saved and stored properly. We never quite
managed that, but we did rescue some of the writings. As I tried
to organize and le Woodys enormous output, I found a poem he
wrote about Hanns Eisler in a bunch of typed scraps. Because of
Mordys long relationship with Eisler, it caught my eye. Marjorie
didnt remember reading it. Eisler on the Run is one of the songs
on the successful Billy Bragg recording.
Our activity elicited hundreds of letters asking for information
293
about Woody: children doing research for school projects, folk singers looking for material, reporters and journalists from all over the
world, looking for a story. I began to keep a card le, and every
inquiry was recorded. Marjorie answered each letter or phone call
personally. Marjories energy, dedication, passion about Woodys
genius, and her deep humanity inspired the devotion of everyone
she touched.
Many letters were from people who already had HD or were at
risk. Marjorie answered their questions, set up contacts for care,
and agreed to interviews. She comforted or advised those who telephoned. If I typed a letter for her and noticed a typo, I retyped it;
if Marjorie was going to sign the letter I couldnt bear to see a mistake. If she saw me doing that, she took the letter, crossed out the
error, wrote in the correction and sealed the envelope so I couldnt
take it back, Everyone makes mistakes, she insisted. I wanted to
put nished letters in the mail chute, bunches at a time, to get them
out of our way. But I learned not to do that, because Marjorie kept
everything together until the end of the day. Then she could record
in her date book to whom she had written and with whom she had
spoken, in her tiny, scrupulous handwriting. We cleared the desk at
the end of every day.
In a short while, the CCHD oce became too much for Marjorie
to handle, and she hired a man as director of that organization. (I
always felt I was really doing his job.) Ruth Amster volunteered to
council those suering from or at risk for Huntingtons disease.
She was a serious, kind and generous supporter. Her social work
expertise eased Marjories workload; indeed, Ruths contribution
to Marjories goals cant be measured.
It didnt take long for me to recognize what Harolds contribution was. He was Woodys manager from his early days in New York,
and later he managed Pete Seeger, Arlo, and many other performers. He was a busy and very witty man. Dont bother Harold, was
Marjories daily warning when I wanted to consult him for advice
294
or help. He knew, however, what her problems were and almost

always solved them before they became overwhelming. His humor
saved many a day for both of us. I loved and admired him. I am not
the only member of The Harold Leventhal Admiration Society!
Arlos 2003 annual Thanksgiving concert at Carnegie Hall was
dedicated to Harold. Many of the performers he had managed were
there to sing for him. The concert was lmed: documentary material and interviews about and with Harold were added. Shown at the
Toronto Film Festival the following year, the lm was distributed to
movie theaters around the country, with Huzzahs for a wonderful,
seless, very funny man.
CCHD, through Marjories contact, received a grant from the
Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. She explored ways that self-help
organizations might share resources: facilities, membership lists,
and fundraising activities. In 1980 and 1981, I traveled with Marjorie to fteen U. S. cities, holding what she named Round Table
Discussions with various self-help groups, including Cystic Fibrosis, March of Dimes, Tourettes Syndrome and others. Some of the
responses were more helpful than others: We felt that the groups
in Minneapolis and Seattle showed most cooperative promise. I
kept notes, took pictures, andtogetherMarjorie and I wrote the
report the foundation grant required.
In Seattle we met the rst Alzheimers disease patient in our
experience. The disease had not yet been recognized publicly, but
the symptoms were clear to us, and very painful. Marjorie helped
organize the group, as she did the Tourette Foundation and others.
To be in on the beginnings of these important developing organizations was an unforgettable experiencefull of emotional talk, both
in personal meetings and on the phone.
I often accompanied Marjorie when she spoke to medical students. What rapport she inspired! Neurological associations were
leaning on Marjorie, and on me by association, for publicity ideas,
particularly on how to reach Congress and state legislatures. Doc-
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Marjorie and Irma t Huntingtons Disease roundtable discussion, 1980.
tors and scientists were working on research, medical papers, and

nallybooks. They sought Marjories advice and help. I wrote letters, some at her dictation and some on my own. I signed them as
she did, Love and Peace. I learned how to sign Marjories name
when she was out of town or out of the country, as became more and
more frequent.
We worked together in New York for ve years, and I learned a
great deal about neurological research and how to inuence Congress. After Marjorie died, Mordy and I were invited to annual
NIH (National Institutes of Health) lectures established in Marjories name. We met leading scientists and directors of various NIH
branches. In a way, I represented Marjorie for a long time with the
people she aected. The lectures were fascinating, but way above
our scientic knowledge or understanding. We listened to Nobelists, awed that Marjorie would certainly have understood what they
talked about.
What Marjorie did was enormously important. I dont know how
many books have been published on Huntingtons alone. I know
that Marjorie believed that the HD gene would be found long before
she died. A cure was far from her goal; she wanted to be sure that
people at risk knew the risk, and that care would be available for
those who already had symptoms of HD.
296
I am continually amazed by the progress the HD Society has

made and in wonderment that I had a small part in making it happen. It was not in my background or experience; I never expected to
be involved in such an achievement. What I owe Marjorie is immeasurable. The organization, now known as Huntington Disease Society of American (HDSA), has grown exponentially; the budget is
more than two million dollars annually. The gene that carries HD to
future generations has been discovered, and tests are available for
those who think they might be at risk to nd out if they really are at
risk or if the gene has skipped a generation.
By 2001, there were almost twenty Centers of Excellence at leading universities or hospitals, from California to the New York
Island. All sorts of providential and unpredictable happenings
publicized Marjorie and her crusade. Woodys theme song, This
Land is Your Land, began to seem more like our own national
anthem than the one we hear before baseball games. It is sung in
elementary schools all over the country, but most children have no
idea who wrote itit just seems to have appeared in the air. It is
even used in commercials. How Woody would laugh!
It didnt seem such a big deal when Arlo was arrested for littering
in Stockbridge. Marjorie heard the news of his arrest with customary aplomb, although it could not have cheered her day. Then Arlo
wrote his eighteen-and-a-half minute ballad, Alices Restaurant,
and it became the national anti-war rap. None of us predicted that it
would be such a hit, be made into a movie, and make Arlo famous.
After Arlos picture was on the cover of Time, stories about Woody
and the family proliferated. No matter how Marjorie tried, errors
appeared in those articles. Devastating headlines read, She looks
for her husbands killer! Experienced reporters mistakenly transposed, each child of a Huntingtons disease parent has a 50 percent chance of inheriting the gene, into 50 percent of Woodys
children might develop HD.
On November 14, 1995, a scientic article written by Sandra
297
Blakeslee in The New York Times continues the same unscientic

error. The headline reads: NEWFOUND BRAIN PROTEIN MAY
BE SMOKING GUN in Huntingtons, When one parent [among
the Lake Maracaibo, Venezuela HD families] is aicted, 50 percent
of the children will inherit the disease. Thats only one incorrect
reading of the 50 percent statistic. One printed error often makes it
a fact, to be repeated with no correction indenitely.
However, news articles made it easier to reach the public and to
nd families to organize chapters of CCHD. When Marjorie was
invited to open a new chapter, she took a companion to help her. It
was sometimes me, sometimes her secretary, Shirley Fuchs. One of
us would call the local radio, TV station, or newspaper, and ask, I
wonder if you would like to interview Marjorie Guthrie. Shes the
mother of Alices Restaurant! Everyone basked in the sunshine
of Marjories optimism. Dont worry about how you are going to
dielife is a fatal disease! Learn how to live each day. With only
a high school education, she studied more about neurological diseases than any lay person would be expected to read, let alone understand. She was a full-time lobbyist for more and better care for the
chronically ill. Her appearances before Congressional committees
are legendary. She was, after all, a performer, and knew how to capture an audienceeven an audience of bored and weary Congressmen. Everyone stand up, she would demand, in her unthreatening way, smiling at the startled legislators. Now, raise your arms,
high, higher. Stretch! And she would lead them through a few
Tai Chi movements, much to their surprise. Marjories testimony
at Congressional hearings has not been forgotten. Several members
of Congress worked closely with Marjorie: the late Silvio Conte of
Massachusetts, Henry Waxman of California, Howard Metzenbaum
of Ohio, David Obey of Wisconsin. They all called on her for support of legislation about health care, orphan drugs, and biomedical
research. Senator Kennedys sta responded to her calls and leaned
on her for help.
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Congress surprised the NIH by recommending additional funds

for basic biomedical research, despite eorts to reduce the budget.
The Woody generation grew older. At the Washington opening of
the lm Bound for Glory based on Woodys autobiography, I heard
a congressional aide ask Marjorie, Please do us a favor; when you
introduce yourself add some years to Woodys fans. It would make us
happier if you would say If youre over thirty-ve, youre Woodys
wife. We dont stop loving him at thirty! When Marjorie became
ill with cancer in 1982, I took on the role of her constant companioneven nurse. I didnt realize until then how much I loved her.
Jewish Women in America: An Historical Encyclopedia includes a
brief biography that I wrote. It has now been added to an International Encyclopedia of Famous Jewish Women, to be published in
Israel in 2006.
Helen Hayes said about Marjorie, She was the most unembarrassingly dynamic and joyous person I ever knew. She nudged us
on, she set us on our toes, and weve been dancing ever since.
Pearl Lang remembered Marjories quality in a photograph of Martha Grahams dance. American Document. She is caught in the
air in a leap on the way up, and there is so much energy and promise in her that she looks like a shooting star.
Let no one accuse me of being objective about Marjorie. She was
heroic; I was in awe of her and what she accomplished. She had an
extraordinary ability to deal with her colleagues, untiring grace as
she handled the suerers who called on her for help, and unbelievable patience with the endless demands on her time and energy.
Mordy and I occasionally correct a phrase, Very unique when one
of our young friends admires something or someone extravagantly.
We smile and say, Theres no such thing as very unique. Its
either unique or it isnt. And then we add, But Marjorie Guthrie
was very unique. There will never be another like her.
E verybody knows Woody Guthrie. His homey Will Rogers-like wit
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and humor, political satire, and commenting on current news items

led inevitably into a song. I never saw him perform, so it didnt
mean much to me. My cultural background was in classical music;
I practiced the piano, sang Italian and German repertoire. I was
not interested in Woody or his songs until Marjories rst visit to
Stockbridge. At Marjories insistence, I visited him in the hospital,
shortly before he died.
Marjorie was anxious for me to appreciate Woodys talent. I read
his autobiography Bound for Glory, which he wrote in 1942. It was
full of Woodys folksy mannerisms, boring and even irritating to
me. I kept reading out of a sense of obligation to the Guthrie clan
in a perfunctory way, uninvolved in his sad stories of the Oklahoma
boom and bust periods. That part of the Depression was distant
history to me. I was intrigued, however, to read about his mothers
illness and how it aected the family. Her name was Nora, Marjorie
and Woody named their youngest child after her. I loved Nora from
the moment I met her.
Somewhere in the middle, Woody wrote that he wanted to be a
doctor. One of his stories was about an old doctor, so old that he had
few patients and lots of spare time. He let Woody look through his
microscope. In Bound for Glory, Woody described the battle of the
microbes, which caught me up and held me spellbound. At that
point I was hooked for the rest of the Guthrie travels and travail.
There was a black microbe who wandered around amid the
sugar cane brakes looking for a ght. He met up with a
white one, they battled, arms waving, sts ailing, angry gyrations, until the black one conquered the white one, swallowing it up whole. He moved o, full of swaggering pride, and
didnt notice a neutral-colored microbe hiding in the cane. It
pounced; there was another erce ght, and the black one
the white one inside himwas swallowed up by the neutral
one. He won, of course, because he was hungry.
I told Marjorie that once I got past the aected grammar and
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Okie twang, I was touched by Woodys writing. Thats when Marjorie asked me to read Born to Win in galleys. The second autobiography took Woody to New York, where he thought he might make leftwing caf appearances. Audience response was enthusiastic, but he
didnt earn enough to make a New York living. He went back on the
road to continue wandering and singing.
Macmillan was about to publish the book. Marjorie had questions
about it, but not enough courage or condence in her own judgment to make suggestionsmuch less demandsthat was never her
style. Woody must have written thousands of words a day. I began to
repeat (to Marjories dismay), Woody peed words.
Marjorie saved cartons and cartons of Woodys typed or handwritten pages in her cellar. Woody knew how to write, but he used
idiosyncratic phrases, such as I have wrote and We done sung.
It was annoying to me, especially when I knew he could write We
sang. I oered to go to the editor and make a few suggestions.
When I saw his youthful face and long curly hair, I knew it was a lost
cause, so I dropped the galleys on his desk and said Nice to meet
you. But he asked me for my opinion about the material.
Whatever I said did not interest him one bit. He was adamant
about not tampering with Woodys writing. If he could have had an
editor-author relationship with Woody, he would, of course, have
worked with him, but since Woody was no longer able to communicate, he would not dare touch any of his writing. In other words, he
would select, but would not dream of editing.
By that time, nobody could communicate with Woody. I tried to
make the point that this put an even stronger responsibility on an
editor to publish the best possible book for Woody. You are too
subjective, said the young man. Indeed I am, replied I, especially since I spent yesterday visiting Woody in the hospital. His
had been conned in a succession of hospitals for fteen years.
It was 1966. Sometimes the children, Arlo, Joady, and Nora, went
to the hospital with her, but Marjorie usually went alone. Occa-
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sionally Cisco Houston, an old admirer and good friend, carried

Woody to a wheelchair and took him home for Sunday afternoons
in the back yard of the Howard Beach house. Bob Zimmerman, later
known as Dylan, was often seen sitting at the front door, waiting for
Woody to pass and waving at him.
During Marjories last summer at Indian Hill, in 1965, he was
so sick we thought he would die at least three dierent times. But
he didnt, and it appeared as though he would outlast us all in that
dreadful, isolated, half-alive condition, his brain the only spot in his
body still alive thinking heaven knows what.
Before visiting him at the hospital, I expected a more dicult
situation than we actually found, but it was tough anyway. I thought
it would be noisier, but new drugs tranquilized the patients and he
was quiet. Men wandered around the halls in various dress, some
bandaged, some in wheelchairs. They stared at TV screens, talking
to themselves and to visitors. Some leaned on the wall, staring at
nothing. It didnt seem overcrowded, but it did indeed smell.
Marjorie couldnt nd Woody at rst; he had been moved to a
semi-private room with nothing in it but the two beds; there as no
need for anything as neither man was able to do anything with anything. Marjorie had posted Noras childish drawing on the wall,
but it was torn. Who did that to the picture? Marjorie asked,
Woody waved his arms, and I sensed that he had done it with an
uncontrolled gesture. She decided that someone else tore it. She
leaned over the bed rail to kiss Woody, and he did kiss her. He didnt
look too terriblethat is, his face. His body was another matter. If
you think of the pictures of concentration camp victims in the last
stages, youll know what his body looked like. I was probably prepared for his emaciated look, for the grim aspect of the ward, for
the smell. Somehow I was not prepared for the nakedness.
At rst Woody kept covering himself with the sheet, or tried to.
The other man in the room had no such intention, so I carefully kept
my back to himnot to feel involved. He was an old man, curled
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up in the fetal position, holding on to his groin and expelling gas.

Once in a while an attendant would come in and scold him, Pete,
cover yourself, there are ladies here, but he didnt hear or care.
Marjorie brought cigarettes for Woody. It was hard for me to
watch that fastidious nonsmoker put a cigarette between her lips,
light it for Woodyone after another until he had smoked ve. She
brought two small containers of frozen chocolate malted, which
Woody slurped as she fed him. And a battery-powered record player
that didnt work.
It was not easy to stand there and make believe all was normal.
We talked to Woody, but mostly around him. Marjorie told him who
I was and asked him to indicate that he understood by winking his
eye. He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them to stare at us.
He did know who we were. He knew Mordys recordings of the
Eisler/Brecht songs since 1935. A couple of summers before he
became unable to leave the hospital at all, Marjories friends drove
him to visit us at Indian Hill. He wanted to see where his kids
were having such a great time. (Arlo sent him weekly post cards).
Marjorie had the group singing This Land is Your Land and Pastures of Plenty. The Weavers came and entertained, always singing something of Woodys. I began to be more familiar with his
oeuvre. Guitars were ubiquitous at Indian Hill for years.
Woodys eyes were watery blue; his hair was cut quite close, very
gray, and his cheeks pink. In the hospital he didnt look like the
Woody Guthrie in pictures at all. His arms were long, and they
waved about aimlessly. His left elbow had been operated on at least
four times for a severe infection, but was nally perfectly healed.
His back, however, was covered with bed sores.
I think he said no quite clearly, but when he might have tried
to say yes, it came out only as a grunt, and could have been anything at all. His greatest pleasure was in pung mightily on the
cigarettes, as Marjorie held them, and eating the ice cream spoon
by spoon. When an attendant walked by, Marjorie asked him how
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Woody was eating. Like a man with three jobs, he cheerfully

replied.
An elderly man wandered in. Marjorie told me something about
him. A former postal clerk who lost his mind when his wife died, he
needed an operation and was Woodys roommate for a time. He was
dressed to go out, but I wasnt sure if he was fantasizing about leaving or if he really was ready to be discharged. He carried a rolledup copy of the Mona Lisa under his arm and told us that he had
nished copying the Crucixion and was about to begin on this
one. He was in a gay mood, greeted his old buddy Woody, and told
Marjorie not to hold the cigarette for him, but just to watch that it
should not burn him. Woody could not feel a burn; if he smoked
alone he would burn himself and the entire ward.
We stayed about an hour. Woody began to get restless. First he
tried to pull the pillow out from under his head. Then he sat straight
up. Then he poked the pillow around. Then he lay down. Then his
eyes bulged, and he forced himself up again. The covers were meaningless by then. Anyway I got used to it and stopped trying to cover
his bottom. The postal clerk was still there, anxious to engage me
in personal conversation. We tried to gure out what was bothering Woody.
It was hopeless, and Marjorie said we had to leave. I was sure
Woody wanted the bed raised; the clerk was sure he needed to defecate. Marjorie thought Woody would be uncomfortable about it
and wanted us out. It was time to go. He tossed and squirmed, it was
unbearable to watch. I was shaken.
What a breath of fresh Brooklyn air we took in! How clean it
felt! How empty and how hollow a sensation when we got outside.
No sense in commenting on the uselessness of the fourteen years
Woody had already spent in hospitalsnot all of them in such a
state of helplessness, but how sad all of them were. And nally,
when he could not talk, walk, or do anything at all, how cruel to let
him live on and on and on.
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The most dicult moment was when Joady greeted me with,

How was he, what did you think, how did you nd him? No need
to make believe to those three children of sorrow, but Joady especially always searched, hoped, pleaded for a dierent end.
I persisted with the young editor, but was not able to change his
mind. He refused to touch the falsely arty grammatical errors, and
the overwritten passages. But, please, young man, I pleaded with
him, at least reconsider the title.
Woody was on a merchant marine ship during the war. Just after
a torpedo struck, he heard a song on the radio called Born to
Lose. He wrote a short poem contradicting that pessimism. Born
to Win is hurtful to me, in the context of his life. Now we know the
Huntingtons disease gene is hereditary, that each child of an HD
parent has a 50 percent chance of inheriting the disease. How bitter
that the title of Woodys new book was taken from that short poem.
Born to Win indeed! At that moment, I could only see the irony.
The editor maneuvered himself into the rationale that actually, if
you think about it, Woody did win out in the end. After all, he tried
to convince me, Think of This Land Is Your Land and all that
sort of thing. Who in this country doesnt know that song? Even
if they dont know that Woody Guthrie wrote it, doesnt that mean
that he did win?
Knowing that Joady took the test and is not at risk for HD, I enjoy
watching Arlo and Nora thrive and admire the wonderfully organized Woody Guthrie Foundation archive now available for scholarly study. So I must agree with that young man.
305
Chapter Eleven
The 13th International Congress
of Historical Sciences
INETEEN SEVENTY must be memorable to that years group.

At the beginning of August, probably close to my birthday, I
abandoned Mordy and went to the FSUthe initials referring to
that vast space as the Former Soviet Union. Since our arguments
or rare disagreements were vocal enough to be overheard, not only
by the sta but by our kids, I imagined that many thought I was
leaving Mordy as well as IH. Putting the yearbook in the capable
hands of Mike Krawitz, I agreed to use my daughters ticket for a
trip with U.S. historians going to an international conference of
historians in Moscow. She had decided at the last minute that she
didnt want to leave her husband-to-be. I was willing to leave mine,
certainly planning to go back to him. To free myself of the annual
yearbook challenge must have been part of my decision, but its no
fun to discover that you are dispensable. Still, it was a wonderful
opportunity, which I grabbed, and it became the source of one of
my oft-repeated tales.
Every ve years there was (maybe still is) an international conference of historians, and although I am not a historian, I was a member of the travel group. The trip departed about August 10th, which
306
was two weeks before the end of the Indian Hill season. I know that
many of the children, and even the sta, thought I was actually
leaving Mordy, not just going away for two weeks. But I did come
home after those weeks in the Soviet Union, where I visited Moscow, Leningrad (now St. Petersburg), Tashkent, Samarkand, and
Bukhara. I brought back lots of stories, some entertaining, some
unhappy.
After I enrolled in the group, I sent Elisabeth the list of professors; I didnt know anything about any of them. She returned it with
notes next to the names, Freidel is at Harvard, writes about FDR;
Woodward is at Yale, very famous, writes about the Civil War; Sol
Katz is Provost at the University of Washington in Seattle. Next to
Sol Wanks name she wrote, I dont know him, but everyone says
hes a darling.
I made two long-lasting friendships: Sol Katz, who played an
important role in the cultural life of Seattle, where many institutions called on him for advice; and Sol Wank, who was chairman
of the History Department at Franklin & Marshall College in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. David Wank accompanied his father; he was
twelve that year, and I talked so much about Indian Hill that he
decided to enroll in the program for one summerand stayed for
three.
Sol and I recently reminisced about the trip; He reminded me of
a story Rudolph Binion told him. Rudy, a well-known historian at
Brandeis, wrote a wonderful book about Lou Andreas-Salom, Frau
Lou. Rudy made a mistake common to many travelers: he bought
new shoes for this trip, forgetting that we would be required to walk
around Warsaw and Budapest even before we reached Moscow. His
feet swelled so in those tight leather shoes that he couldnt walk at
all. Rudy wrote me: I saw sandals all over the streets of Moscow,
but none were for sale in stores. They had been manufactured some
months before according to planand sold out. Sols shoes were
size thirteen, same as Rudys. He had an extra pair. They were a
Chapter Eleven: The 13th International Congress
307
godsend. For the rest of the trip, Rudy said, somewhat cryptically,
according to Sol, I walked in Sol Wanks shoes.
Benedict Macuika, Rudys roommate, was a Russianist who
taught at Storrs in Connecticut. His brother was visiting him from
Lithuania, staying in Hotel Rossiya with us. Macuika wanted to go
to Vilnius and visit his family, but was afraid even to ask permission. He was trying to gure out how to get there without betraying
to the Soviet authorities that he was in touch with his family there
and, in fact, had been over the years, sending and receiving mail
through two or three condential intermediaries.
Once, when he neglected to leave the key to the room he shared
with Rudy with the key lady, Rudy asked her what to do. She said:
See if he isnt in his brothers room! When Macuika recovered
his balance, he thought, Well, since the cat is out of the bag what
have I now to lose? and asked for permission to visit his family in
Lithuania instead of taking one of the ocial post-Congress trips.
Permission was promptly granted. Rudy wrote. The brother who
came to our hotel to meet with him secretly, became a monumental
sculptor after some years in a gulag where he had been sent in 1944
as an active resistant; He was freed in 1955. By chance his mother
was in Lithuania the very month we were all in the USSR. We saw
Benedict and his brother saying goodbye to his mother at the Moscow airport as she returned to the United States.
Sol also remembers an encounter with a Jewish shoemaker in
Samarkand:
David had broken the strap on his sandal. The people at the
front desk in the hotel where we stayed directed me to a shoemakers shop located in the rear of the building. As the shoemaker set about repairing the strap, I noticed that he was saying, Bist du ein Yid? When I replied in Yiddish that I was, he
smiled. He smiled again when I paid for the repair and did not
speak. After I left him, it occurred to me that he must have
mumbled that phrase whenever anyone who looked foreign
308
and Western came to him. I wondered if others before me had
responded as I had. The shoemaker was clearly an oriental Jew.
Where and how he became acquainted with Yiddish, I do not
know. A trivial memory is the fascination Davids braces held
for Soviet citizens, especially children. Wherever we went,
children always tried to get David to open his mouth by smiling exaggeratedly.
It was a high-powered group, Freidel and Woodward among

the most high. The New York Times obituary on January 26, 1993,
about Frank reported, Frank Freidel, a noted biographer of President Franklin D. Roosevelt who taught for 26 years at Harvard, died
yesterday. A native of Brooklyn who grew up in the Depression,
he found much to admire in Roosevelts life and wrote six volumes
about him. . . . Because he knew of Belle Moskowitz and my relationship to her, Freidel tried to be especially friendly to me. But
he was full of himself as one of the most important historians on
the trip; Woodward, whose book earned a Pulitzer Prize, was more
modest.
William Leuchtenburg, also a well-known and gifted historian at
the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, brought his family
with him. One of his sons lost his luggage and won our hearts by his
uncomplaining attitude; everyone loaned him something so that he
could manage. I dont think his suitcase ever did show up.
Another famous historian was Robert Palmer from Yale; he had
been president of the American Historical Association. I think that
most were of lesser rank, assistant and associate professors who
came from all over the United States, from California to Massachusetts.
Mordy and I organized a reunion at the American Historical
Association convention in Boston, the December following the trip:
You are cordially invited to a reunion of Happy Heroes of the Historical Hegira. One of the historians brought a copy of her impressions: The future seems a bit uncertain, were ying through the
309
Iron Curtain, she had written. She reminded us that we ew in a

two-propeller sky bus, ying shudder service between Paris and
Warsaw. We tried to guess the vintage of the plane, wondering if
that was a very good year! The tour guide told us that although
she spoke English, Italian, Spanish, French, and a little German,
she knew no Polish, Hungarian, or Russianthose being, of course,
the languages we needed. Actually I knew more Russian than our
leader. I had studied it for one semester in college, and asked Bernie Koten, Mordys friend from the Biarritz Army University, for
refresher help before we left.
When we were in Moscow, I traveled alone bravely, if a little
foolishly, in the famous subways. They were truly as magnicent
as advertised, walls decorated with Soviet style murals, with street
singers playing balalaikas and accordions in the trains and at the
stations. I had a wonderful time trying out the fty or so words I
remembered, talking to anyone who looked at me. I went to a hairdresser, and told long stories about my children and our school
and made friends.
My impressions of the cities we visited in the Soviet Union
were mostly positive. We stayed in the newly opened Rossiya, the
enormous block square hotel that was not quite ready for tourists.
I watched with astonishment as clerks working at the lobby desk
stitched bills to statements with large needles and heavy thread: no
staples or paper clips available. Although some of us were annoyed
by the watchful eyes of the elderly woman who sat as concierge in
every corridor and controlled keys to the rooms, I rather enjoyed
trying to engage them in conversation. Among the photos I took is
one of our concierge, actually smiling!
Visits to museums required us to shue along in cloth oor protectors over our shoes; the museums were poorly lit, reminding us
of dim rooms in European institutions.
My friend and roommate Helen Puner and I took a side trip to
Leningrad for a couple of days. Now St. Petersburg again, it is, as
310
everyone knows, a beautiful city. The cream-colored buildings of

civilized height, wide streets, and the summer palace were wonderful to see. What I remember with special pleasure, however, was a
trolley trip on the Nevsky Prospekt, When we couldnt gure out
how manyreally how fewcoins to put in the box, other passengers laughed and told us to forget it. Friendly people are friendly
everywhere!
We learned the three zs, meaning closed, tomorrow, and hors
doeuvres: zakrut, zaftra, and zakuska. Finding an open restaurant was always dicult, and waiting to be served took endless frustrating hours once we were seated. There were magnicent receptions where we lled ourselves with caviar, blini, and vodka; we satised our hunger with the hors doeuvres and chicken Kiev, about
the only main dish we found in restaurants. But we did manage,
with the help of a charming Intourist guide, Tanya Barberina. (Her
father was of Italian descent, hence her name.) It was Tanyas program that Frank Freidel was resisting in Samarkand.
The Samarkand-Tashkent trip was a post-conference choice,
and it brought out the worst in us. Arriving from cool Moscow to
hellishly hot Samarkand was only the beginning of our troubles. I
stripped out of my polyester dress in the middle of the airport as we
waited for the bus to take us to the hotel. I dried o my damp neck
and arms and tried the toilet. This was my rst and only experience
with an Asian toilet where you stand on two footsteps on the ground
and attempt to do your business with nothing to sit on and no toilet
paper. I wont even mention the smell.
We arrived at the hotel to discover that the rooms were not ready.
The Intourist agency requires that something must be done with
and for tourists, so instead of taking us around Samarkandwhich
I suppose they could have arrangedwe were bused back to the
airport to make a quick side trip at noon to Bukhara. We were supposed to be pleased and grateful, but if we thought Samarkand was
hot, Bukhara, we found out, was unbearable. If I hadnt taken pic-
311
tures of the Moorish architecture, gorgeous mosaics, and scowling

Uzbeks, I would not now believe I was ever there. The men not only
scowled, but one spat at me as I focused my camera. David Wank
spent the Bukhara hours in a hotel room that Tanya booked for a
few hours; he lay at on his back with cold towels on his head. It
was perhaps 120 degrees Fahrenheit in the shadeof which there
was none.
Back in Samarkand, celebrating its 2,500-year history that year,
we found that we could only get into a second-class hotel. One of
our companions, the well-known German historian whom I had
already dubbed Nolte the Nazi, shook his st at the hotel clerk
and demanded better accommodations, in German. He behaved like
a wartime lm-clich Nazi. There werent any other rooms available, but if there had been, I doubt they would have been given to
Professor Nolte, who went away threatening to take his complaint
to a higher authority.
It was very noisy in Samarkand; there was a festival of some sort
that went on very late, making it impossible to sleep. We were all
cranky in the morning, and when the local guide announced at
breakfast that we would tour the Experimental Agricultural Station. Freidel sputtered, Im Frank Freidel from Harvard, and this
is C. Vann Woodward from Yale, and were not interested in your
goddamn Experimental Agricultural Station, and were not going
there! Or, he might have added, to any other program you have
planned for us in Samarkand. In August of 1970, about eighty
American historians were in the Soviet Union, and Frank was outraged by the bureaucracy of Intourist: We spent hours in a bus in
Warsaw to see the new sports stadium; none of us is interested in a
sports stadium. We are scholars of American history, and we dont
go to see sports stadiums in the U.S. Im not going to ride around
Samarkand to see a vegetable farm. I dont care what grows here;
Ill stay in the hotel.
He discouraged the rest of us. The poor Samarkand guide, dis-
312
appointed that her careful plan wouldnt work out, looked to Tanya
for help. She was not only prettya round face, always smilingbut
also bright, with lots of tour guide experience; she was the right
kind of leader for a group of intellectuals. She calmed everyone
down, even Professor Nolte, and said she would arrange a dierent
trip: We would be invited to enjoy a Samarkand fruit feast, a special
summer event we read about in local guide books. The Freidels and
Woodwards joined us; we had eaten no fruit for almost two weeks
and really longed for the treat.
Sol Katz and I had developed a pattern of usurping the front seats
in the tour buses, where we advised Tanya and talked to the drivers.
Sol was short and didnt want to be stuck behind a tall colleague.
I enjoyed his company; between us we administered the trips. We
took our seats in the front of the local Samarkand bus as usual.
As we rode through orchards of pear, cherry, and apple trees, Sol
leaned over and whispered to me, You know where were going? To
the Experimental Agricultural Station! Hah to Frank! Of course
we were. Tanya, ever diplomatic, just changed the name, not the
venue. We rode for about a half-hour through well-kept orchards
to a conference room in an administration building, where we were
greeted by the manager.
A large table had been set, magically, for the exact number of
our group. There were bowls and bowls of fruitcherries as well as
pears and applespots of tea, and beautiful blue and white china.
We were encouraged to take sacks of fruit with us, and we stued
ourselves.
I must report that Frank Freidel gorged himself to bursting.
Some of us developed diarrhea, and Frank was rather sicker than
others. He was so ill, in fact, that an ambulance was parked in front
of the hotel overnight, a doctor on call. Because there had been a
typhoid epidemic in that area, foreigners were watched with extra
attention. No one was seriously ill, but there was quiet among us as
we went to the airport for the long ight back to Moscow.
313
It was terribly hot. We lined up, walked out to the plane, were
herded back to the tin-roofed oven-like airport building to waitno
explanation given. In a little while we marched out again, once more
back to the airport. Each time local citizens rushed out ahead of us,
only to be turned away. Foreigners had priority. Finally we boarded;
Sol Katz and I sat together, gossiping about the fruit feast, worrying about the heat in the plane. At that period, no air conditioning
existed until planes were airborne. Imagine the heat in this plane
that had been sitting in the sun forwho knows how long! I unbuttoned the front of that polyester dress. Sol mopped his bald head.
Suddenly one of the French historians waltzed down the aisle
toward the toilet in a esh-colored body stocking. Maybe she was
really nude; it looked as though she was. It was an astonishing sight.
The three young American assistant professors across the way
stopped talking and stared, waiting for her to come back. I dont
remember if she ever did, because pretty soon the Russian stewardess announced that we would be taking o, the motors started, and
we felt the air conditioning.
As the buxom ight attendant, her hair piled high in formal curls,
walked between the rows of seats passing out hard candies from a
basket, we began to relax. I buttoned up my dress. The unsmiling
woman leaned across the three men at our right to reach the one
nearest the window. He put his hand in the bowl of wrapped candies, took a stful and ung them in her face.
It was an unbelievable act. Whatever possessed him? His seat
mates started to hold him down, though I dont think he was going
anywhere. Bill yelled at him, Why did you do that? Lou, (Ill call
him that because it was his name) answered, I just felt like it. I
put my hand on the stewardesss arm and called out nichevo, the
only Russian word I could think of in that moment of crisis, indicating its nothing as I tried to make light of the inexplicable episode. The startled woman turned on her heel, went to the cockpit;
then the motors were turned o and so was the air conditioning.
314
The handsome blond pilot walked out. He gestured to Lou, indicating he was to get out of his seat; he climbed over his friends and was
marched to the rear of the plane. The door was opened, and out he
went, followed by his ight bag. I assume the steps were rolled back
to the door!
Only Sol and I and the two men in the seat with Lou had any
idea what had happened. We were the only passengers in a position
to see the entire outrageous scene. One professor from the south
(whom we had called the ugly American because he looked for
bargain souvenirs everywhere) called out that we should all rush to
Lous defense. He couldnt understand why Lou had been thrown
o the plane. Why should he be left behind? He left his seat and
went to Tanya to complain. In his funny way, Sol said, Hes going
to declare war on Uzbekistan!
Tanya assured us that he would be put on the next ight to Moscow, and tried to describe his unthinkable action to the rest of our
group. Eventually Lou did get out of the Soviet Union, but thats
not the end of that story.
Much later, during the Christmas reunion, Vann Woodward
greeted us with this story:
A funny coincidence. One of my students was reading in the
British Museum and got into a conversation with a young man
sitting next to him. It was Lou! When my student told him
he was studying history at Yale, Lou said that he had been in
the Soviet Union last summer and had met me. He reported
the airplane experience, telling my student that he had been
thrown out of the plane, for no reason whatsoever! When
my student came back to school, he asked me how that could
possibly have happened. I told him the true story. Thats how
history gets written, and rewritten!
Tanya sent me a gracious letter in impeccable English on December 8, 1970:

How are you Mrs. Bauman? Ive got your letters and books.
Thank you very much for them. I enjoyed the plays very much.
In Samarkand: Above, a street scene; below, Fruit Fest dinner.
315
316
The Razors Edge just took my fancy, though I cant say I fell
in with M[augham] so far as his philosophical outlook is concerned. I am very thankful to you for the record. I met Misha
Dichter at the Metropol. Unfortunately we could not speak
more than ve minutes; I was leaving for Kiev with a group.
But I enjoyed the ve minutes. Misha is such a charming young
man! When I spoke with him I had a feeling as if I had known
him for years. If you meet some of the survivors of the Soviet
campaign, please congratulate them on Christmas and New
Year on my behalf, and send them my best regards.
Tanya Barberina
I copy the letter as an example of the excellent language teaching in the Soviet Union of 1970. Although I knew how well Tanya
spoke and how bright she was, the letter and the handwriting were
a surprise, as was her use of American expressions.
Some time later we were in New Haven, attending a play at the
Yale Repertory Theater. Robert Brustein, the director then, came
over to say hello to the Woodwards as we were talking together
in the lobby. We were introduced, and I reminded Brustein that we
had met several times at the home of our friend Mary Van Dyke,
who taught at the Yale Drama School and at Indian Hill during
summers. Brustein couldnt put Mary in the same context as Professor C. Vann Woodward.
How do you know the Woodwards? he asked.
Vann replied with what Mordy called the put down of the year.
Oh, he smiled. We met in Samarkand!
It doesnt really end here either. Ernst Nolte had told us that he
was going to M.I.T. in the fall as guest professor. My good friend
Walter Rosenblith was provost at M.I.T., and I wanted him to know
the kind of man Nolte was. I sent him a card, and he was mildly
shocked that I would express myself so openly on a postcard. I
wrote, among other comments, Dont be nice to Nolte the Nazi!
What was even more eective was a letter I wrote to another
friend in academia. Ray Ginger, whom we had known well when
317
we lived in Cleveland, was chairman of the History Department

at the University in Calgary. We knew that Lou had an appointment there. I thought about it and thought about it some more, and
nally wrote Ray the story of the airplane episode. He wrote his
thanks, and promised to put the letter in Lous le. I dont know
what happened to Lous academic career; I do know that Noltes
tenure at M.I.T. was a brief one.
Everything changes, and yet everything stays the same. One of
our traveling comrades wrote me in 1970. She refers to a letter to
the editor in her local paper:
Mr. K [the letter writer] . . . evidently, like so many, found
what he wanted to nd in the FSU. He sounds like that fellow who threw the candy into the face of the stewardess on
the Tashkent plane . . . . the type of diculties that Mr. K. is
carping about are not designed for the express purpose of foiling tourists (especially Americans), but are suered equally
and sometimes worse by the Russians themselves. It all stems
from a complicated combination of xenophobia, ignorance,
backwardness, fear of getting out of step, and a dozen other
suchthey simply do not know how to do a great many things
that we accept as a matter of coursethey have no concept of
maintenance . . . or of service in the American sense. One has
to remember that the present Russian population is entirely
made up of the middle and lower classes, and it takes eons
to make a progressive and civilized population . . . . in some
respects such as Law and Order, and general helpfulness, they
behave in a more civilized manner than many Americans. . . .
I dont know why it is that so many Americans seem to expect
things to be better than at home (on the same price level),
and why they seem to expect to do as they please in a foreign
country.
In those years, travel to the Soviet Union was the in place to go

for travelers interested in socialist experiments. Today curious tourists go to China. It is chaotic today in the FSU, travel is even more
dicult, the society less inviting. I have no desire to go back.
319
Chapter Twelve
Indian Hill Stories
ACK TO Indian Hill and the 1970 yearbook supervised by

Mike: It is dierenta yearbook in a box! It certainly surprised me when I came home toward the end of August. It is basically a journal, programs detailing everything performed at the
hill, as students often called it. Many woodcuts printed by many
art students were dropped in the box. Ccile, in her fth summer
with us, was responsible for the photographs, of which there were
more than before, starting a trend. It was our largest enrollment,
140 names listed; at least two dozen were back for another summer.
The seventies ushered in a very dierent era. Children of high
school age had lived through and understood the Vietnam War,
including the protests, the anger, and the confusion. Nothing
would ever be the same. And their personal goals changed. We felt
they were disappointed and discouraged. We could not nd enough
children who wanted to spend the summer working in the arts or
in the kind of disciplined program we oered. So enrollment went
down in 1971. In 1972 it picked up a bit, but after that it seemed to
collapse. In 1972 Mordy was 60, and although he was vigorous and
happy with his work, he was tired of commuting from Stockbridge
to New York, driving many miles each week.
320
Then he suddenly decided to stop singing. Its not going to get

better. I dont want to sing music the audience wants to hear, and
they dont want to hear what I prefer to singso he just stopped.
He still played tennis regularly until he was 85, which is what kept
him in good health, Im certain.
The 1971 yearbook was issued in a plastic folder, inserted into
a mock mailing envelope. Someone designed postage stamps with
our faces, memorializing 1952 to 1972. Each envelope was addressed
by hand to individual students and sta. We were still blessed with
returning sta members: Don Emerson, Jimmy Waring, and Marlin Merrill. The drawings, silk-screened inserts, and photographs,
were increasingly impressive. The poetry still expressed adolescent
dreams, although Bob Beinicke appeared with something unusual:
a poem that rhymed!
Wounded Knee
While Big Foots sick on an army cot
His children are cornered,
Butchered,
And
Shot.
The cavalry kills, while the peaceful ee,
They tear the limbs from the Sacred tree.
A young childs body lies torn and Still
His death was numbed by the West Wind Chill,
And where his Mother lies in the Mud
The white snows stained by the red mans blood.
An old man weeps as his people die
Tears to wash the bloodshed from his eye.
The sun sets red on the desert sea,
The dream lies
at Wounded Knee.
Buried
Jill Kirschen created a page entitled, Everything You Always

Suspected About Parents Weekend But Were Afraid To Find Out.
She drew a dozen indescribable cartoon characters, her concept of
C h a p t e r Tw e l v e : I n d i a n H i l l S t o r i e s
321
the uninformed visiting parents. I hope they forgave her. As she

imagined it, their comments ranged from, Mozart! What do I care
about Mozart? For a thousand dollars you should have a suntan!
to Well, as far as Im concerned he only looks like Santa Claus.
Was that a reference to Mordy? He seems like a nice enough fellow
with the pipe and all that, but what in the world is a madrigal? Of
course that was Marlin Merrill. Listen Albert, if they bake their
own bread and grow their own lettuce, how do we know where they
get their meat? And nally, surely a sly dig at me, Who IS that
woman who keeps calling everyone dear?
Some years before, we had established what became known as
Special Interest Nights, usually Mondays. Sta members oered
four or ve choices, in dierent rooms. Samples in 1971: Aspects
of Personality, Berlioz, Bread Baking, Folk Dancing, Zen Stories
(Jimmy Waring, of course), Asian art, Mime Demonstration,
Innards of the Piano, Camping Techniques (Back Packing), A Visit
to a South Sea Island, Donizetti Opera, Short Story . . . etc.
Its interesting to us to read that summers programs of the student and faculty concerts, alternating as usual on Sunday evenings.
Mordy sang a group of Eisler/Brecht songs. I wonder today why he
chose those particular songs to sing in that particular year.
About the students we still hear from: Jeryll Adler stays in touch
with us, even though she lives in California. We met again when
she came to New York to attend Josie Abadys memorial service.
She calls us occasionally and visited again in 2004. She is trying
to establish a regional theater near Malibu, an ambitious project
which we think she will pull o. One of the most exciting returnees was Weba Garretson! We always thought of her as an original, and she has certainly made a career as an unusual performer.
Weba! I exclaimed into the telephone. I cant believe I hear your
voice! She sent us a CD of Eisler and Kurt Weill songs; its obvious
she never forgot that faculty recital.
My cousin Marshall sent his son Frank to us. He is wonderfully
322
funny and struggles to appear in local (Springeld, Massachusetts)

and other regional theaters. Robyn Roth organizes mini-reunions
with Frank, David Dee, John Freedson, Tony Rudel, and sometimes
our Marc and others.
Mark Bruce writes to us from Hamburg, where he is in the chorus of the Hamburg Opera, and when he is in this country he comes
to see us. He sent us a cassette of that opera companys production
of Eislers Deutsche Sinfonie. He must also remember Mordy singing Eisler songs that summer. Carol Teitelbaum is still connected
with Merce Cunninghams dance company. And that was the rst
of David Wanks three summers with us; he lives in Tokyo with his
Japanese wife Yoshiko. They teach in Japanese universities and
are working on a book together about interest in Buddhism in the
United States.
In the spring of 2001, Chuck was playing in a jazz concert in
Michigan. After the performance, a well-dressed black man went
up to him backstage and said, I know your mama! I know Mordy
and Irma and I know your music. Chuck asked how he knew us.
Indian Hill, he grinned as he said it.
Chuck asked his admirer, What instrument did you play?
I was the dishwasher, replied Eugene Cain. And he told Chuck
that he never forgot his two summers at Indian Hill. He wanted
Chuck to let us know how much he appreciated our interest in him.
Your parents got me out of Alabama, he told Chuck, and your
mother sent me $10 once in a while when I wrote her that I was in
college.
Dishwashers came and went at Indian Hill every summer, much
too quickly for eciency in the kitchen or sanitation in the dining
room. Pages in the IH diary, nally abandoned as those same stories
with dierent names, seem to have been repeated annually, July
1dishwasher hired; July 6 dishwasher red. July 7dishwasher
hired; July 10dishwasher quit. It was always hit or miss, I remember gloomily, whether the dishes would be washed or wed have to
323
use paper plates and cups. So Eugene was not alone in remembering his faithful two-summer stint!
Chuck gave Eugene our address; he wrote and sent pictures of
his familyhis gorgeous wife and three handsome sons, Khari,
Jabari, and Asante, who all have graduate degrees. In April 2002,
our phone rang. Its Eugene Cain, he said.
Where are you? I asked.
Im in the city visiting my youngest son, who will get his M.A.
at NYU in June. Well come right over, he chuckled.
He told us his story. When he was at Talledega College in Alabama, one of his extracurricular pleasures was reading the Sunday
New York Times every week at the library. One spring day in 1963,
he leafed through the magazine section, read the camp advertisements on the back pages, and focused on Indian Hill. He couldnt
believe that parents sent their kids away from home for the summer, and he wanted to see that strange arrangement for himself. He
told his father he was going to ask for a job there. And I hired him.
At some point during the afternoon, we talked about his interest in jazz, and I told him that Jim Hall lives in this building; weve
known him ever since 1946 when he was a student at the Cleveland
Institute of Music. Jim Hall? The great guitarist? I have all his
records! An unexpected coda is that when the Cains were leaving,
I went to the lobby with them to pick up the mail. There, with his
dog, was Jim Hall! Oh, the picture taking, the hugging, the excitement! I felt that Gene had died and gone to heaven. We have always
been in touch with many students and sta, but Eugene is the only
dishwasher who wanted to nd us.
Food was and is very important to us, and we struggled to plan
balanced, nutritious, and tasty meals. Lotte Jacobi, the German
photographer, had an enormous inuence on our lives. Mordy rst
met her in 1939 when he asked her to take his portrait for his debut
recital at Town Hall. She was an early proponent of organic gardening. As she encouraged us to buy the house on Prospect Hill in
Lotte Jacobi in our lives. Clockwise from

top left: Mordy, 1945; Irma and Chuck;
Paul Robeson and Josh; and Lotte.
325
1956, Lotte suggested that we plant a large garden in the meadow

behind the house. Eventually we grew enough vegetables to supply
corn, tomatoes, lettuce, and broccoli for the entire summer.
Lotte had the most interesting friends of anyone we knew, and
loved to share them with us. We needed to increase the Indian Hill
water supply and hired a local dowser to nd the best place to dig.
He was successful, an impressive feat. When I told Lotte Jacobi
about it, she said that one of her friends, a man in his 90s, was a
famous dowser. Lotte took me to meet Dr. Engineer Rudolph Pollack in New York, and he showed me how to dowse. He had a fascinating history: During the Second World War, he worked with
Eisenhower, Montgomery, and others, dowsing on convoys to nd
underwater mines. He is credited with saving countless lives.
Pollack lived in a modest apartment on the Upper West Side,
where the former maids room was locked and barred. A sign in
German on the door warned: Keep Out. He spoke only in German;
Lotte translated. Every once in a while Lotte would turn to me and
tell me what he said, still speaking in German! As he demonstrated,
he held one end of his rod, gave me the other, and held my other
hand with his. We walked over to the box he had set up andlo and
beholdthe rod turned! I tried it alone. What a weird feeling! It
tingled a little; I did absolutely nothing with my hands or ngers; it
turned over! When we needed to dig another well, I tried to dowse
again, unsuccessfully, but I added dowsing to my job description
anyway.
I have hundreds of IH stories, and tell them over and over. When
I reread excerpts from IH diaries, I now see just how repetitive the
stories are. At the time each episode was a challenge, to which we
rose sometimes and failed at others.
Our relationship with Joe Kruger at Camp Mah-Kee-Nac, just
a mile down the road, became very close. I probably telephoned
him at least once a day, asking for advice about a serious or slight
326
problem. We leaned on Joe, who taught us so much. Many, if not

most, camp owners were wary to parents, if not antagonistic. They
thought of parents as nuisances, whose occasional presence had to
be tolerated. Fathers and mothers were not encouraged to participate in program or administrative decisions.
Joe trained us instead to welcome parents on Visiting Day, share
problems with them, look to them for support, condent that parents really do know something about what their children want and
need. He was enormously helpful. Ill never forget one remarkable
telephone call from Joe, asking us if we could lend him marshmallows for a campre! I think it was the only favor I was ever able to
do for Joewe happened to have lots of marshmallows in the pantry
that day!
At the end of the summer that rst year, Joe called to ask if we
needed help. Of course we did. He lent us money so that we could
pay the most immediate bills. We owed what seemed to us a small
fortune. Local suppliers were more patient than we had any right
to expect. In November, the plumber called us in Yonkers, where
we had gone to spend the winter, and asked, Dont you want me to
drain the pipes and turn o the water? New England winters were
beyond my experience; but if I had thought at all about freezing
pipes I would have been embarrassed by our outstanding bill of over
$2,000, and would not have dreamed of asking the plumber to work
on spec. What was more on my mind was the imminent birth of
our second child. Mr. Pilling did turn o the water, and over the
years he, and then his son, did an enormous amount of work for us,
and many favors.
The second year income almost doubled the rst, and we were
greatly encouraged. Mordy went to see my father when 1954 enrollment showed another increase and Mordy expected him to be
pleased. His response was, I think you should liquidate! That was
not a possibility for us.
Mordys part-time work in New York made it possible for him to
327
be free in summers to direct IH. We shared Helen Ann Mins and

Rossell Robbinss 13th Street apartment for several seasons. After
we sublet Marc Blitzsteins apartment in 19601961, it became obvious that we needed our own place; we rented an apartment on 12th
Street. How fortunate we are that we made that decision; we enjoy
living in the Village and weve been easily available to friends from
around the world and our former students.
On the 2000 calendar published by The Village Center for Care,
we were named as one of twelve Legends. Our photograph, taken
on the roof of our apartment, represents August. We are proud to
be associated with Calvin Trillin (January); Uta Hagen (April);
Dr. Joseph Sonnabend (July, he was an early AIDS advocate); and
Tommy Flanagan (October, he was one of the Jazz Greats.)
We were the only couple so honored, as far as I know. The brief
biography included with the photo reads:
Mordecai Bauman and Irma Commanday Bauman, who met
singing together in the rst Britten/Auden opera, Paul Bunyan in 1941, have lived in the Village part time since the 1950s.
Mordy was active in the musical life of the Village in the 30s;
in the Workers Music League, the Theater of Action, singing
and recording songs of Charles Ives, Elie Siegmeister, Marc
Blitzstein, Hanns Eisler and others. The Baumans sublet an
apartment on West 13th Street in the 50s to interview students
for Indian Hill, their summer arts workshop in Stockbridge,
Massachusetts. Among the luminaries who attended are Frank
Rich, (now at the Times), Arlo Guthrie (folk singer), Ruth Laredo (distinguished pianist) and Julie Taymor (director of The
Lion King).
Mordy appeared in Sean OCaseys Within the Gates
with Lillian Gish, directed by Melvyn Douglas. He performed
with the Phoenix theater in Earl Robinsons and Waldo Salts
Sandhog about the men who dug the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. In the Broadway Revue Let Freedom Sing he introduced
the song The House I Live In by Lewis Allen and Earl Robinson.
328
A visit to Leipzig in 1978 to see the St. Thomas Church
where Bach worked for 27 years, prompted the Baumans to
do something about Bachs upcoming 300th birthday in 1985.
With a grant from the NEH they produced the PBS program
The Stations of Bach broadcast nationally in 1990.
Mordy talks about how the Village has a leftover quality
an aura of what happened here in the early part of this century
with writers like Eugene ONeill and composers like Aaron
Copland. You knew you were a mist in society, but in the
Village everybody was.
By the summer of 1955, I began to realize that our daily experiences should be recorded, and I asked my secretary, Linda Kaufman,
to keep a diary. We kept that up for ve summers, until we realized
they were the same stories with dierent names. So we stopped.
Now when I read the diary I wonder how we managed, and dont
really want anyone else to read it.
However, some excerpts.
June 25: Received telegram from Charles White [artist who
was engaged to teach] stating that he had been conned to
bed for six months. The new art person, Norman Lewis, is
a friend of Dorothy Dehner and had been recommended by
her.
June 27: Seymours car broke down in Pleasant Valley. Bob
drove down and picked up Seymour and Billie Kirpich
[dancer]. Andre Singer [composition teacher] arrived. Sta
meeting in the evening.
June 28: Dish-washer quit. Dish-washing machine broke.
Cleaned the barn. Phil Noer called. He is sick and will be
a few days late. Steinway [Seymours piano] arrived. Sta
meeting.
June 29: Jean Cooper called [a student]. She will be here this
summer. Norman Lewis, Grace Whitney [sta member,
a cellist], Connie Kain, Sheldon Rosen, Herbie Wainer,
George Crawford arrived [students]. Received $1,000 check
[contribution] from Raymond Spector of Hazel Bishop (cos-
329
metic rm); the letter was addressed to Mr. Brown [instead

of Bauman! Harold Akss comment, Instead of starving,
well now just be hungry].
June 30: Grace Wolfe, Julian Ferholt and Junalee Populus
missed train, [students.] Wolfe and Populus arrived on evening train. Ferholt still missing. [He is now a leading child
psychologist at Yale.] Kids arrive by train at 1:30. [The train
is now an anachronism.] Fred Simons trunk missing, but
found.
The next entry is about the rst student meeting: Mordy described
the daily schedule, introduced the faculty, and outlined the longrange summer schedule. He described trip days, laundry routine,
diet table, re alarm, re escapes from the main building and the
barn, and the re drill. That annual re drill! One re escape ladder was scary; girls who lived in two connecting rooms in the main
house had to climb over a wide balcony edge, grab the railing, and
somehow get on the top step of the iron ladder. Someone always
screamed in fear. My fear was of a re during the night; we couldnt
get up early enough every day to see if that old, dry building was
still standing.
Mordy went on to describe visiting day, warned that the water
supply was limited, and lectured about dress and deportment in the
dining room. This was boringly repeated every summer. Following
entries began to be more specic about episodes with students and
parents:
Mr. Sewall called. David Jan had told him that he was sports
director. [David was a third-year student.] David also told
Steve [Sewall] about how many times he had been arrested
for speeding. David was insulting to Mr. Sewall. Mr. Sewall
was quite upset about all of this. He also felt that Steve
shouldnt be in the [planned, never realized] lm: he was
conceited enough already. Sheila White is upset about her
room. The two other girls in the room are much older than
she. She says she only came to IH to be with Jane Saltzman.
330
July 2: Julian Ferholt, Sidney Harth arrive. Louise Lasser, Barbara Margolin out in the rain. Went to see Ugetzu at Little
Cinema in Pittseld.
July 3: Bus ran out of gas on way back from the lake. Faculty
concert
July 5: Dishwasher quit.
July 6: Trip to Bash Bish Falls. Sam Rhodes went over little falls
but came out unhurt. [Sam is violist in the Juilliard Quartet.
We would never go to Bash Bish Falls again!]
July 8: Dishwasher quit. [The new one seems to have lasted
until July 30: when he was red!]
Thats only the rst week. Each day was so full we could only
record what seemed to be the highlights at the time.
The interviews in our apartment opened our eyes to parent-child
relationships. One child seemed extraordinarily excited by the program. Mordy asked her what she thought her major might be.
Oh, I love drama. she said.
Are you interested in other arts; perhaps dance as well? Mordy
asked.
Oh, I do love to danceI take dance classes.
And do you play an instrument? Mordy asked her.
Yes, I practice the piano.
How about art? She really loved everything.
What do you hope to be when you grow up? Mordy nally
asked.
An intellectual, she announced. Her mother could not understand why she wanted to spend a summer working so hard.
The 56 class included several artists whose work is well recognized. Among them is Michael (now Miguel) Cond, whose career
took him to Spain. where he has won many prizes. His work is
exhibited in the U.S. as well as in Europe. By that year we knew
that children of our friends were ready for IH, a very happy circumstance. Jean and Irving Samuels sent their two girls to us;
Mordy loved them since 1930. Helen and Sara both have interesting
331
careers. Sara, who joined our sta one summer, directs an innovative nursery school. Helen became archivist for M.I.T, working
with my friend Walter Rosenblith to set up the rst archive for that
university. The Morgensterns, from Cleveland, sent their two sons:
Danny, a utist, and Joel, a violinist; in a later year Danny joined
our sta. Another Cleveland friend, Dr. Jerry Gross, also sent his
daughter, Kathy, to the dance department. Mordy worked with Hal
Dinerman at the Jewish Community Centers in New Jersey. Hal and
Miriam Dinerman sent their two daughters, Ellen and Ruth, to IH
for several summers. Ellen is a recognized artist; Ruth works in the
Berkshires, tackling environmental problems.
When friends of these parents heard about the girls happy experiences, they enrolled their children. Recommendations were more
frequent and siblings of former students also wanted to spend a
summer working in the arts.
The 1956 diary, recorded by Elisabeth, starts with stories similar
to those of the year before: delayed arrivals, unexpected illnesses
of sta members who couldnt be with us, sta meetings, visitors,
and, on July 6, Dishwasher left.
My father visited IH on July 20, 1956 and died four weeks later,
on August 14. We knew he was a type A personality, but we didnt
know that he had heart disease. My brothers ew to New York from
California twice, once to visit him in the hospital and, a week later,
for the funeral. It was more upsetting to me than I had anticipated.
We dedicated the yearbook to my father, who had certainly been
helpful to us. My mothers gift to me from his small estate helped us
buy the house we lived in for twenty-three years. It was a historic 15room house, beautifully situated on six acres with a formal garden
and a small caretakers cottage.
One eventful day in fall 2002, two students, whose names were
often in my mind, came back into our lives. For one unfathomable
reason or another, I had searched for both of them over the years.
Letters were returned: Addressee unknown. I tried to nd them
332
through others who had been at IH with them, with no success.

Then, out of the blue, on my morning e-mail I read a long letter
from Philip Fass, who had been in the lm making department with
Bob Edelstein, known to all as Edel, a much beloved teacher. An
exciting telephone call from Rick Fanning came that night. Rick
and I have the most constant e-mail correspondence of all IHers,
in addition to frequent phone callseven from China, when he had
been invited to accompany his former students.
We occasionally see Ann Snitow and Henry Shapiro who teach at
the New School, across the street. Ann is at the Eugene Lang College of the New School University and is published regularly. Mordy
remembers talking with her as he drove a group on our weekly trip
day. He asked her what she had learned at IH. That Im so ignorant, she answered. Ann writes about womens history and feminism. We met her at a local gathering not too long ago. Mordy
asked why she didnt come back for a second summer at IH. I was
really sorry that you didnt return and I missed you, he told her.
Because I was afraid it wouldnt be as good, was the reply. That
never occurred to us as a reason to abandon our program, though it
would have been even more upsetting to us then than it was when
Ann said it. Karen Christenfeld was another bright child in 57.
Because Rick Fanning telephoned us, I called Henry Shapiro to tell
him of the surprising call from Vienna. And Ive always wondered
about Karen, I added.
Shes in town, Henry told me, and she lives in Rome. Next
time I talked to Rick I gave him Karens address. I expect that he
will go to see her when he can.
Just because I write about these particular alumni doesnt mean
theyre the only ones we remember. I remember all of the names
and even some addresses. Thats because I wrote four or ve letters every year to parents, and addressed hundreds of envelopes.
In addition, I typed names and addresses of all the students and
sta in the yearbooks. All that typing and editing of poetry, editori-
333
als, articles about daily life, programs of sta and student performances. I repeat: all that typing! And all under pressure to get the
yearbook printed in time for my self-imposed deadline!
Those yearbooks began to be more elaborate, full of drawings
as well as poetry, student articles about IH activities, satires about
sta and students. Toward the nal years, Marc and I took a photograph of each child, which appeared next to the name on the roster. The town photographer, Clemens Kalischer, took sta and student pictures. There were so many children by then that we divided
those pictures into sections, junior and senior. After 1954, we nally
dared spend money on a cover for the yearbook, silk screened by Joe
Pelkey, a printer in Pittseld. (Joes daughter is Alice, of Alices
Restaurant fame.) I hounded Joe to get it done on time. An art
student designed the cover and it seemed to me that each succeeding year outdid the one before. My secretary, Kathleen, and I spent
hours in the oce, adding and subtracting in the checkbook (mostly
the latter), addressing envelopes for those frequent letters to parents. Together we ran o all the pages on our antique machine.
Only Kathleen knew how to work it; I was her sous-chef.
The sixties became an infamous period, young people revolting
from parental guidance all over the world. Only well-directed, artistic children would even think of coming to our program. So those
who did were outstanding. I am in awe when I think of all they have
accomplished.
When we bought the big house on Prospect Hill, it was a social
jump from the Cherry Hill farmhouse and only a stones throw from
IH. We paid the same amount for our house in 1956 that we had
paid in 1952 for Indian Hill: $30,000. I now call the income from
its sale in 1978 and the sale of Stockbridge real estate investments
our pension plan.
In the early seventies we heard that property contiguous to IH
was for sale. By joining in partnership with Mordys brothers (Abe
and Henry), we bought it. I had a mad idea wed use that land for a
334
proper ball eld and tennis courts. We rented a bulldozer to try to

make a level eld; it was too wet and too costly to drain. Local gossip was that we were going to build a super market! On restricted
Prospect Hill? Perhaps another subtle anti-Semitic sentiment.
We also bought property across the road when we thought we
could not accommodate all the older girls in the main house. We
rented that house during the winter and on that property was a 100foot greenhouse. We replaced broken glass, repaired plant tables,
grew geraniums and fuchsia for sale, and started tomato plants for
the kitchen at IH. Friends called Mordy Farmer Bauman. I lugged
the ats of seeds and sprouts in the spring until my back wouldnt
take it any more.
A Berkshire Eagle story on June 12, 1970, reported:
MUSICIAN BAUMANS HOBBY:
Raising Biblical Plants
Mordecai Bauman is a charming, silver-bearded gentleman
who says his life is made up of hobbies. One of his hobbies
is growing Biblical plants. When Bauman and his wife Irma,
proprietors of Indian Hill, purchased property across the road
from the music workshop on Prospect Hill, Stockbridge, they
acquired a greenhouse. The building was here, so I decided
to use it. My friends told me to specialize in something, so I
decided to try my hand at growing Biblical plants, he said.
On a trip to Israel . . . Bauman purchased seeds of myrtle,
castor beans, almond, date and dwarf pomegranate, among
others, from a professional seed man in Haifa. The germination of these seeds in their unnatural habitat was slow, but all
are healthy plants now in the Indian Hill garden greenhouse.
Theres a great interest in Biblical plants in Israel, he
said. A columnist in the Jerusalem Post writes about these
plants weekly. Bauman, who was a cantor at Temple Anshe
Amunim for 10 years, tries to identify plants, trees and owers
which are mentioned in the Torah. Aloe, a beautifully shaped
plant similar to a pink violet, is Baumans favorite. It reminds
me of King Solomon, the Queen of Sheba and Israelites bearing gifts, he said.
335
Bauman is managing director at Symphony Hall in Newark,

N. J., during the week. On weekends he can be found puttering in his greenhouse engaged in the fascinating hobby of horticulture. We all need a change of pace in our lives. We need
to be alone with ourselves. Gardening is so peaceful; its like
being in another world, he said.
We sold that property when we no longer needed it for students;

and little by little we sold the empty parcels of land for building
lots on Prospect Hill. The last piece was sold in 1992 for $90,000
truly, a large part of our pension.
Our own house and gardens had been extensively renovated by
the former owner, Mr. Herslo. It was a marvelous home; Mordy
and I could hardly believe we were living in it. I was very uneasy
about taking on such a large and luxurious estate, but Lotte Jacobi
convinced me we should buy it. IH paid part of our household
expenses, and, happily for me, Aggie Lammie was able and willing
to help me in the winters as well as handle the housekeeping at IH
in summers. The house had seven bedrooms and ve bathrooms.
We made some renovations: I had a darkroom built in the cellar and
used the space under the sun porch (which we eventually enclosed)
for an art studio. I converted a small bedroom into an oce, installing the desk I had inherited from Henry Moskowitz, and that Multilith machine to reproduce the yearbooks.
We lled our bedrooms during Parent Weekends with friends
whose children were performing. That wonderful house was
recently sold for the fourth time since we sold itfor $880,000!
To our astonishment and almost shock, we discovered that the last
buyers tore it down in 1992 to build a house twice its already enormous size.
An article in the Berkshire Eagle, October 1994, by Gina Gold:
STOCKBRIDGE: A Berkshire cottage of the 1990s is rising
on Prospect Hill, the site of Naumkeag, Oronoque and other
stately mansions that gave the Southern Berkshire landscape
336
its distinctive elegance at the turn of the century. Nothing
quite like this has gone up here in years, said Building Inspector Gordon D. Bailey, whose oce at Town Hall has rolls and
rolls of plans on le for the project.
The 16,750-square-foot wood frame mansion has been under
construction for more than a year, and because of its size and
visibility has been the subject of much discussion and curiosity in town. A building permit for the project pegs the cost
of the home at about $3 million. But the word in town is that
the house, with its swimming pool and changing house, outdoor pavilion, library, sun room, elevator, wine cellar and two
exercise and entertainment rooms, is so well built and luxurious that the price tag is closer to $10 million, if not more.
The master suite boasts a buttressed ceiling. . . . The term
cottages was a tongue-in-cheek reference to the sprawling
manses built throughout the area. Today, most of them have
been converted into hotels, spas, condominiums, schools and
other institutions.
Doris (Hall) and Kalman Kubinyi, artists whom we knew in

Cleveland and who followed us to Stockbridge, helped decorate
our house. Doris made wonderful color decisions when we moved
in. Our home and our childrens homes are full of her extraordinary enamels. She made unusual pieces for us: One is a gorgeous
punch bowl, gold and red (now in the Cleveland Museum); another
is a round dining room table with family names embedded in the
enamel; still another was the large abstract plaque that we hung on
the front of the house. We called it the button to keep the house
in place. Neighbors thought it might be a Jewish symbol; we didnt
know how to deal with that silly comment so we joked it was an
Amish hex sign, to keep strangers away.
Stockbridge and Lenox were named The Last Resorts in a book
by Cleveland Amory. Many Supreme Court judges summered there,
including Stephen Field. The Field family owned much of Prospect
Hill.
337
Cyrus and Matthew Field struggled for years before they successfully completed the transatlantic cable. Harpers Weekly of 1858
published a verse glorifying the achievement:
Bold Cyrus Field, he said, said he,
I have a pretty notion
That I can run a telegraph
Across the Atlantic Ocean.
And may we honor evermore
The manly, bold and stable,
And tell our sons to make them brave
How Cyrus laid the cable.
Other American names connected with Stockbridge were Dwight

and Sedgwick. Today, the Austen Riggs Center, the Norman Rockwell Museum, and the Berkshire Playhouse bring new tourists and
residents to the town; summers bring noted musicians to Tanglewood. The Field name is particularly resonant to us. In 1847, a young
governess, Henriette Desportes, left her noble employer in London
for an even more noble family in Paris. She became embroiled in
the trial of her French employer, who was accused of murdering his
wife. Henry Field went to her rescuea romantic taleand married
her. All This and Heaven Too is their story, as told by Rachel Field,
a family descendant and sometime Stockbridge resident. Henry
built the house on Prospect Hill that became our home from 1956
to 1978. Local history locates a bush near the garden marking Henriettes original burial spot. We trimmed that bush carefully and
told the present owner about it.
The main building at Indian Hill was given landmark status in
the late seventies. Six apartments replace the original family rooms.
My summer oce is now a bathroom, complete with pink tile walls
and a Jacuzzi! The Ives room is a living room with kitchenette. We
visited it and I looked for the leak in the ceiling that Mr. Pilling and
I tried to x every year. Its no longer there.
338
When
we traveled, the rst thing we did in a new city was to

check the current cultural scene. We learned that lesson in Rome,
when we realized we missed a rare performance of Kurt Weills
music. After that disappointment, we never forgot to peruse newspapersif we could read the language, more or lessor ask, whats
happening tonight? at the hotel desk. In the winter of 1971 we
went to Spain for an winter vacation, unusual for us. We spent two
weeks in Majorca and some days in Barcelona and Madrid. Culture
in Majorca was limited to the Caves of Art, the Cathedral in Palma,
Robert Gravess home, and the abbey where Chopin and George
Sand spent a miserable winter.
We rented a house near Art from our musician friends, Reggie
and Harry Rubinstein. Jimmy Kunen, who was my best friend in the
Yonkers kindergarten, decided to join us. Harry hesitantly charged
us $50 a week; sharing it with Jim meant it cost us only halfand it
included a housekeeper who brought us roses every day.
It was February and cold. None of the heating methods worked:
The electric heater depended on the uncertain electrical supply;
the kerosene stove was beyond our mechanical ability; the replace
smoked. But we had a marvelous time, loved being there and with
Jim.
The charming housekeeper invited us to her home for our nal
Sunday dinner. We met her children and husband, and although he
was close to our age, he looked much older. He was in hiding in the
barn for ve years during the Spanish Civil War. Our Spanish was
limited, Catalan beyond us. I was desperate to communicate. I tried
to sing partisan songs from our collection of Civil War recordings;
the family wasnt familiar with my repertoire until I started to sing
The Internationale. They all joined in. It was the highlight of our
two week stay.
Jim had to go home, so we went to Madrid without him for a
week. On a street poster, we discovered that the Hungarian Bartk
Quartet would be playing two concerts of Bartks quartets, three
339
one night and three the next. We were delighted since we knew
those men. Mordy had presented them in concert in New Jersey and
we had entertained them in our home.
It was astounding to discover that East European musicians, certainly anti-fascist, bound to be anti-Franco, were allowed to perform in Francos Madrid. We dashed o to buy tickets for both
nights. We arrived early to go backstage and arrange to spend time
with the musicians. They were as excited to see us as we were to
nd them in Madrid. Well have dinner tomorrow night after the
second concert, they decided. While we waited for the concert to
begin, Mordy and I chattered together excitedly, still surprised at
the unexpected meeting. The young man next to me studied the
program. I thought he was Jewishhis complexion was olive, Sephardic.
Isnt it meshugah? I asked him, the Bartk Quartet in
Madrid?
I dont speak English, he answered. That would have been the
end of that, but I noticed his deep concentration on the music. It
seemed to me that if he wasnt Jewish he must at least be a musician.
The following night we met again during the intermission. I
made it clear to him that the musicians were our friends. Now he
was eager to talk to us and tell us that he was an artist; his studio
was nearby. I kept looking at a gold cross in his lapel, and, wondering if that was a fascist symbol. I pointed and asked, Que est?
He tried to explain that it was a piece of jewelry. Im a priest,
he said in Spanish, and I understood him.
Are you a priest-painter or a painter-priest? I challenged. He
thought about it and nally answered, A painter-priest, and he
told us his name was Julin Casado.
My limited Spanish and the painters nonexistent English made
more conversation dicult. After the concert, I suggested to Seor
Casado that he join us for supper with the quartet, thinking one of
340
them spoke Spanish. He threw up his hands in exaggerated frustration and tried to explain that he had a previous appointment with
someone important.
It was impossible to understand his pronunciation so he wrote
the name on my program. He was meeting Sergiu Celibidache, the
Romanian conductor. That name would have meant nothing to us
if we hadnt seen him conduct a concert in Barcelona the previous
week; now we knew very well who he was. Hes coming to see my
paintings. We had been enormously impressed by his performance
of Stravinskys Symphony of Psalms. I thought that if Celibidache
is interested in his paintings, maybe we should be, too.
That resulted in another wonderful encounter, not with Celibidache but with Flora Alvarez. Julin had raced down the aisle to
intercept her as she was leaving. She came along to interpret what
he was trying to tell us. She sauntered up to us, the handsomest
woman in the audience. She asked if she could be helpful: Perhaps
you would like to see his work? I own some of Julins paintings and
I am sure you will like them. Ill pick you up at your hotel and take
you to his studio in the morning, she promised.
And thats what happened. We saw the paintings, and though it
is denitely not our habit, we bought one. It is a gouache; Julin
asked us to postpone our ight home, since the painting had to
be framed before we could pack it, or the gouache would be damaged. Whats more, Julin insisted on taking us to a performance
of Lorcas Yerma. Flora explained why it was important to him: The
profound play about a womans role in society had been banned by
Franco. All the actors in Spain protested. They went on strike, closing every theater in the nationthe ban had to be lifted. Flora said
that we must see it. The leading actress, Nuria, is world famous.
At Indian Hill, one summer, students had performed scenes from
Yerma, so we were familiar with the story. We knew that yerma
means barren. Julin took us to the theater; the performance
didnt start until 11 p.m.! We struggled to stay awake and to under-
341
stand the language. It didnt matter that most of the words were
beyond us; the performance was sensational.
The entire stage was a canvas trampoline, representing the
earth, sometimes raised in tent formations indicating interiors. For
one scene the canvas was used as a backdrop: nude actors hanging
from loops in a Walpurgisnacht-like dream. Julin tried to explain
Lorcas analogies to the barren land and barren women in dialectical terms. We decided he was a Marxist priest.
Mordy told Julin about our summer school and invited him to
come and be our artist-in-residence. When I used to tell this story
to friends, I say that I can turn a pick-up acquaintance into a
friendship; Mordy is the one who invites him home. Julin spent
two summers at Indian Hill. His English is not much better thirty
years later. I wrote to him knowing that Flora would translate the
letters. She became our cherished friend. We maintained a frequent
correspondence for years and remain close to her two sets of twins:
Laura and Mario, and Pablo and Alvaro. Flora played the cello,
spoke about nine languages, traveled with her engineer husband
who built dams all over the world. Sadly, she fell and died, walking
in the mountains near her home village in Switzerland.
The famous art curator, Alfred Barr, now enters the Julin
story. Don Emerson, our drama director for fteen summers, taught
in a New York City private school, where one of his colleagues was
Alfred Barrs wife. Barr was the director of the Museum of Modern Art and the most inuential curator of contemporary art in the
United States. During the summer of 1972, Julins rst summer
with us, Barr visited his friend Dorothy Miller in Stockbridge, who
had been on the museum sta. They walked up our hill and stopped
at Indian Hill to see Don, who loved Julins work, and who showed
the paintings to the Barrs. Mr. Barr admired them; he said they
compared favorably to any abstract painting that was being shown
at the time. We had already arranged for an exhibit of the paintings
in a Stockbridge gallery and Barrs admiration encouraged us to
342
promote Julin intensively. Eventually, we organized nine exhibits

of his work, in places as dierent as the Boston Museum of Science,
the International Monetary Fund, and galleries in New York, the
Berkshires, and Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
Julin was released from his duties as a priest in order to pursue his career as a painter. Today he is married to the lovely Eli,
and lives in Aranjuez, not far from Madrid. His work is exhibited in
many galleries in Spain, and he has set up a foundation to preserve
his work as well as works of other Spanish artists. Julin now knows
what meshugah means.
F requent
chance encounters with former students bring back

memories of their happy and purposeful summers at Indian Hilla
great reward. Students seem to nd each other; they share similar
interest in the arts, so even if they attended during dierent summers, they often recognize a particular style and make the connection when they meet in later years. We know of a few married couples
who had no idea for some years that they had each spent summers
with usthen they call or write to report the coincidence.
Dennis Boutsikaris has made an outstanding career in the theater. He was Mozart in Amadeus on Broadway. One of my favorite IH photos is a snapshot I took of Julie Taymor, sitting on the
front lawn with her back against the famous IH elm tree. Dennis is
lying on the ground, back to the camera, talking to Julie. His head
is resting on his hand, his elbow on the grass, a big comb sticks
out of his pocket. They were so deep in conversation they never
noticed me or my camera. We go to see his performances when we
can. Dennis also appears in several television series and movies. He
took over the lead in Equus, following Tom Hulce; he played the
painter in a very interesting play Sight Unseen; he was Woody
Allen in a two-part movie made for television, and continues to be
seen in leading roles in Broadway and o-Broadway productions. As
I write, in May 2005, he is currently Picasso in a hit play about A
343
Picasso, which I will see with a young actor I refer to as an Indian

Hill grandchild, whose mother is Nancy Michelman, one of the
crew of three who invaded Mr. Foots abandoned garage, in eect
causing Arlos Alices Restaurant to be sung and lmed.
Frank Rich, former theater critic at The New York Times, spent
three summers at IH. In his autobiography, Ghost Light, he
described how his mother chose Indian Hill for his rst experience
at a teenage summer camp. Part of his mothers decision seems
to have been based on our proximity to all the cultural venues that
Joe Kruger told us would be important to our program.
She was also inuenced by a letter of appreciation we quoted,
written by the then well-known playwright S. N. Behrman. Frank
wrote (p. 158):
Instead of other camps glossy pictures of kids in greasepaint,
Indian Hills brochure featured encomiums from famous practitioners of the arts, including Charles E. Ives, American composer, and S. N. Behrman, a playwright whose name I recognized from my theater books. . . . it was clear that Behrman
was not talking about sports, an out-of-focus snapshot of a basketball game was relegated to the bottom of the brochures last
page, where it was dwarfed by a giant shot of a hootenanny led
by Pete Seeger.
Frank arrived at Indian Hill, encountering sophisticated New

Yorkers who spoke a special argot, which he called Indian Hillisms, and which he quickly made his own.
Everywhere I turned, there was a kid sketching some view in
charcoal or practicing a clarinet with a music stand precariously set up under a tree, or a cluster of dancers heading toward
the barn that served as the dance studio. In this environment
for once I wasnt the odd man out. These campers didnt look
up to jocks but to kids who wrote poetry without capital letters
and rhymes, like e. e. cummings, or aspired to be folksingers
like Bob Dylan. Dylans best imitators among the campers was
Joady Guthrie . . . and, like his older brother Arlo and sister
344
Nora, a child of Marjorie Mazia, the no-nonsense doyenne of
Indian Hills dance faculty, who was divorced from the folksinger Woody Guthrie.
Nor were the Guthrie siblings and I the only Indian Hill kids
with divorced parents. Divorce was practically a fashion. When
one camper talked about a mother and father who were still
married to each other, he was quizzed in detail as if his home
life were an anthropological novelty akin to being raised by
aborigines. . . .
I think that Frank suered more than most IH children of

divorced and remarried parents. We spent many visiting days
shuttling between sets of parents, trying to relate to both and to
convince them that their child was comfortably productive at IH,
committed to his or her work in the area of the arts that brought
them to us.
We will never forget Franks adaptation for the stage of Philip
Roths short story, The Conversion of the Jews. It was a remarkable feat for a fourteen year-old boy, and one of the drama departments great successes.
[Our} playwriting counselor . . . encouraged Harry (Stein) and
me to write and direct plays, and we both adapted stories from
Goodbye, Columbus I chose one about a kid studying for
his bar mitzvah who calls his obnoxious rabbi a bastard and
threatens to kill himself unless everybody in the neighborhood
says that they believe in Jesus Christ. It was almost too much
funif only I had thought up this scene in real life in Washington!
Frank, at almost sixteen, wrote a review of a Shakespeare play for

the yearbook: A production of Hamlet at the Stratford, Connecticut, Shakespeare Theater.
The houselights dimmed, as did the lights on stage, and we
were left in darkness. There was a hushed pause of a few seconds and then from out of the deep came a banging and clang-
345
ing reminiscent of the theme song from TVs Twilight Zone.

We were stupeed for only an instant, however, for a stream of
light became visible. The rst scene of Stratford had begun,
and not unlike the opening dialogue of most of Shakespeares
other tragedies, all the conicts and action of the play were
thrown at the onlooker from the outset.
At least this is what would have happened had not the sound
coming forth from the stage been so loudly incomprehensible.
Nor was the mist really lifted upon the entrance of the ghost.
Present onstage, he couldnt help put some clarication into
the already muddled proceedings. Yet, when he joined in with
a voice more suited to Damon Runyon than William Shakespeare, every hope of a unifying mood was shattered.
Tom Sawyers entrance was no help either. Forthright and
vigorous at rst, he eventually fell into rhetorical patterns that
became less and less interesting as the production stumbled
forward. Not much more can be said for the other performances. . . .
I cant bear to copy what Frank thought of the other actors! He

wrote as he was destined to do for about fteen years: forthright,
fearless, literate theater reviews as drama critic at The New York
Times, where he was not the rst to earn the epithet, Butcher
of Broadway. The following short bio appeared in The New York
Times, October 1, 2004:
Frank Richs column, appearing Sundays on the cover of Arts &
Leisure, explores the intersection of politics and culture. He is
also associate editor and servers as adviser for the newspapers
overall cultural news report. He was previously a columnist on
the Op-Ed page and became senior writer for The Magazine
in January 1999. In his tenure at The Times he has explored a
variety of topics at length, drawing from his background as a
theater critic and observer of art, entertainment and politics.
We admire him, appreciating his honesty and intellect.

He continues to make headlines and is the subject of magazine
articles, some very critical of his critiques. As of April 2005, his
346
column appears on a newly designed Sunday op-ed page, two pages

really. He continues to write in the same critical vein he began as a
young theater goer and lover. He published a book containing onethird of his New York Times reviews1000 pages! When I wrote to
congratulate him, he responded, I began to learn all that stu at
Indian Hill. In his memoir, published in 2000, he wrote appreciatively about IH, about friendships he made and kept, and loving
memories.
Among other well known alumni, Arlo is certainly famous among
crossword puzzle fans and folk music devotees. Perhaps this is the
time to tell what really happened with that garbage:
E very
summer, Mordys opening announcement explained the

facts of Stockbridge life, warning students to stay away from Mr.
Foots ruins, the cellar hole being the only visible reminder of
the lovely house we had seen in 1949. Arlo heard that lecture three
summers in a row: Stay within the boundaries of the IH property;
do not cross the roadtrac is heavy, especially on Tanglewood
weekends. Dont go into town, the merchants dont appreciate your
invasion or want your business; sit, if you must, on the bank overlooking the ruins but do not walk on the road between IH and the
remains of the cellar. By the time Arlo came to study drama with
us the episode had cooled, and no one took it seriously any more.
Warnings were treated casually; no one really believed in New England enemies in the sixties. Arlo joined the tradition, sitting on the
wall with his friends, hearing Mr. Foots passing tirades.
Then came Thanksgiving 1966. Arlo had been visiting Alice
Brock, who had a small Main Street restaurant in Stockbridge.
Everyone knew Alice, she was one of the towns hippies. She lived
in a dilapidated church in Housatonic and that year invited Arlo
and his friends for Thanksgiving dinner. Over the years, junk had
collected in the neglected building and Arlo oered to clean it up
before dinner. There were broken chairs, bits of crockery, newspa-
347
Arlo, the garbage, and Alices Restaurant.
pers, Alices old lesall sorts of trash,

not really garbage. Arlo piled it into the
back of his station wagon and went o
to the town dump. He was still a city
boy and didnt realize that small town
dumps are closed on holidays. He tried
the disposal spots in Housatonic, Great
Barrington, and Stockbridge. All were
closed. In his frustration, as I imagine
it, he decided, Ah! Ill get back at that
cantankerous old coot next door to Indian Hill. His ruins are already
full of junk. Ill just add this stu to whats there.
In the summer of 1965, Ocer Obie had received a complaint
from Foot. Tourists driving by often tossed stu out of their car
windows into what had been the cellar. The chief went to check the
vacant property and found Alices name on some papersthe same
kind of evidence our students had left on papers in the old garage.
348
Alice told Obie that Arlo had helped her clean out her church,
so Arlo was arrested for littering and spent the night in the town
lockup. He and Obie made history that Thanksgiving. Arlo made
the story into a legend in folk song circles. The recording sold millions of copies; an 18-minute rap about garbage, eight by ten glossy
photos, the draft, Arlos arrest, and Alices Restaurant, where you
can still get anything you want. The refrain became an antiwar
melody and made Arlo famous.
Many years later, a young woman wrote a biography of Arlo. She
was a local Pittseld girl and must have read a gossip column in the
Berkshire Eagle in November 1995, memorializing the Thanksgiving weekend episode.
Contractor Rick Robbins . . . stopped by the South County
oce [of the Eagle] to set the record straight about his adventures with . . . Arlo Guthrie 30 years ago (yes, he was the
other guy who was, along with Guthrie, ticketed for littering
by former Stockbridge Police Chief Bill Obanheim in that historic Thanksgiving Day caper in 1965.)
Robbins pointed out that the site on Prospect Street . . .
where they dumped Alice Brocks garbage was by no means
a pristine hillside. I dont know if it was legal or illegal, but
where we were was a dump site for the (former) Indian Hill
School.
The biographer rewrote history by changing Ricks error into

another: Her book reported that Arlo dumped the garbage on the
Indian Hill dump, which resulted in an angry letter from me: No,
Indian Hill did not have a dump!
Jake brackman is still working in theater productions. In fall 2002,

his musical adaptation of King of Hearts premiered at the Goodspeed Opera House, in Connecticut.
Harry Steins articles appear in national magazines. He has published several books, one of which will be a major motion picture.
Lynne Littman won an Oscar for her lm Testament, starring Jane
349
Alexander. Eden Lipson is an editor for The New York Times Book
Review. Rosalind Newman has her own dance company in Hong
Kong; Elina Mooney is in the Cli Keuter dance company. John
Parks was a featured dancer in Alvin Aileys dance company. Miguel
Cond now lives in the U.S. and has been honored by Spain as an outstanding artist. We also see notices of exhibits of works from our art
department IHers and sometimes manage to go to their openings.
Laszlo Kubinyi has an outstanding career. He illustrates childrens
books and television programs. He is also a talented draughtsman,
producing work for books and magazines, for National Geographic
and, recently, for U.S. News and World Reports article about Dan
Browns best seller The DaVinci Code.
We note reviews of IH composers, whose music is often performed: Russell Peck, David Ward-Steinman, Steve Gerber, Joel
Feigin, Gregory Sandow, Richard Teitelbaum, and David Behrman.
Musicians who spent summers with us joined major orchestras. In
addition to Jerome Ashby and Leonard Hindell bassoonist, both still
in the in the New York Philharmonic in 2005, Paul Fried was utist
for many years in the BSO and other orchestras. Our alumni helped
break the color barrier in U.S. orchestras. Booker T. Rowe is one of
the rst black musicians to play (violin) in a major orchestra, the
Philadelphia; Desimont Alston is in the Washington Symphony.
Samuel Rhodes is the violist of the Juilliard Quartet. Bob Kreis
conducted Broadway and o-Broadway musicals; he writes and
directs as well. Billy Mernit writes popular songs, as does Frank
Fuchs. David Friedman and Peter Kogan are jazz musicians. Richard Wexler achieved certain fame as one of the rst musicians to
earn his living playing violin in the New York City subways. Meg
Wolitzers books have been successful; one was made into a funny
movie called This Is My Life, directed by Nora Ephron. In 2005 she
published her fourth novel, The Position. In a full page advertisement in The New Yorker one reviewer wrote: Meg . . . is so smart
and funny she should be bottled and sold over the counter. Lisa
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Schwarzbaum played viola at IH and accompanied Jimmy Warings

dance classes. She is a well known movie critic, reviewing lms for
Entertainment Weekly. She was a member of the board of our lm
company: Timely Productions for Television.
Scott-Martin Kosofsky had a promising career in early music,
especially in the Boston area, where he joined his IH pal Tom
Pixton, a wonderful harpsichordist, in chamber music concerts.
Tom and Scott have changed careers. Tom is deeply involved in
Romanian music; Scott has successfully changed the direction of
his artistic activity altogether, and we kvell about his achievement
as a designer, producer, and writer of books. (Youre looking at his
handiwork right now.) Two of Scotts high school buddies from Philadelphia, Jerey Kirschen and Jean-Yves Benichou, joined us for
two summers. Je Kirschen was already a ne horn player and is
today a member of the august Philadelphia Orchestra. Jean-Yves
(John back then, Benjy nowadays) studied bass at Yale and
later moved to France, where he is principal bassist of the Strasbourg Philharmonic. Another Philadelphian, Je Greenberg (IH
67-69), has been in touch recently to tell us about his musical life
in Las Vegas, where he directs a Rat Pack-era big band, in which
he plays pianonot bassoon!
Kathy Barr lives a few blocks from our apartment; she is a cantor
at a nearby synagogue. Jayne and Jill Bender are both dancing in
active dance companies. The Eisen girls were with us again, Liz as
a student and Amy on the sta. We began to feel more comfortable
hiring former students: Jerry Rosen was our conductor for three
summers; Lisa Schwarzbaum, Marion Klein, Bill Rhein, Lynne
Warhoftig (with her husband, Richard Kutner), and John Atlas
were among former students who became helpful sta members,
encouraging us to continue that pattern.
Other students I know about are Martin Goldray, now an accomplished pianist whose name we see in the paper announcing an
upcoming concert; Sabina Laurain, utist in the Mexico symphony;
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Andrew Luchansky, teaching at California State University, Sacramento; Jonathan Mann, a jazz musician, often in touch with Chuck;
Joshua Rodriguez, a busy violinist in Albany, teaching and playing
in chamber music concerts; Jay Bernfeld, a violinist in his IH days,
now a prominent viola da gambist in Paris; Nina Wishengrad, living in Amherst, writes to us, and is producing in regional theaters.
That list surprises me. Although I was not at IH for two weeks that
summer, I clearly remember more than half of that gang!
A question we were sometimes asked was what well-known parents sent their children to us. Harry Steins father is Joseph, who
wrote Fiddler on the Roof; he was a fellow student of Mordys at
James Monroe High School (one year ahead of Mordy) and editor of
the school paper.
S. N. Behrmans plays are still performed all over the world; conductors Erich Leinsdorf and Julius Rudel sent their children, Jenny
Leinsdorf and Tony Rudel to IH. Tony stayed in the program for
four summers. Leonard Rose, the cellist, sent Barbara; composer
Leon Kirchners daughter Lisa developed her acting and singing
talent with us. We hear her cabaret performances in New York. Leo
Rosten sent his daughter, Mady. Jazz musicians Stan Getz, Lester
Lanin, Harry Salter, and Mel Lewiss girls were with us. The principal oboist of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, Ralph Gomberg,
sent his daughter Jamie to spend a summer with us. Shakespearean
actor Will Geers son Tad was a student, and his wife Herta was on
our sta. The actor Joe Silvers son Chris studied bass with Chuck.
Betty Comdens daughter Susanna. Henry Grunwalds son Peter
was in our rst lm classhe now works in the lm industry. Mordy
had introduced Earl Robinsons The House I Live In in a Broadway revue, Let Freedom Sing. He sang Earls Ballad for Americans
and Joe Hill many times. It was like old home week when his son
Perry, now a jazz clarinetist, came to study jazz with Chuck.
We hear from more former students almost every week. They nd
the IH web site and want to let us know how deeply the experience
352
inuenced their lives. Those who have teenage children mourn that
IH no longer exists.
We note the achievements of people who were on our sta:
Carly Simon spent two summers with us. I dont suppose I have
to describe her success or her collaboration with Jake Brackman,
who wrote the words to dozens of Carlys songs. On May 21, 1995,
the Lifetime Cable Channel aired a two-hour documentary program
about Carly. Jake was the narrator for the rst hour; the second
hour featured Carlys free concert at Grand Central Station in New
York. Carly spoke about meeting Jake at a summer camp where he
was the lifeguard [at our pool] and I taught guitar. Jake teased her
about a crush she had on a camper.
Dorothy Dehner had an enormous success as a painter; much
of it came late in her life. She lived around the corner from us;
we admired her work and thought of her as a trusted condante.
The year before her death in September 1994, she had a one-woman
show at the Corcoran Gallery in Washington. Her sculptures are
at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Storm King, and in museums
and galleries around the country. In spite of increasing blindness,
Dorothy remained interested in what was happening all around her,
and was the subject of articles, interviews in the press, radio, and
television.
Norman Lewis was only with us one summer. He became very
important in the black artists community. His delicate paintings
appeared in many solo exhibits. His students loved his sensitive personality. Kalman Kubinyi, our Cleveland friend, was perhaps the
most appreciated art teacher on our sta. He moved to Stockbridge
to be near us and opened a studio on the main street. I built a special space for him under the porch of our house before we built the
art studio at the Hill.
Seymour Lipkin concertizes and teaches piano at both the Juilliard School and the Curtis Institute. When he was 19, he won the
Rachmanino Prize. He has performed with the Juilliard and Guar-
353
nieri Quartets, and is artistic director of the Kneisel Hall Chamber Music Festival at Blue Hill, Maine. He spent our rst seven
summers with us, commuting the two miles to Tanglewood, where
he often performed for an audience of 15,000! The violinist Sidney Harth, the longtome concertmaster of the Los Angeles Philharmonic, teaches at Yale University and is a soloist and conductor
with leading symphony orchestras all over the world. He and his
wife, Terry, organized the string quartet in residence during the
rst three summers at IH.
Our rst composition teachers were Henry Cowell (1952) and
Wallingford Riegger (1953). In later years Andr Singer and Alvin
Lucier joined the sta. Leon Kroll (rst violinist of the Kroll Quartet) and Eric Rosenblith taught violin for several summers. Individual instruments were generally taught by members of the Boston
Symphony. Victor Rosenbaum taught piano and for many years was
the head of the Longy School in Cambridge. John Goberman conducted our orchestra one summer; he created the television program
Live from Lincoln Center, where our son Marc is the Coordinating
Producer. Kirk Browning has directed most of the programs.
Mordy met Marlin Merrill in the army in 1944. We hired him
to direct the Madrigal group and teach voice.
He stayed with us for fteen summers and
recorded the group one summer. We called
that group the Elite of Indian Hill, the only
program that required an audition. His discipline and musicianship awed his students.
Marlin taught at the Eastman School. Renee
Fleming was one of his students when she
was in high school near Rochester. Marlin
was understandably proud of her.
Carolyn Fabricant was a Stockbridge resident who became very important to me. She
was my assistant in many areas, for many
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summers. Her father owned the local drug store and we knew her
rst as Carolyn Shields. She remembers Josh buying sodas at the
fountain when he was a teenager. Carolyn was working in my oce
when she met Don Fabricant, who was a member of our sta for
several summers. He moved to Santa Fe and established a painting
and teaching career there.
Don Emerson, who was head of the Drama Department for fteen summers, stayed in close touch with us until he died in June
2001. He maintained high standards when,
all around us, other summer drama programs tried to outdo Broadway musicals with
only two weeks of rehearsals. Parents often
bragged, My child was in Oklahoma at summer camp. It was better than on Broadway!
We knew that wasnt real. Frequently, Don
planned his summer theater program around
interesting themes: Shakespeares Women,
Greek Plays, Creative Artists, Love, and the
Bible. In Dance Magazine of April 1959, Paul
Aelder (who happened to be an IH parent)
wrote about the Bible project.
Our family refers to Don as Mr. Indian
Hill. He was part of our lives for over forty years. We listen to music
and think about Don. We go to the theater and wish he were with
us. We still want to share each pleasant event with him, and ask for
his sympathy when one of us is in trouble. Don changed the character of the drama department. His taste in programming satised
us completely; we never asked him what he planned to produce, or
what his ideas were about teaching acting, or how he would cast
and direct the plays. He was an indefatigable worker. Hours meant
nothing to him, relationship to his students was everything.
Some former students replied to the announcement of his
death:
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I have such fond memories of himhis wry sense of humor, his

kindnesses to all of us rambunctious and needy and self-dramatizing kids; his intelligence. I know hell be missed by generations of former students. Frank Rich
Don made us feel that we were part of something important
and realand that our opinions counted, no matter how much
growing they still had to do. Our indelibly interesting conversations were the catalyst for my reading and seeing and hearing for years. One summer, after I had railed on about the
unnecessary diculty of Finnegans Wake, Don lent me a copy
of Dubliners. Those perfect stories were a quiet epiphany for
me, and theyre forever linked to Don in my memory. Scott
Kosofsky
My memories of him are only of the most general nature, but
his essence will always live in my heart. He was True Blue.
You could count on him without question. He told the truth,
and didnt jerk you around. Thats gold in my book. Carolyn
Fabricant
Don introduced me to the work of T. S. Eliot who remains my
favorite poet to this day. I think that Dons adaptation of Eliot
is about a million times better than Cats. Kate Borger
I remember Don so clearly I could draw his portrait (were I
not an incompetent draughtsman!) I had a great time in the
IH drama program, but I learned a lot too, so I later discovered when I did acting bits from time to time and realized how
much better prepared I was than most of my fellow amateurs.
He was a kind, gentle man who nonetheless pushed in his quiet
way for excellence. Paul Breslin
Don was our stalwart supporter. His warm friendship, love, and
concern continued for twenty-ve more years. Every summer since
Indian Hill, he spent a week with us in Huntington, Massachusetts,
cooking, talking about music and art, commiserating about problems irking us at the time. His visits to New York were full of joy
and snappy conversation. We havent accepted the fact that he will
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no longer be at the other end of the telephone line. A year before

he died he insisted that we set up an Indian Hill website. Our friend
Ben Wilchfort gladly designed it: www.wilchfort.com/indianhill.
Don would be so pleased that the Internet has brought many of our
children back to us.
Ccile and Don were responsible for a memorable event in my
life. When I celebrated my 50th birthday on August 10, 1965, it
happened that my four children were all spending the summer with
us: Chuck teaching at IH, Elisabeth living with us after she came
home from Paris, Josh and Marc both students at IH. Ccile, Don
Emerson, and Elisabeth decided to surprise me. After a sta birthday party in our house, Lis said, Come upstairs to your bedroom;
I have something to show you. I hadnt a clue.
The projector was set up, I sat down. In less than two minutes I
was laughing so hard the tears were hard to control, not to mention
my bladder. Elisabeth and Don had planned an 8mm lm about my
children, with Ccile as the photographer. In it, each of my children
is seen doing all the things most irritated me: Elisabeth is smoking,
trying to drag herself out of bed, sleepy-eyed; Chuck is drinking
Coca-Cola as he sits composing at the piano; Josh is playing Beatles
records on our phonograph, loud as it could go, accompanying the
music on his guitar; Marc teasing the junior girls. He sneaks up to a
door in the girls long house, opens it quietly and rings the morning
wake-up bell right in the ears of the sleeping girls. At the end of the
twelve-minute lm, each of my children goes into our garden and
chooses a ower. They walk up the garden steps, sit down in a row
and peer through the bars of the iron railing on our patio, imprisoned by their mothers demands while holding out a oral oering.
Then they run away from home: Chuck and Elisabeth in their cars,
Josh on his bike, and Marc, the youngest, running behind trying to
catch up. I couldnt believe they had accomplished it without my
knowing. How did they manage it when I claimed I had ears and
eyes behind my back?
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At a much later birthday, I was entertained at dinner in Northampton by two former IHers, Mike Krawitz and Wendy Foxmyn. Wendy
surprised me by adding Lorre Wyatt (folk singer on our sta) to the
group, which also included our friends Ken Schoen and his wife
Jane Trigre. It was a lovely evening for me, made special by a card
Lorre handed me:
Grab a blanket and come out here nowyou dont want to miss
this! A sugary voice cajoledNO!A salty voice portentously
commanded. The voice, a womans, was no suburban-wispof mayonnaise-on-white-bread-with-the-crusts-cut-o type
of voice. It consisted of pastrami and mustard on seeded rye,
crusts-in-command, and Dr. Browns celery tonic and pickles
on the side thatll make you cry.
The voice shoe-horned you out of bed, out of comfortable
complacency. Feet and blankets scrambled out of rooms,
scurried down stairs, left behind dim light bulbs and narrow
visions, and burst into what should have been another deeply
dark Berkshire midsummer night but whoosh --! Somewhere in
the distance a forgetful Norse god or goddess child neglected
to ick o the switch at bedtime and Zap! Wham! Zoom!!!
The Northern Lights blazed into our eyes and woke everything
inside upside down. We gazed, a campful of kids and counselors, for a miraculous moment struck silent at the wonder of it
all, and the voice said (a little softer) Not bad, hah?
It was like watching a birth, Irma (for hers, of course, was the
voice) had once again shut us up! Andopened us up. Forever.
And Irma, I, we thank you. Heres to your birth. Lchayim.
Fondly, Lorre Wyatt. IH sta 1967.
August 10, 1999
Could I really have done that? I dont remember dragging the

kids out of bed, and think he made the entire episode up! But I
certainly enjoyed Lorres Love letter to Irma.
When Jake Brackman joined our sta, he taught writing and
managed the swimming pool activities. We had added a lm class
to the program and thought we could produce a movie; Jake wrote
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the script. Richard Lehfeldt, now a Washington lawyer, acted as an

unhappy student who briey ran away. He was really a happy drama
student but convincingly acted the part of the miserable teenager.
Jane Amler played the young girl who tried to help him feel more
content. She later went on to get her Ph.D. and wrote a book, Christopher Columbus Jewish Roots. Andrew Bergman, on the sta that
summer, played the role of a counselor in our aborted lm project.
He went on to make many movies, starting with Blazing Saddles,
which he wrote with Mel Brooks. He also wrote a comedy called
Social Security, which starred Marlo Thomas and Olympia Dukakis on Broadway. Lisa Schwarzbaum called us after she saw a preview and said that we must go to see itthere is a surprise. So we
went. It opens on a moderne living room, all in white and gray.
Thomas is dashing about, preparing drinks and hors doeuvres. Her
sister and brother-in-law are coming to discuss their elderly mother
(Dukakis), who is embarrassing them by having an aair with an
elderly man. The sister and her husband arrive; the brother-in-law
announces that he doesnt drink before a quarter to eight. The sister looks at the food on the table, tastes a canap and asks, What
kind of cheese is this? Her husband tells her, Dont you know?
Thats brie, thats what we always get at the Baumans.
On opening night, we went to the stage door to see Andy. I
announced that I was his mother and the doorman graciously let
me in. We brought Andy a wheel of brie. He couldnt imagine why,
so we told him we had heard our name and since, We always have
brie at the Baumans, we wanted to be sure he had some. Andy was
grateful, but puzzled. We realized that using our name had come
from his subconscious memory of a large wheel of brie we had
served at the only IH reunion we organized, celebrating Mordys
70th birthday in 1982.
Diane (Higgins) King assumed the role as supervisor of the
junior high school girlsa warm, caring, and talented person. She
retired in 2003 as guidance counselor at a Rochester High School.
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We couldnt believe that anyone else could be as resourceful as Marjorie, but Diane was. Shes a creative person and became a strong
asset to the drama department, especially helpful with costumes.
One of her students in Rochester was Philip Seymour Homan, who
rose to cinema fame. At one New York performance, Diane took our
granddaughter Danielle backstage to meet Phil, as he is called by
his fans. Dani knows better than to ask a star for an autographtoo
dclass for a sophisticated senior at the High School of Performing Arts! Will you come and talk at my school? Dani asked Phil.
Not only did he graciously agree to do that, but he took Dani out
for lunch that day and they have since been cell phone pals. Phil is
interested in whatever career she eventually follows; she hopes it
will be connected to the theater. I met Phil at a performance some
years later, when Danielle was already in the drama department
at Boston University. Your granddaughter is unlike any aspiring
actress I know, he told me.
Michael Krawitz supervised the boys as he alternated between
our Drama and Music Departments for seven summers. Mike was
interested in all aspects of our program, from helping edit the yearbooks to resolving adolescent problems. Hes a talented writer
and teacher; he plays trombone and piano, and is active in popular music groups. Mike brought Josie Abady to join the sta, then
married her and kept her in our family. It was in Mike and Josies
house in Amherst that I organized the IH archives during the summer of 1978.
Josie had an outstanding career as theater director and administrator. She was Artistic Director at the Berkshire Summer Theater
for many summers, and went from there to be director of the Cleveland Playhouse. In 1995 she was appointed Artistic Director of the
Circle in the Square theater company in New York. She produced
a lunchtime theater project at the National Arts Club on Gramercy
Park, Food for Thought. The plays are one-act play readings by
well-known actors. Its an innovative and highly successful venture.
360
After suering from cancer for six years, still continuing to direct
plays in spite of constant chemotherapy, Josie died in May 2002.
Mary Van Dyke worked with Don for seven summers. She was on
the sta of Elisabeth Irwin High School in Greenwich Village, and
then was the famous speech teacher at the Yale School of Drama.
Meryl Streep was only one of her successful students. Mary was a
gifted and dedicated teacher; her expertise in dialect intrigued and
entertained the students.
Shelley Seccombe is an adopted IH relative. Shelley was a violinist, now a photographer, who took ne portraits of Mordy and
me. Her photograph of Mordy was used in The New York Times article about The Stations of Bach in May 1990. The most famous joint
portrait of us was taken by Shelley in Mordys hospital room when I
landed in the next bed, in January 2001 after an attack of transient
global amnesia. Our hands are stretched out to touch across the
space between the beds, both of us grinning as if it was the happiest
moment of our lives. Shelley managed to make us look as though we
were enjoying that uncomfortable moment.
In the early sixties, our friends Jean and Irving Samuels recommended Kit Porter (more formally known now as Dr. Kenneth
Porter) as counselor for the boys and to teach tennis. He was only
19, and we thought he was too young to handle teenagers, some of
them almost as old as he. But Kit was a wonderful addition to our
sta. He was at Harvard, went on to the University of Chicago, and
is now a psychiatrist.
Kit taught us the expression rescue fantasy; we tried not to be
inuenced by that delusion. His importance to me cant be measured. On the last day of the 63 summer, I had a confrontation
with Doris Hall (Kubinyi.) Her gentle husband, Kalman, was our
art teacher for several summers, but Doris did not work at IH. She
is a cat lover, and, unbeknownst to me, she was nursing a cat and
her litter of kittens underneath the dining porch. As some parents
arrived to drive their children home, Doris was giving kittens away
361
to anyone who would take them. Children are susceptible to baby

animalstheir parents are notand some complained angrily to
me. I went furiously to Doris, who said, Irma, dont you know that
cats are human, too! I was outraged, and, as always at the end of
every summer, exhausted. I went home, refusingfor the rst time
in ten yearsto go to the traditional sta nal dinner of steak and
lobster. Later, I realized that the sta didnt really want to stay an
extra day, so we abandoned the dinner after the cat episode. No one
ever complained.
Kit was upset with me for not showing up and came to my house
to nd out what was wrong, and to scold me as well. I wept a little,
telling him about Doris and the kittens, adding, Besides, Ive been
bleeding all summer. Kit, so young, sat me down and lectured me
about seeing a doctor immediately. He convinced me. A couple of
weeks later, I went to see our surgeon friend, Gerald Haidak, and
he discovered that I had a precancerous tumor. I was operated on in
September and have had no recurrence sinceits now more than
forty years later. I owe a lot to Kit.
Kit isnt the only counselor who worked at Indian Hill who became
a psychiatrist. The Austen Riggs Center, which I referred to as our
local industry, periodically called us to suggest that a patient
might be a valuable addition to our sta. Sometimes we needed an
additional artist, sometimes a sports person. One year, Bill Nadel
joined our recreational sta. He had dropped out of Amherst College and entered Riggs to try to resolve his emotional problems.
He not only taught tennis but helped in other important areas. Bill
still calls Mordy Squire, referring to his work in the garden and
greenhouse, and to his membership in the Jack Daniels Tennessee
Squire promotion.
One day Bill came to see us. Squire, he said, Theyve given
me three choices at Riggs. I can stay there and continue analysis, I
can join the army, or I can go back to school.
Thats no choice, said the Squire. You must go back to school
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and nish your studies. Dont give it another thought, just do it.
Bill went to Williams, then medical school, and is now a psychiatrist
at a large hospital in New Jersey. He married a woman we love and
has two marvelous children. We are their surrogate grandparents.
In a later summer, Bill, now Dr. Nadel, and his wife, Ginger, were
visiting us at IH. We were having a really serious problem with an
eighteen-year-old boy, who caused a lot of anxiety among the girls
in the main house. He liked to climb the re escape late at night
and frighten the girls. Would he come in through the window? His
attitude was threatening, and we really couldnt handle him.
It became obvious that he didnt belong at IH and that we
shouldnt have accepted him in the rst place. He refused to go
home, begging us not to call his parents. We nally had to, and his
father arrived in a chaueur-driven Mercedes. The boy was scared
to death of his father; we imagined he was a Maa Don. We turned
to Bill for help. He talked to the distraught father and recommended
that he send his son to Riggs for evaluation if they would accept
him. Bill convinced a doctor at Riggs to take the boy in.
During the sixties, we agonized about drug problems and discussed the problem with camp owners at meetings during the winter. Our lawyers brother-in-law, Judge Nuciforo, warned us not
to call the police but to involve parents. We took his advice and
managed to muddle through without public hysteria. One of the
IH parents, we were told by a counselor, brought marijuana to his
child! Of course, we knew some sta members were involved with
drugs, and that was hard to deal with. Most were supportive, helpful, and understanding. One year there was a nagging problem of
petty thievery, and we had no idea how to handle it. We challenged
the student body to reveal the guilty party. It seemed like a scene
in a B movie, but we didnt know what else to do. No one admitted
it or told us who the culprit was. It never happened again. Mike
Krawitz often wants to tell us stories about his behind-the-scenes
363
experiences, but we tell him that we would just as soon not know
now what we didnt know then.
Joshua reminds me about visiting celebrities. Paul Simon rented
the large estate across the road from IH one summer. He studied
jazz composition with Chuck, so he was well aware of our program.
He spent many afternoons playing softball with our boys (N.B.,
not the girls). Judy Collins and the Weavers didnt play ball, but
I have many pictures of them singing at Indian HillI dont know
how many times they visited us. Both Judy and Carly Simon loved
the experience of being around the special breed of teenager we
attracted.
During the summer of 1969, Eugene Ionescus The Bald Soprano
was produced at the Berkshire Playhouse, directed by one of our
parents, William Gibson, the playwright. Our drama department
had performed that play in 1962, and we were looking forward to
seeing a professional performance. Ionescu, who spoke no English,
was having a dicult time communicating with Bill Gibson. Bill
knew that Ccile was teaching French to a small group, and he suggested to Ionescu that Ccile might help, serving as interpreter.
She did, with French charm and wit, and invited Ionescu to visit
Indian Hill. Ccile took a photo of the shy man and Mme. Ionescu,
standing under the portico of the main house, and asked him if
he would talk to her class. She remembered that Ionescu modestly
said that he had nothing to contribute to the children. Rather, he
told Ccile, young people know everything and would have much
to teach him.
Bill and Margaret Gibson wanted their son to be a day student
at Indian Hill. We didnt think that was a good idea, as Tom would
have been the only one who went home at night. Bill Gibson was an
active participant at the Berkshire Theater Festival and many theatrical celebrities visited him. Tom would miss what he knew was
happening at his home, so we compromised, and Tom went home
some weekends. He played tympani in the orchestra that summer.
364
Beethovens Fifth Symphony was the main work on the program.

After the concert, Bill Gibson came up to us and joked that he had
never before thought of that symphony as a tympani concerto with
orchestra, but thats certainly how he heard it!
Ruth Morgenstern reminded me of a conversation she overheard
between a mother and her whiny daughter one Visiting Weekend:
Its so cold at night, the tepees are freezing. My bunk mates are
not friendly. The food is awful, and there isnt enough of it. Theres
no hot water for a shower.
The poor mother was distressed. Do you want to come home?
she asked.
Oh, no! I love it here! was the answer.
Jake Brackman repeats Mordys response to an unreasonably
proud father: How can one child be so talented? Mordy said it
sweetly! At one point, we made a list of parent-teenager problems
and aching misunderstandings and thought of writing a how-to
book about it. We never did, and now have happily forgotten what
was so bothersome to us then.
In
the early sixties a young architect stopped by. Claude Samton was studying at Columbia and wondered if he might use our
summer program expansion plans as a project for his graduate
thesis. Mordy told him that although the name of our school was
Indian Hill, and the history of the Stockbridge Indians resonated
in the town, we werent running a typical summer sports camp with
an Indian theme. Still, Mordy thought, since our population was
growing, and we needed to increase our living quarters, we might
build small cabins to house younger students. Maybe they could be
wooden tepees of traditional shape. We didnt want to build ordinary cabins in rows, as in most summer camps, which were referred
to by our campers as CCCsCrappy Conventional Camps. And
we would eventually need a theater, an art studio, maybe even a
dance studio. Claude came back with a design, and we began to
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build tepees. They were wooden, hexagonal, and slept ve. Roofs
were louvered and screened. The bunks were built in, with drawers
underneath. As our enrollment increased, we added a long house
for both the boys and junior high school girls, which had room for a
communal bathroom and space for three counselors. The quarters
were close, but no one complained. I think everyone enjoyed the
unique character of the buildings.
Claude also designed the theater and art studioand won an
important prize for his unusual design. Bert Bassuk designed a
large dance studio for Jimmy Waring some years later. All of those
366
buildings were torn down when the main house was converted into
the Oronoque condominiums. We were deeply and emotionally
involved in renovating and building that property for twenty-ve
years, and I look back at it with satisfaction, some nostalgia, but no
sentimentality.
In the March 17, 1967, issue of Progressive Architecture, an article
appeared entitled Arts Workshop in the Woods. Samton Associates, Claude and Peter Samton, were in charge of the design. The
Program: Living accommodations, theater, art studio for summer
camp of 125 adolescents. Size: 15 acres of terraced and landscaped
property, formerly a summer estate; Cost: Long houses $6,000
each, tepees, $1,200 each, theater $25,000, art studio $8,000.
The article goes on to quote us:
We do not think an Indian Hill summer is best for everyone,
assert camp directors Mordecai and Irma Bauman, who have
established this workshop in the arts for adolescents. But for
many teenagers who have outgrown the programs of conventional camps, Indian Hill oers a new and signicant experience.
We know now that the experience was indeed signicant, and

there were many reasons it succeeded. Of course one reason was
that only a certain kind of student would want to spend the summer working with no particular goal except immersion in the arts.
Another obvious bonus was the fortuitous choice of location. And
most exciting for the students, as well as for us, were the people
who joined us as sta and as visiting artists.
N ineteen
seventy-two was the last year that Indian Hills total

income was over $100,000. Faithful sta members maintained the
level of the program: Marlin Merrill, Don Emerson, Jimmy Waring, Mike Krawitz Ann Huxleystalwarts who kept us calm and
focused in the midst of concern that our program could not last forever. We sensed that childrens goals were changing. Many went to
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Europe, either with parents or in groups, even some on their own.

Teen travel became the in thing to do. There was less emphasis
on the arts, the lack of which later became a scandalous aspect of
publiceven privateeducation. Paul Roadarmel joined us to teach
art, and the drawings in the yearbook were as astonishing as before.
The cover was like those in the sixties: silk screened with a lovely
drawing of a dancer. And, very important to us, Jerry Rosen, IH
52, 53, 54, conducted our orchestra for his third summer on our
faculty. At the end of that summer he became assistant concertmaster of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, an appointment that eventually erupted into an episode that may be best described as a war
between Seiji Ozawa and Jerome Rosen.
Jerry wasnt the only former IHer who joined our sta that summer. We were also joined by Lisa Schwarzbaum and Danny Morgenstern (with his wife Polly), who taught music and helped with
the sports program. My niece Ramah joined the art stain addition to baking bread for the entire group. Dianethen Higgins
now Kingbecame part of our family. She not only was a wonderful
addition to the sta, she came to our home away from our Stockbridge home, in Huntington, Massachusetts, after we gave up IH,
with a station wagon full of food for a week of care giving. Mi Ohlin
came from Sweden to oversee the pool for the rst of two summers.
She was a gorgeous Scandinavian blonde, exciting all the males for
miles around! She has remained a close friend, visits, and sends her
daughter Celia to visit our granddaughter, who, in turn, has gone
to Hassleholm in the summer of 2005.
The 72 yearbook opened with what I obviously thought was a
very good poem by Debby Spector:
CREATION THROUGH COLORS
In the beginning
there was blue
a cool gentle blue
it made the sky
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the greening of morning
it made the oceans
foaming at the mouth.
After a time
Yellow exploded through
The world
It made the sky
seem on re.
it made warmth
Soon
the yellow dried up
some of the blue
and there was green
it made the plants
fresh and crisp.
In the end
There was brown
it made the people
from the gentleness of blue
the warmth of yellow
and freshness of green.
The most important feeling
Elliot Goldenthal submitted a brief sonata for clarinet and piano.

Who would have guessed, or even imagined, that almost ten years
later, Elliot would meetand eventually marryformer IHer Julie
Taymor. They formed a working partnership, Julie creating her marvelous puppets and doing extraordinary directing work, and Elliot
providing much marvelous music. Their work has led to Juan Darian, Frida, for which Elliot won an Oscar, and, most recently, to
the much-anticipated opera Grendel.
The big accomplishment of that Indian Hill summer was another
appearance at Tanglewood, singing in the chorus of Te Deum by
Berlioz. The report in the press under a photo of the BSO and chorus seated behind reads:
369
The INDIAN HILL SCHHOOL, located in Stockbridge a few

miles from Tanglewood, is a summer arts workshop whose
dance, art, music, theatre and lm-making are taught under
the direction of Mr. and Mrs. Mordecai Bauman. The children
who sing this weekend are volunteers from among the 125
girls [mistake: there were boys and girls in the chorus] at the
school. Jerome Rosen, an alumnus of Indian Hill School, has
taught there for three summers. He becomes assistant concertmaster of the Boston Symphony in the fall.
Jimmy Waring established a new evening program idea: Special Interest Evenings. There were subjects like How to Tell Your
Friends from the Beasts, Yoga Flopping, Stories by H. P. Lovecraft, Bagel Baking (with Ramah), Life in Israel, Zen Stories, Quaint Views of Exotic Climes, and A New Twist to Bagel
Baking (again Ramah).
It seems to me that there is an especially large bit of comic writing in this yearbook, apropos to the moment, not easily transferable
if you werent there, and usually with the apology, It seemed funny
at the time. There is a cartoon avor to some of the illustrations,
especially for the annual calendar of events.
It is odd, but some names from that year mean absolutely nothing to me now, although the individual pictures look familiar. I
think Mordy and I were bore the sadness of knowing that his dream
couldnt go on much longer. Mordy was 61, directing Symphony
Hall in Newark, a very dicult assignment, planning concerts for
a 3,000 seat hall. Nevertheless, I am surprised at how few students
from the nal years we hear about. Roger Lipson told me that Ted
Chemey plays bass in the Fort Wayne orchestra, in Indiana. We
have great aection for Ruth Dinerman, Ellens sister, whom we
hear about from her mother. She works with organizations devoted
to protecting the environment and lives in Lee, Mass., not far from
Stockbridge. Ruth went to Oberlin, studied Chinese, and spent several years in China, teaching English and making lifelong friends.
370
We hear about Claudia Eisen, the youngest of the three Eisen girls.
She lives in Chicago and I know that her husband is a playwright.
Nicholas Gilman, a cousin of the Morgenstern gang, is an artist
living in Mexico. We see Ain Gordons name in the papers once in
a while. Hes the son of David Gordon and Valda Settereld, original dancers who often appeared as a family. Ain was very young
at IH, sponsored by Jimmy Waring, who was a close friend of the
Gordons. We saw Debbie Greitzer playing bassoon in the New York
Philharmonic with our other alumni, Jerome Ashby and Leonard
Hindell. Paul Korn is the grandson of my former assistant, Shirley
Fuchs; Ive no idea what he is doing, but in 73 he played the bassoon. His cousin Frank Fuchs, Shirleys son, IH 62 and 63, is a
music arranger in Hollywood, so I wouldnt be surprised if Paul is
also active in music.
I certainly know about Roger Lipson! He was a drama student
from Brookline, Massachusetts, who reappeared in our lives some
years ago to announce that he is playing sitar in Indian restaurants in the East Village. When Mordy came home from the hospital in January 2001, Roger said that he would come and play for
Mordy. And so he did, with his marvelous tabla player partner. They
changed their shirts, sat on the oor, and played for an hour or so,
enchanting us with the haunting sounds, relaxing and reassuring
after a dicult time. Not long after, Rogers reputation grew and
has has more gigs than he can easily take on after his full-time day
job.
Eli Simon, Bens brother, is a musician in California. He played
timpani with us and went on to teach in the California university
system. Hes one of those darling Simons who endeared themselves to us. The yearbook reminds me that at one faculty recital,
several former IHers came to play for the current group: Jerome
Rosen, Paul Fried, Frances Cole, and David Commanday played an
all- Bach program, a harbinger of Mordys decision, only ve years
later, to produce a lm about Bach. Other sta members who enjoy
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musical careers: Michael Kelly and Jonathan Bernard, who both

live in Washington State, and Ken Frazelle, who became a composer whose name we see occasionally.
Julin Casado came back in 1973 to paint in the art studio,
inspiring awed artists who watched his painstaking and beautiful
work. His success in the U.S. led to much more success in Spain,
not unusual in the art world. Julin has established a foundation in
Aranjuez, and will create a collection in that lovely Madrid suburb.
Marc and Josh joined us as sta members and we loved having
them around. Je Cook, conductor of the Wheeling, West Virginia,
Symphony came to conduct the chorus and orchestra. Jonathan
Bernard was in the process of working on a graduate degree at Yale,
and taught theory, clarinet, and coached chamber music. Michael
Kelly had studied piano with Mordys old friend Irwin Freundlich
at Juilliard, and taught piano for us. Lisa Schwarzbaum was on the
sta for her third summer. Mary van Dyke worked happily with Don
for her fth summer.
Victoria Londin, a dancer at IH, became a lawyer and practices in New York. David Rumpler travels to Brazil frequently and
imports Brazilian CDs; he found one we had long lost and sent it to
us. Marc took pictures of all but three whom he couldnt nail down
for a moment to snap a photo. Looking at them, I remember much
about many, but have no idea what they are up to now. Mordy thinks
its too soon for them to be in touch with us; sometimes it takes
years to remake a connection--as I should with Kristin Lovejoy, who
lives quite close to us, and I mean to call her.
Nineteen seventy-four was the last year we directed Indian Hill.
Did we anticipate that? Not really. That yearbooks cover has an aerial photo of the main house surrounded by trees. David McMeekin,
Aggies nephew, ew a small plane while Carolyn Fabricant leaned
out of the cockpit and took the picture. Jimmy organized a group of
volunteers who formed Indian Hill 1974 with their bodies spread
out on the lawn.
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The yearbook surprises me. I dont remember typing the pages;

I must have had help. The drawings are on the level of those astonishing 1960s yearbooks. Charles Keller, who is well known for his
cartoons in the old Daily Worker, taught art. The rst drawing is
of the elm tree by Ida Zielinkski, who would be surprised to see it
reproduced here. The articles are familiar, making fun of the choral conductor as she tries to get excitement our of the crowd early
in the morning. Lisa Rosenfeld, one of the editorsand our second Lisa Rosenfeld at IH (they were very dierent), quoted Karen
Alquist, our conductor that summer: I dont expect any problems
with quote discipline unquote. Get it out any way you can. Dont
sing like you had watermelons in your mouth. When I stand up
here and rant and rave, that means get louder. Every quarter note
is worth 2 beats from the shtick. They were singing Mozarts Vesprae de Dominico. My daughter-in-law Margot Israels was soprano
soloist, and, much to my surprise, I read that Sanford Sylvan was
the baritone soloist. He became a well-known singer; he wasnt a
student or a teacher, perhaps a friend of Margots studying at Tanglewood.
There are few articles, one about each department, but lots of
photographs, pages and pages. They could describe any summer
at Indian Hill: Scenes from plays, dancers rehearsing, instrumentalists practicing together and alone. A page is devoted to the jazz
band under the direction of Richard Romano, as he called himself.
The jazz musicians knew they were in the presence of a unique personality, but probably few of them knew he was really Richard Niles,
famous London musician who records with many groups as both
composer and performer. He was a fellow student of Joshs at Berklee College of Musicand then known as Richard Lasky. Explaining
his various names would take a paragraphlets just say he was a
very exciting member of our sta!
373
O ver the years twenty-one students joined the sta; four of them
were our own children. Other former students who later worked
with us were David Aks, John Atlas, Jake Brackman, Paul Breslin,
Pamela Chait, David and Ramah Commanday, Amy Eisen, Joanne
Feit, Bob Kreis, Danny Morgenstern, John Posner, Jerome Rosen,
Sara Samuels, Lisa Schwartzbaum, Vicki Thaler, and Lynn Warhoftig. Eighty-nine teenagers stayed with us for three summers;
twenty-seven for four. I never counted how many came back for at
least a second summer.
Many sta members spent supportive years with us: Marlin Merrill and Don Emerson were our most loyal associates, each returning for fteen summers. Kathleen Oppermann really stuck it out;
she was our secretary, bookkeeper, yearbook printer extraordinaire,
for fourteen busy years. The extraordinary choreographer James
Waring graced our lives for ten. For seven summers, a stalwart
few worked with us: Seymour Lipkin (piano and conducting), my
son Chuck Israels (jazz and theory), Michael Krawitz (music and
drama), and Mary Van Dyke (drama). Others stayed with us for six
summers: Harold Aks (conducting) and Ralph Freundlich (guitar).
A large group of friends worked with us for ve summers: Shelley
Seccombe and Carolyn Fabricant shared the oce detail with me,
Shelley remaining close to us since 1959! Ccile ran the kitchen and
dining room. Marjorie Guthrie was not only our dance instructor
but our Associate Director. Shirley Fuchs was Marjories secretary
at her dance school during the winters, and my loyal assistant at IH.
Diane (Higgins) King supervised the junior high school girls after
Marjorie was too occupied with work on Huntingtons Disease to
spend summers with us. Dianes creative abilities also contributed
to the drama department program. Ann Huxley came from London
and supervised the senior girls in the main house, adding a touch
of gentility and humor to their lives.
Many more sta members returned for four years: David Buttolph (percussion and the madrigal group); Bob Edelstein kept a
374
small group of lm makers excited, many of them achieving Hollywood careers; and Abe and Dorothy Klotzman brought many young
music students to us during the four years they spent at IH. Ella
Lerner acted as our faithful nurse. Harry Saltzman conducted our
orchestra and chorus for four summers; Sue Ann Kahn, taught ute
and chamber music during those same years.
Sidney and Teresa Harth directed chamber music and the IH
string quartet for our rst three summers. Eve Gentry taught dance
during that same period. She was succeeded by Billie Kirpich, who
also taught for three summers. Later, Eric Rosenblith, my old friend
Walters brother, taught violin for three summers, commuting from
Boston. His experience with us encouraged him to start a summer
program for string players. Carly Simon surprised us by oering
to teach folk music for a second summer and she organized a small
group of eager music lovers. She enjoyed knowing our special kind
of teenager; it amuses us to remember that in 1967, her salary for
the summer was $400.
Other sta members added immeasurably to our lives and to the
Indian Hill program. In his seven years on our music sta, Seymour
Lipkin enriched the musical appreciation of all the students by his
talent and personal dignity in ways beyond their youthful understanding. Jake Brackmans brilliance and sophistication taught all
of us how to reach out to the new in theater, lm, and literature.
Don Emerson inspired his students by his depth and concern for
their growth in theatrical know-how. He never raised his voice or
lost his cool.
Over the years we recruited a total of 258 teachers and about
100 kitchen, housekeeping, and gardening sta. Agnes Lammie,
my housekeeper and nanny to our boys, helped me more than I can
say; it seems to me she was with us forever. She not only took care
of our boys and our house, but was also responsible in summer for
the upkeep of Indian Hill. For almost all of the twenty-ve years we
lived in Stockbridge, she was my closest friend.
375
Once in a while someone comes up to us at a concert or on the

street and asks, Arent you the Mordy Bauman who . . . ? And they
repeat what weve heard hundreds of times over the years: That
was the best summer of my life!
Those twenty-four years were certainly the most important of
our lives. I didnt enjoy all of it; I worked very hard and sometimes
thought what I did was not appreciated. I assumed the responsibility of caring for those young people and felt it keenly. There were
some unsuccessful sta members, and Mordy and I didnt always
agree about working out a sta problem. He was more tolerant than
I. Because of my role, I was sometimes aware of a problem or inadequacy before Mordy. Children and young sta were more reluctant
to conde in him. He took longer to come to the point of asking a
counselor or dishwasher to leave. By the time he did, however, the
person usually knew perfectly well that he or she was not doing a
good job, and left without open conict.
Harry Hart, a tall, handsome elderly black man was a chef at
Williams College during the school year. The rst summer in our
kitchen, he did very well, and we liked him and appreciated his
work. I dont know what happened to him the next year, but he
began to do strange things, like serve unpalatable food. The last
straw was a lunch menu of cold left-over farina and string beans.
It was distressing to both of us to send him home. I still nd it
hard to say re him, but thats essentially what happened. Harry
was very upset and so was Mordy. They had a conference in the tea
house, Mordy trying to explain why he had to leave. Finally and
reluctantly Harry agreed, I dont know why I think I am the same
man I was twenty years ago. It was a good lesson for us. As we age
and our energies become limited, we think about Harry and his
wise comment.
Inuences that shaped our values and judgment were, perhaps,
best described by Charles Ivess statement in the introduction of his
publication of 114 songs. Nancy Walrath, art teacher at Indian Hill,
376
designed a 10th anniversary card for us, copying it in lovely calligraphy. It says a great deal about creativity as we understand it:
Every normal man, that is every uncivilized or civilized human
being not of defective mentality, moral sense, etc., has, in some
degree, creative insight (an unpopular statement) and an interest, desire and ability to express it (another unpopular statement.) There are many, too many, who think they have none
of it, and stop with the thought or before the thought. There
are a few who think (and encourage others to think) that they
and they only have this insight, interest etc. . . . and that (as a
kind of collateral security) they and they only know how to give
expression to it, etc. But in every human soul there is a ray of
celestial beauty (Plotinus admits that) and a spark of genius
(nobody admits that.) If this is so, and if one of the greatest
sources of strength, one of the greatest joys and deepest pleasures of men, is giving rein to it in some way, why should not
everyone instead of a few, be encouraged and feel justied in
encouraging everyone including himself, to make this a part
of everyones life and his lifea value that will supplement the
other values and help round out the substance of the soul?
T o close this section about Indian Hill, the one I choose to write
about is Nora Lee Guthrie. She came to us at eleven years old, far
too young for our program. Her mother treated her as though she
was just one of the gang, which, of course, she quickly was. What
an astonishing little girl! Her kinky hair (today an expression of her
individuality), her sparkling eyes, her squeaky voice, her dancing
legsall became part of our family lore. Her brothers called her
Puy; Josh referred to her as Drawers, because Arlo and Joady
teased her about her droopy drawers. We had many Thanksgiving
dinners together in Stockbridge, and feel close to all of them. Joady
is the only one of the three who took the genetic test for Huntingtons Disease, and called us to announce that he is not at risk. Arlo
and Nora decided not to be tested.
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Nora studied dance with Marjorie for ve years at IH, and continued at Marjories studio until she outgrew it, going on to a professional career. She married Ted Rotante, also a dancer; they have
two children. She didnt inject herself into Marjories life and activities with Huntingtons disease, but she took over her mothers role
at the Woody Guthrie Foundation after Marjorie died. Shes an
independent spirit, talented in many ways, like her mother. Her
daughter Anna has inherited the same personality, and it gives us
endless pleasure to watch them both.
Marjorie and I began collecting Woodys material into an
archiveof sorts. Mainly, we worked on Huntingtons disease projects; Woody was a sideline. Marjorie was often accused of using
the disease to promote Woody. Her emphasis was just the opposite.
Woodys reputation, which Marjorie enhanced, was the jumping-o
place to bring Huntingtons disease into public awareness. At rst,
Nora did not wish to be involved with the HD organization. Knowing something about that disease, we can certainly understand her
reluctance. But as she matured, she became active with the organization, and works with the HD group, directing its annual dinner.
She established a professionally directed Woody Guthrie Archive,
which is open to the public. Her activity has resulted in new recordings of many of Woodys 1,000 songs, and a Rizzoli publication of
his drawings. Noras second marriage, to Michael Kle, a German
journalist, has brought not only happiness to Nora and her children, but leads to European trips promoting Woody and joint Guthrie/Kle enterprises.
The Woody Guthrie Foundation awards grants to various schools,
organizations, and individuals, and is run under Noras guidance.
For example, in 2004, the town of Pampa, Texas, received a grant
to fund public school residencies and public performances of Pastures of Plenty. The town has created an annual Woody Guthrie
Festival that encourages awareness of Woodys legacy and educates
the public about his life in Pampa in the 1930s. The foundation
378
cosponsored a residency at two elementary schools in Ann Arbor,

Michigan, featuring music classes with Anna Canoni, Woodys
granddaughter, and school assembly programs on Woodys life and
legacy. None of this would have happened without Nora.
Nora uses the continuing popularity of Woodys songs to bring
the life of the thirties into the consciousness of young people who
sing This Land Is Your Land, with no clue as to who wrote the
well-worn childrens anthem. It seems to me to be similar to the one
Brecht and Eisler wrote for German children after the Second World
War (see p. 218). Woody wrote his anthem to emphasize the greatness of our land. Brecht wrote his to encourage war-exhausted
young people to love our dearest country as others love their own.
Nora and Michael bring Woodys optimism to the world.
379
Chapter Thirteen
Enter Brooklyn College
ORDY was appointed professor in the music department at

Brooklyn College in 1973. The Indian Hill fee had doubled
from $600 for eight weeks in 1952 to $1,200 in 1975. (Traditional
and specialized camps charged as much as $8,000 for a summer in
2002, maybe more.) At the same time, fewer children chose our
structured program. We worried about the situation and discussed
it with friends in the arts. Abe Klotzman had recommended many
talented students to the program and was familiar with the increasing enrollment problems. He suggested that we give the property
and the school to the Brooklyn College Alumni Association. The
plan was that we would continue to administer the program, while
Brooklyn College arts departments would encourage students to
enroll in summers preparing for entrance in the fall.
At the urging of Dean Robert Hickok and Dorothy Klotzman
(Abes wife and chair of the Music Department), the Alumni Association agreed to raise scholarship funds for deserving teenagers,
thereby improving the standards of the various departments. That
was their fantasy; we knew better, but in the end felt we had no other
solution. It seems obvious to me now that students who planned to
go to that college needed to spend summers earning money toward
380
their next years tuition. The Alumni Association never raised signicant scholarship money. The committee members working on
the IH project had no ability to raise funds for a summer program;
in reality they counted on the reputation of Indian Hill to attract
students.
We spent many months discussing details with Bob and Dorothy, who were convinced that we could work together. Dorothy and
Abe had spent several summers on our sta. They understood the
philosophy of IH, where teachers would live in close proximity with
students. Or at least we thought they did. We were convinced that
they wanted to continue running IH under the same policies we had
developed.
President Kneller came to see Indian Hill with Bob and Dorothy
one winter day. I made lunch and entertained them in our house.
We arranged for a public ceremony in New York, signing over the
deed to the property to the Brooklyn College Alumni Association.
I remember that Frank Rich and Andrew Bergman joined us at the
event, with some forebodingjustied as it turned out.
The unwritten arrangement with Brooklyn College was that we
would continue as directors of the program for at least ten years,
but we were forced out after only one summer. There were many
reasons for that outcome. We were not able to work with the college
sta, whose policies were so dierent from ours. Their experience
was with college students living at home under parental supervision, or on their own. None of their sta wanted to be responsible
for the well-beingand certainly not the behaviorof teenagers.
Mordy and I struggled to clarify aspects of the program that had
made IH what it was.
Other problems made our staying in charge of the program
impossible. Bob and Dorothy, who had been deeply involved planning the project, were unable to personally supervise the program;
both had family emergencies that summeror so we were told. Perhaps they quickly discovered that the small enrollment predicted
Chapter Thirteen: Enter Brooklyn College
381
the failure of the project and our loss of the valuable property. In
any case, they left Stockbridge. The result was that the administrative assistant to the dean was put in charge and it was beyond
her ability. We were unwillingprobably unableto be in a secondary administrative role, still feeling responsible for maintaining the
Indian Hill reputation and for satisfying the restrictions set by the
town.
After Mordys rst year of teaching at Brooklyn College, there
was a serious budget crisis in the City of New York. Among other
cuts, City University was faced with reductions in the budget for
teachers salaries, and last hired, rst red was the rule. Although
Itzhak Perlman and Mordy came to teach at Brooklyn the same year,
it just wasnt proper, or even possible, to let Itzhak go. His name
on the roster of the Music Department gave it more clout than
it ever achieved, before or after. Chuck was also red that year. I
was deeply upset by the departments decisionsafter all, the chairperson was supposed to be our friend and it aected our relationship with the college. Somehow it also skewed my memory of Toby
Friedlander, who had married Itzhak some years before the Brooklyn College episode. Whenever Perlmans name came up in conversation, my immediate response always was, We turned his wife
down for Indian Hill!
During the summer of 2002, Marc called us with a degree of
excitement, unusual for him, Im lming Perlmans summer school
for string players. His wife, Toby Friedlander, is working with me.
At one point she said that if only the property they bought was winterized, she would keep the school open all year. I told her that my
parents had the same problem at their school in Stockbridge. Toby
gasped in surprise, and she grabbed my arm and asked Are you
Mordy Baumans son? I went to Indian Hill in 1958! I had a scholarship. It was a hugely inuential experience in my life. Marc added,
Weve been tied at the hip since this morning!
I hooted. I repeated the same mantra to Marc, We turned her
382
down. . . . I had said that for so many years it has the ring of truth.
Marc said that Toby was certainly at IH. She remembered Lenny
Hindell and wanted to know what happened to girls in her room.
That caught me up short, and I went to look through my le cards
of IHers. Under F there she was: Toby Friedlander, West End
Ave., music major. Not 58, but 59! So I pulled out the yearbook
for 1959 and looked up concert programs. On almost every program, her name is listed as violist. At the bottom of her card I had
scrawled un pd, which I read as unpaid. Is that why I have such
a negative memory? I sent the story to Barbara Allen, archivist of
the Indian Hill collection, and asked her to look at the bookkeeping ledger to check if Harold Friedlander (also a musician) had ever
paid any fee, or even part of it. Barbara said that she bets on me: If I
wrote unpaid on the card, she is sure, without looking it up, that
we were never paid.
A problem for us in that gender-oriented time was that it was
dicult to nd boys for the program. We rarely gave a scholarship
to a girl! Harold may have told his daughter that she had been given
a scholarship. We do not remember that. Unfortunately, as I was
organizing the material for the Stockbridge Library, I decided to
toss out all twenty-four years of application blanks; Tobys would
have answered that now unimportant question.
The less said about 1975 Brooklyn College at Indian Hill the better. The yearbook that summer consists of lists of programs, pictures of each student, but no list of their names and addresses. Our
sta was paid CUNY salaries (City University of New York), so for
the rst time Don, Marlin, Mary, Michael Kelly, Ted Stazeski, and
others earned twice as much as we were able to pay them. And Marc
had the good fortune of meeting Don McLennan, director of the
TV center at the college. Marc went to Brooklyn College for his
Masters Degree. I think that his experience with Don made it possible for him to start his career in television production. A positive
result of what became for us a nancial disaster.
383
The three nal yearbooks, 1973 and 1974 under our direction,
and 1975 presumably also supervised by Mordy and me but under
the aegis of Brooklyn College, were very dierent from those that
came before. The covers are all full-page photographs; the 1973
one shows the entire class gathered underneath the beautiful elm
for their photograph, not clustered in groups as they usually were,
listening to the Mordy Word but tightly gathered, closely knit.
Christin Christensen, the photographer, taught lm making that
summer. Its the tree that centers the picture. Long lost to elm tree
disease, that tree brought joy to several thousand IHerschildren
and sta membersfor almost twenty-ve years.
A few stalwart IHers are among the photos of the 1975 group.: I
remember how entranced Marc was by Carolyn (now Kate) Borger.
Carolyn, as I must still think of her, is now a broadcaster in Pittsburgh. Robyn Roth came back for her fourth summer, and she still
organizes small reunions, sometimes bringing a few IHers to visit
us. Sam Brody spent a second summer with us; his piano career
brings his name into our notice. Aron Bederson studied drama with
Don for his second year, and Joe Evans came back to join the orchestra. Felix Farrar was with us in 73 and again in 75; what I remember about him is that hes the only violinist I know of who pasted the
Indian Hill emblem on his violin case. Jeremy Luban also returned
to study music. Kristin Lovejoy was with us for her third year, as
were Cheryl London, Rachel Schindler, and Amanda Weiss. About
a dozen faithful IHers whom we remember supported us through
that dicult summer, with aection and understanding.
Although the program under Brooklyn College was planned to
interest students in attending the college, they ran it only for one
more year. We had managed to sustain it for twenty-four years without foundation or outside support. Boston University bought the
property from the Alumni Association to use in conjunction with
its program at Tanglewood, and then resold it after two summers
to real estate developers for $600,000. It is now a condominium
384
building called Oronoque, the original name of the property.

The loss of IH was devastating, terribly upsetting to us at the
time. We felt betrayed. If Abe Klotzman had still been alive it might
have ended dierently. Perhaps he could have convinced his wife
to try another summer, and we might have been able to hold on a
bit longer. But it was inevitable that we could not continue. And
it was also clear that pre-college students could not, or would not,
pay for a summer programnot Brooklyn College students, at any
rate. After the rst summer I was red; after Mordy lost his position at the college and could not continue as director in name only.
We decided to protest his dismissal, caused by nancial problems
at CUNY, and agreed to arbitration. Mordy lost the case; there was
really nothing we could do about it. Thinking about it years later,
we acknowledge that our program was no longer viable. Teenagers
changed in their interests and program needs and we were tired of
the struggle to nd talented children who wanted the kind of experience we wanted to oer them.
In High Fidelity magazine, May 1976, Lisa Schwarzbaum wrote
about the Brooklyn College rst summer at Indian Hill:
ENTER BROOKLYN COLLEGE
Last summer Indian Hill underwent a radical changeits rst
not under private auspices. In 1975, a year of nancial hard
times among private schools and camps, the Baumans donated
Indian Hill to the Brooklyn College Foundation. The Foundation made the property available to the School of Performing
Arts at Brooklyn College. Dean Robert Hickok directs stang,
course content and grading, while the Baumans continue to
supervise the operation and assist in the transition from private summer school to City University summer school.
Lisa did not know in May that we had lost the property; our
involvement with the summer program we had begun in 1952 was
over. We sold our house in 1978 and were able to move to New York
and change the focus of our lives.
385
Town vs. Gown

When Brooklyn College took over, the local community caused
us some anxiety. The Berkshire Eagle of July 29, 1975, published
a series of letters to the editor, and headlined them: LO, POOR
INDIAN HILL. Our friend, Professor Samuel Middlebrook wrote:
Nathaniel Hawthorne, artist, was not happy with some of his
Stockbridge neighbors. So say his biographers. So says one of
his parables written in the Little Red Cottage and published in
Tanglewood Tales. It is The Wonderful Pitcher, a story I
read to my wife on each of our wedding anniversaries since we
became senior citizens. Briey it tells how an ancient Grecian couple, at the head of a lovely valley, welcome one day a
pair of travelers driven out by the dogs and brats of the villagers below, who delight in hating and even stoning strangers.
The old peasants treat these pilgrims as guests. They oer
what little bread, honey and milk they have saved from their
own supper. When the milk seems used up, the old man notes
that the pitcher rells itself by a tiny fountain within. (It is, we
guess, the milk of human kindness.) Next morning after the
strangers depart, the old couple observes the odd silence of
the once brawling neighbors below their cottage. They see that
the village has vanished. In its place is a shining lake (perhaps
the Stockbridge Bowl that Hawthorne saw each morning).
Among the reeds on its shore they hear a mournful croak of
frogs. They then realize that their guests of the previous night
were gods from Olympus. And for the last time their neighbors
had not honored strangers within their gates.
Reviewing Eagle news stories these past two months about
Stockbridge petitioners who wish to prevent the Indian Hill
Music Camp from becoming a little Brooklyn College in partibus indelium, I wonder: Why this sudden anxiety over lack
of water in a desert so lush that we call it Prospect Hill? Why
the fear that 16 acresalmost as large as the whole Brooklyn
College Campus for 25,000 studentswill be too small for a
hundred or so musicians and dancers?
386
The young artists who come will not yet be heavenly gures
in disguise. Most, I think, may never become famous or rich.
Yet contrasted with the rather stupid snobs (the frogs and dogs
in Hawthornes fable) who once infested these lovely hills, a
century ago of course, are they not to be encouraged?
We in Stockbridge have a missionary heritage. Missioning is
a two-way process. Brooklyn on Prospect Hill will do us good
in return for our earlier eorts with Indians.
J. Graham Parsons, who had been the U.S. Ambassador to Sweden, had bought his familys former property across the road from
us, from Walter Hoving. He assumed Mabel Choates role of concern about the use of water at IH. We maintained formal neighborly contact, nothing more. On August 4, 1975, he answered Sam
Middlebrooks challenge:
BROOKLYN COLLEGEA VIEW FROM THE HILL:
Prof. Middlebrook treated us to a charming parable in which,
if the shoe ts, former residents of Prospect Hillthe Field
family, Norman Davis, Joseph H. Choate, Hulls, Palmer and
othersmust run or jump as the dogs and frogs in the Hawthorne fable. Unfortunately, he does not reside on Prospect
Hill. Appreciating, however, his concern for the Hill, I too
have a fancyMusical Chairs!
Why not move Music Inn, which has unhappy neighbors, to
Interlaken, where Mr. Middlebrook lives? Then move Brooklyn College, away from critics here, to Music Inns area. (This
too would probably be OK with New York City taxpayers.)
Then Mr. Middlebrook could ll in at Prospect Hill. On second thought, Interlaken is pretty nice as it isand fortunate
to date.
Sam answered Parsons:

STRESSING THE POINT ON
BROOKLYN COLLEGE
Ambassador J. Graham Parsons characteristically missed the
point of my welcome of Brooklyn College to Prospect Hill in
387
Stockbridge. The Ambassadors list of former residents of Prospect Hill (after the expulsion of Christian Indians to whom the
area was pledged) is, I think, irrelevant. For all he knows, most
of these worthies might agree with me.
That I myself do not live on Prospect Hill, as epigone and
neighbor of the ambassador, he regards as my misfortune.
Again, I think, irrelevant, if not stuy or just silly. And the
discord or concord of Music Inn a mile or so away is another
false note to which I close my ears. But that we of Stockbridge
should do all we can to seek bonds of art and understanding
between ourselves and the best young people of our inner cities: of this the ambassador says no word. It had been my chief
concern.
A few days later, J. Leo Dowd took up the debate, or what might
better be called character assassination: (Mr. Dowd had moved
into the home that Mr. Ford had owned, and assumed his role in the
Hill Water Company debates.)
FOR A QUIET HILL
Why did Prof. Middlebrook choose Stockbridge for residence?
Perhaps for reasons similar to ours; a beautiful, unspoiled
New England Village with homeowners anxious to preserve its
charms.
Brooklyn College wrote us they want to be good neighbors;
we hope they will prove it by not conducting public performances on this busy hill. As a member of the Hill Water Co.
(which I am and Prof. Middlebrook is not), I can attest that
there was no sudden anxiety over lack of water. Water shortages have occurred for years when the [Indian Hill] camp
opens and disappear when it closes.
Isnt it ironic that today Brooklyn College occupies the former home of one of the stupid snobs of yesterday referred to
in Prof. Middlebrooks unwarranted innuendo!
J. D. Hatch (Jerry) came to our aid, complimenting one of our

students:
388
NO MUSICAL CHAIRS
Whoa! J. Graham Parsons musical-chairs idea would never
work. Who wants to swap our music groups anyway? A demiorchestra of Indian Hill students did a limited and capable job
at the Harvest for Hope concert at the Stockbridge Congregational Church Friday night. (Nadav Tel-Orens playing of the
Mozart horn concerto there was truly remarkable.)
An editorial commented on the controversy:

It may have been because of the oppressive humidity this summer, or it may have been the absence of Watergate as a diversion that did it, but something raised the decibel level of the
annual brouhaha over noise in Stockbridge this season. The
squabbling is by no means new, and the squabblers have never
carried it out sotto voce, but both the pitch and the volume
seemed to eclipse anything the county has experienced in the
past.
We should have known that the very word Brooklyn would

raise the hackles of Parsons, Dowd, and their ilk. Not that it would
have made a dierence in our decision to give IH to the college.
The attacks calmed down soon enough, however. We dug another
well, alleviating the water problem somewhat. We even tried to be
civil to Mr. Parsons.
A very funny story about Mrs. Parsons: One evening, we were
leaving the Berkshire Playhouse after a performance. It was dark in
the parking lot, but we were able to see well enough to say hello
to our neighbors who were accompanied by a young relative.
Oh, Johnny, Mrs. Parsons gushed, this is a man Ive always
wanted you to meet! And, pointing grandly at Mordy she exclaimed,
This is William Shirer!
Mr. Parsons was totally embarrassed. Peggy, he scolded her,
this is Mordecai Bauman, our neighbor.
Political bias kept showing in any and all controversy where we or
IH was concerned. We always knew who would be on our side, so
389
to speak, and who would attack. Our political position was always
clear, whether it was in private conversation or during town meetings, when we joined Nathan Horwitt, Sam Middlebrook, Phil Barber, Alice McNi, Dr. Joseph Chassell, and other Riggs doctors
arguing local issues.
In The Berkshire Courier of May 5, 1977, a report on a Stockbridge controversy was about noise in town, including trac and
music. It was a veiled complaint about Indian Hill, but mainly about
the music coming from Music Inn concerts.
The town may become the rst of its size in the state to adopt
what a sound consultant characterized . . . as an enforceable
noise ordinance. . . . Nathan G. Horwitt suggested that the
ordinance would be ineective if it permitted any of the amplied concert sounds from the nearby Music Inn to continue.
Horwitt said that the court decision which established sound
levels...of 65 decibel maximum with an average of 55 decibels was a pointless attempt to reduce this obscene noise to
pseudo scientic nonsense. Horwitts position was supported
by Mordecai Bauman, who said that These (federal) standards
are for industry, and we dont have industry here, we have a
nuisance.
Music Inn had been founded by Phil and Stephanie Barber some
time before we arrived in Stockbridge. The Barbers were very interested in jazz and they brought leading performers to appear at the
estate they bought in Lenox, almost across the road and up the hill
from Joe Krugers Camp Mah-Kee-Nac. In early years the concerts
were outdoors, leading to neighbor complaints. Everyone who was
anyone in the jazz community performed there: The Modern Jazz
Quartet, Dizzy Gillespie, Bill Evans, Oscar Peterson, and the wonderful guitarist Jim Hall (whom we knew in Cleveland and who
moved into our apartment building shortly after we did, remains
our close friend and neighbor.) Many other jazz greats appeared
at Music Inn over the years, which resulted in the formation of a
390
Jazz School in 1957. Folk Music also became standard entertainment there, from Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger to many more.
Music Inn is where Chuck had his rst gig at seventeen, accompanying Billie Holiday on his bass. A jazz school followed shortly; in
the sixties, folk music was added. When those became rather pass,
Stephanie renovated the main house and it became the classiest
residence for soloists at Tanglewood, including Lenny Bernstein.
O ne
December day in 1975, Lisa Schwarzbaum telephoned to

tell me that Jimmy Waring was in the hospital. She had been in
touch with him during the winters. One of his friends called Lisa to
tell her that Jimmy was dyingwe had no idea that he had cancer.
Jimmy had not been at IH the previous summer. He had a full-time
teaching job in Baltimore, nally recognized for his enormous talent. As far as I know it was his rst steady job.
Mordy and I drove immediately to Mt. Sinai Hospital; Mordy
stayed in the car while I went to see Jimmyhe simply couldnt bear
to see Jimmy dying. It was hard for me to recognize him, he was so
thin. I studied the name above the bed, reassured when I touched
his unmistakable hands. It really was Jimmy.
Something occurred then that could only happen with Jimmy:
One of the dancers who appeared frequently in his works called him
from a Boston hospital. He shook his head, he didnt want to talk.
I answered the phone and told him who it was. She was very ill and
wanted to say goodbye to Jimmy. He took the phone; the conversation was gentle, quiet. They were dying at the same time 250 miles
apart, still together in spirit.
Jimmy whispered a comforting farewell and asked me to call the
nurse. While we waited for her I tried to interest him in our gossip,
told him the latest Arlo story and what was happening to the Indian
Hill/Brooklyn College development. He listened, patted my hand.
He died a few moments after I left. It was hard to bear. The best gift
I could give Lisa was the Morris chair Jimmy had found in a local
391
junk shop and used in his barn room for 10 summers. I still use the
tea pot he bought, probably for a dollar in a local thrift shop.
We knew that Indian Hill was over.
This is a brief biography of Jimmy from a 1973 yer, around the
time he was applying for the position in Baltimore:
California-born Jimmy Waring began his dance career on the
West Coast, performing with the Ballet Moderne, the San
Francisco Russian Opera & Ballet Company, and with Ann
Halprin and Welland Lathrop. His early works were presented
at Juilliard, the Choreographers Workshop and the Henry
Street Playhouse, and by Dance Associates, founded by Mr.
Waring. While teaching at the Living Theatre and at the Master Institute of Arts, he arranged many performances of avantgarde music, dance and theatre. Other works and commissions
in New York were for the Poets Theatre, the Cooper Union,
Hunter College Playhouse, the Judson Dance Theatre, and
others. Mr. Waring was one of the rst choreographers to work
392
with electronic music and musique concrete, and he has often
collaborated with contemporary artists. For the past eight
summers, he has taught and choreographed for the Indian Hill
Dancers in Stockbridge, Massachusetts.
The rst grant given by the National Endowment for the Artss
program for recording American danceand the catalyst for its
coming into existencewas for the video recording of Jimmys
work by the New York dancers who had worked with him at Judson
Memorial Church.
393
Chapter Fourteen
Bread and Roses
NE WINTER day in 1978 the telephone rang in our Stockbridge home. Once more a friend appeared to solve our current economic problemthis time, Anne Shore. Mordy and I were
alone, Josh and Marc having long since left home, moving on to
marriages and careers. We were trying to sell our 15-room house,
which we no longer needed; it was much too big and expensive to
maintain. There was little reason to live in Stockbridge except that
we loved the area. Annie had been a close friend since the war;
Mordy met her husband Jerry at Camp Van Dorn, in Mississippi.
Although the Shores had been divorced (twice), we stayed involved
with both of them. After the state Progressive Party in Detroit,
Michigan, closed its oces, Jerry worked for the United Auto Workers. He visited us frequently in Cleveland. After we started Indian
Hill, he recommended talented Detroit students to us.
John Houseman wrote about Anne in his book Run Through:
a dark, slender beauty . . . for whom I had a burning desire but
could never nd a convenient time or place to satisfy it. Indeed she
was handsomeand talented! During the war, when our guys were
overseas, I often met Annie in New York for lunch, since both of
us had jobs then in midtown Manhattan. Annie held various union
positions; when she called Mordy that cold day, she was working at
394
Local 1199, the Hospital Workers Union. She thought there might
be a job up his alley. Mordy needed work. When our enrollment at
Indian Hill peaked back in 1970, we were convinced that IH income
would support us. But it never really did. We had begun to sell various pieces of property we owned in Stockbridge in order to cover
our expenses.
Leon Davis was president of Local 1199, long considered one of
the most progressive unions in the country. He had an unusual point
of view: For instance, his own salary remained relative to the earnings of union members. Hospital workers hold low-paying, dicult,
often unappreciated jobs. Davis was an extraordinary organizer. He
led successful strikes, winning wage increases and eliminating segregation in New York hospitals. He built a handsome union headquarters on West 43rd Street in Manhattan, now called the Martin
Luther King, Jr. Labor Center. The 70,000 members of the union
at that time were employed in 200 hospitals and nursing homes
throughout New York State and Connecticut. More than 80 percent
were women; most were members of minority groups. Dr. King
often referred to 1199 as his favorite union.
Annie was in charge of the educational and recreational program
for union retirees. In some way, Mordy thinks her work was not
appreciated. It was not planned for the welfare of the workers, but
only for the retirees. In the late sixties, Annie asked Mordy to
meet Moe Foner, executive secretary of the union, to talk about
an educational program for union members that Moe wanted to
develop. They met at the Columbia Club, and Mordy talked about
what he accomplished at Jewish community centers and how a similar program might be successful for union members.
During the Carter Administration, a member of the presidents
sta talked to Jack Golodner, an executive at AFL/CIO headquarters in Washington, about an educational program in the union
movement. I interested in promoting such a project, Golodner
thought that the National Endowments (for the Arts and for the
C h a p t e r F o u r t e e n : B r e a d a n d Ro s e s
395
Humanities) might fund it, and that 1199 was the union that would
make it happen. Golodner called Foner to discuss it, and in January
1978 Mordy was hired as administrator of Bread and Roses, joining the hospital workers in an innovative, still unique project.
Mordy started by developing an advisory council, made up of
artists and academics. Some are quite well known: (the late) Ossie
Davis, Ruby Dee, Madeline Gilford, Jack Golodner, Herbert Gutman, Michael Harrington, Irving Howe, Harold Leventhal, Eve
Merriam, and Walter Rosenblum. They were enthusiastic about
sharing their ideas and creating an original program for working
people.
In an interview about his work at 1199 with historian Marshall
Dubin, in May 1987, Mordy said that he feels that education of workers is more important than a 10- or 15-cent-an-hour raise. But that
makes no sense to the leadership. They still dont realize that an
arts program brings quality to union members lives. In 1978, however, Jack Golodner encouraged 1199 to apply for funding from the
National Endowment for the Humanities. Golodner, Mordy says,
deserves a lot of credit for the success of the program. When Mordy
and Moe Foner went to Washington, the NEH grant ocers were
astounded by the breadth of the program. They were prepared to
grant perhaps $100,000; Mordy asked for $1 million. Other foundations made additional grants, and the project began. It was called
Bread and Roses in memory of the historic 1912 strike of textile
workers in Lawrence, Massachusetts. A poem, by James Oppenheim, was written in memory of a picket line banner, which read,
We want bread and roses too!
As we come marching, marching in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing, Bread and roses!
Bread and roses!
396
The late Mimi Baez Faria, who was one of our students at Indian
Hill, set the song to music, and it was often sung by our friend Judy
Collins. By 1979, Bread and Roses was recognized as the most signicant program ever undertaken by a U.S. labor union to bring
culture to its members. In its rst six months it had involved more
than 40,000 members in its activitiesworkers who previously had
limited access and exposure to the cultural arts. The six-month
report told the story:
Bread and Roses has something for everyonedrama, music
and poetry programs by professional companies, art and photography exhibits in the unions own gallery, a Labor Day
Street Fair, an original oral history musical revue, conferences
and seminars, videotapes and lms, and much more. The common feature of all these presentations is the portrayal of recognizable and identiable aspects of workers lives.
Harry Belafonte said, You are making a major contribution in the

eort to bring the nest fruits of our cultural achievement to working people directly at the workplace. Studs Terkel is also quoted in
the report: At a time of so much confusion and, in many quarters
despair, an idea such as Bread and Roses that provides working people with a sense of history and pride in themselves is truly exhilarating. Former UN Ambassador Andrew Young remarked, Dr. King
often said that organized labor could learn a great deal from District 1199. Bread and Roses is blazing another trail for other unions
to follow. Mordy says Bread and Roses made a platform from which
hospital workers could jump higher.
It was an enormous program. Mordys former student, Howard
Roberts, brought his chorale to perform in about thirty-ve hospitals in New York City and New Jersey. They gave seventy performances before thousands of workers, patients and members of
hospital stas. The Labor Theater, directed by Chuck Portz and
Bette Craig, presented a play with music about the lives of working
women, called I Just Wanted Someone to Know. Harry Belafonte
397
appeared in a sold-out performance at Lincoln Center; it was his

rst New York concert in eighteen years. For most of the audience,
it was an opportunity to dress up and their rst experience in a
concert hall.
There were concerts and discussions at the union, and many
exhibitions in the union gallery. Labor Day was ocially declared
by Congress in 1904 to celebrate workers on the rst Monday in
September. Union members were not active participants in the
project, but they attended programs for the pleasures they oered.
Everything was accomplished by professionals. The union could
raise money only for programs and salaries; active membership
participation, for instance, in theater or choral groups, was never
developed, although there were some art exhibits of works done by
the members. Bread and Roses was an innovative cultural project,
rarely attempted by other unions.
A headline in The New York Times of March 8, 1980, read Take
Care, a Musical, is a Unions Pet Project. That revue, a pet project
of Mordys, was based on reminiscences of hospital workers, and it
toured hospitals and nursing homes in ve states. The cast, members of another union, Actors Equity, portrayed dierent aspects
of hospital life. The Times review described the scene:
There was Rosita, the occupational therapist, doing her number to a cha-cha beat; Mildred, the dietitian, telling her story in
a low-down blues; and Mac, the Vietnam War veteran, explaining that he worked at night because he was afraid to sleep in
the dark. The fast-paced, 40-minute show ended with a rollicking song called Looking Good. The lyrics were based on
a comment made by a nurse during one of the workshop sessions, No matter how sick my patients are, I say, Hey, youre
looking good today.
The revue was a smash success. So was the art exhibition honoring The Working American. It was hardly coincidental that many
of the works by artists shown at the earlier Jewish Community Cen-
398
ter in New Jersey appeared again in the union gallery. The exhibition WPA artists, Then and Now that Mordy mounted at the Y
was, in a sense, duplicated ten years later at the union hall.
Grace Glueck, art critic at The New York Times, wrote on October 15, 1979:
The show, said to be the rst major art exhibition organized by
a labor union in this country, is part of District 1199s Bread
and Roses celebration, a two-year, $1.3 million cultural marathon that is bringing to union members...music, poetry readings, art and photography, lms and videotapes and a series of
conferences and symposiums.
For a number of years the small gallery at 1199described
as the only permanent exhibition hall in the labor movement
has housed art and photography shows, and in the Bread and
Roses program there has been a UNICEF show of childrens
paintings and a photography exhibition by Earl Dotter of
Southern textile workers. But The Working American,. . . is
the most ambitious . . .
Subjects of the paintings ranged from workers in the oil and
steel industries to cotton picking, carpentry, ship building
and whaling . . . and more. Painters showed included Winslow
Homer, Jacob Lawrence, Philip Evergood, Ralph Fasenella and
John Sloan. Not so well-known is Robert Koehler, whose painting, The Strike, was used to depict the 1886 strike for the
eight-hour day. His famous painting portrayed not only the
dignity of labor, but also the struggle of the working classes
against the industrialists and capitalists . . . In his realistic
representation of the situation Koehler shows many degrees
of commitment, from militant anger to puzzled questioning
among workers and their families, with the rmly committed
arguing to achieve solidarity.
Bread and Roses entered the vernacular forever because of the

publicity generated by the 1199 program. Hundreds of newspaper
and magazine articles told the story of the union project. The Amer-
399
ican Heritage magazine of June/July 1980 reproduced many of the

paintings from The Working American exhibition.
At least one of those stories reached Thomas Thielemann in Hamburg. He represented two thousand employees at Stern magazine:
organizing activities, handling grievances, and monitoring retirement plans. He wandered into Mordys oce one day to explore
the program hed read about. That led to a warm relationship and a
visit when we were in Hamburg.
Be certain to call me when you come to Hamburg, Thomas
said to Mordy. I dont expect Ill ever be in Hamburg, Mordy
responded. In turn, he was intrigued by Thomass girlfriend who
was with him during one of his visits or, more likely, at lunch.
She is the most beautiful woman Ive ever met, Mordy told me.
When he learned that she was Egyptian, he decided she looked like
Nefertiti. When, as so often happens in our lives, we unexpectedly
turned up in Hamburg, we found Thomas and discovered that hes
a Renaissance man: sings, plays the harmonica, and renovated his
living space with a bath house in his large loft, complete with
walls, ceilings, and all necessities. And he paints! He brought his
(just as beautiful) wife and ve-year-old son for a week in Huntington. In 1981 when we were staying in Aix, he researched many items
about Bach as we worked to prepare the TV program. We get a telephone call from Thomas at least every two weeks; hes involved in
everything we do.
During the summer of 1978, I organized the IH les and presented them to the Stockbridge Library. The library is unique in
the state of Massachusetts, housing a collection of archival material relating to the town, mainly early colonial and Indian artifacts.
My contribution encouraged Polly Pierce, the archivist at that
time, to apply for a grant to accept and catalogue records about
well-known residents, as well as les from the Berkshire Playhouse
and other local institutions. All IH yearbooks, photographs, correspondence with parents, newspaper stories and promotional mate-
400
rial, accounting ledgers and statements, architects plans of new

buildings, summer programs, and other relevant items are stored
in the library for future generations or IH alumni to peruse. I send
programs, recordings, and stories that appear in the press to Barbara Allen; they are in a collection she named the Bauman le.
I call it Indian Hillers in the news. Barbara has read everything
in the collection. She astonishes me. I mention an episode and she
responds: Oh, you mean Joe Klein!
In September 2001 Barbara mounted a small exhibit of Indian
Hill material. Displayed were a beautiful architects drawing of
Claude Samtons plan for the tepees; a souvenir silk scarf, a gift to
us from Bob Kreis (IH 52 thru 55), which his father produced in
his plant for each girl at the end of the rst summer; and an amusing letter from Frank Richs father about his mischievous behavior and approving our punishment. We dont remember that Frank
ever did anything wrong, and neither does he.
The historical room in the library was closed for almost a year
while it was renovated, climate controlled and refurbished, all
under Barbaras supervision. A fund-raising letter sent to those
former students for whom I had current addresses, resulted in a
large contribution toward the restorationmore response than I
expected from Indian Hill alumni. And every year, especially during Tanglewood summers, more of our kids come to look over the
archive. They are surprised to nd letters to and from parents and
thousands of pictures of performances, parents visiting days, and
the grounds that meant so much to them in their adolescent years. I
think of the stories they tell their children, wishing they could give
them some of the valuable experiences they enjoyed with us.
401
Chapter Fifteen
The Northleigh Story
HEN YOU run out of gas on the Taconic Parkway it helps to

have an interesting traveling companion. My passenger was
Isaac Bashevis Singer. For ten years Mordy was cantor at Temple
Anshe Amunim in Pittseld, Massachusetts. On a spring day in
1975, the rabbi asked me to drive Singer to the Berkshires for An
Evening with Isaac Singer. It was also my assignment to give him
dinner and a place to sleep. Some of his friends called him Bashevis. Others say Mr. Singer, but Ill call him Isaac for short.
I told Isaac about Mordy. His name is Mordecai but we call him
Mordy for short. He was sorry to miss your talk but he had an
important concert tonight at the New Jersey Y. Isaac said, Mordecai is too beautiful a name to shorten to Mordy. I agreed, but
family custom named him Mordy.
When Mordy was a young student at the Juilliard Graduate
School of Music, I told Isaac, powerful supporters of the music students suggested that he change his name. Mordy asked his teachers
advice: I think that Mordecai Bauman looked just ne in The
New York Times headline about your gold medal award. Mordecai
didnt change his name.
The dinner for Isaac was a op. I had planned what my daughter calls Bettys cooking. She still remembers my mothers bland
402
roast chicken, baked potatoes, steamed

carrots and peas, ice cream for dessert. I
should have known Isaac was a vegetarian,
but it didnt really matter what or how I
cooked since he ate little. What fascinated
me was to watch him writing all the time.
As he made a telephone call and waited
for an answer, he scribbled in Yiddish on
lined paper torn from a small notebook.
He wrote as he waited between courses
that he didnt eatalmost, one might say,
between bites. He didnt need isolation or
quiet. Ideas were always ready and waiting
in his head.
Although I was aware of Singers preoccupation with sex and his
well-advertised reputation as a womanizer, in the actual event there
was no problem about being alone in the house with him overnight.
He stayed in his bedroom; I stayed in mine. His public persona was
attractive, charming, bright, and often mischievous. I enjoyed the
evening with him and captured an unsmiling, serious photograph
with my Rolleiex; the photo makes him better-looking than he
really was.
The thought of being alone in the car with I. B. Singer for three
hours loomed as a challenge, although making conversation is
never dicult for me. I decided to entertain him with the Northleigh story. How would you end this story? I planned to ask. If
you were writing it, how would you make it turn out?
I picked him up at his 86th Street apartment. We drove up the
West Side Highway, and it wasnt long before he gave me the opening: How many children do you have? he asked. A leading question for which I have four answers: Chuck, Elisabeth, Joshua, and
Marc. I told him a little about my sons and launched into the tale
about my daughter and Northleigh. The car almost drove itself.
Chapter Fifteen: The Northleigh Stor y
403
The New York/Stockbridge/New York trip was one we made

almost every week; the car seemed to know the waythe short cuts,
the spots where State Police lurked. I didnt need to concentrate
on the road, but forgot to watch the gas gauge as I told my story
to a master storyteller, engaging his attention and anticipating his
surprise. Some people call Isaac the Yiddish Scheherezade; I think
of myself as Scheherezade. Telling my stories is what I enjoy more
than absolutely anything else I do. If I tell the Northleigh story well
with peripheral details, it takes about twenty minutes. Ive had a lot
of practice. This is more or less as I told it to Singer during the long
drive north on the Taconic Parkway.
I was in the louvre on May 12, 1965. If youre in Paris, going to the
Louvre is part of normal tourist routine, but it can be lonely and tiring, especially if you have no plan and no guide. I had gone to Paris
to visit my daughter; it was an impulsive decision. I was anxious to
solidify our relationship.
When Elisabeth was nineteen, she entered a dicult marriage;
we thought of it as a rather late teenage act of rebellion. It was an
unhappy time; we couldnt communicate with her for many months.
I felt like Tevya, bereft of my daughter and miserable. I have a terrible headache, I wept after a sleepless night. Whats a headache
when you have a heart ache? Mordecai mourned with me. I told
it to Isaac because our family shared some of the stress he writes
about: alienated children, unhappy parents. Isaac just listened.
I continued to tell the story. One day, after she had been married
for four years, Elisabeth came home from California unexpectedly.
She just showed up after leaving her husband quite suddenly. It was
an emotional time, with lots of tears; it was hard to bridge those
years.
We called our friend, Anne French, whom we had consulted
many times. A psychologist, she practiced what she called procedural guidance. I didnt even bring any clothes with me, Elisa-
404
beth wept as she tried to tell us what caused her decision to end her
marriage. Anne had no qualms about giving Elisabeth straightforward advice: Get a drip-dry dress and a box of Lux, she said. We
pulled ourselves together. Elisabeth went back to Los Angeles and
got a divorce.
Imagine, I told Isaac. In spite of the stress she was under,
Elisabeth graduated from UCLA with all As, passed the oral examinations for her Ph.D., and won a two-year Fulbright grant to write
her dissertation on seventeenth-century French history! She was
studying in Paris. I missed her greatly and just decided to go to see
her.
My daughter welcomed my visit, but she was working long days at
the Bibliothque Nationale, struggling to read seventeenth-century
French, starting to work on her doctoral dissertation. Alone in Paris,
I had to keep myself busy. I had seen the tourist attractions in the
Louvre in previous visits: the Venus de Milo, the Mona Lisa, Bruegels, Rembrandts. Before I left New York, I called our late friend,
the book designer Abe Lerner. When I go to Paris, what should I
look for in the Louvre?
Abe gave me a list: You must see the Van Eycks, and most important, the Avignon Pita.
Whats that?
Abe told me that it was a fteenth century primitive, but no one
knows who painted it. But it is a beautiful example of early Christian art. Its in an alcove by itself. You should spend time looking at
itstudy it.
With my list clutched in my st, I asked a guard in my execrable
French where I could nd the Van Eyck paintings and the Pita.
A gentleman nearby was listening and sent me in the right direction. He was a gray man, all in gray. Slight, with silver hair, gray
suit, gray overcoat on his arm, and gray hat in his hand, which also
held a gray umbrella. British, I could tell from his accent. I found
the Pita and stared at it, wondering why Abe wanted me to see it.
405
Im not a Christian, not particularly interested in religious art, and

wouldnt go out of my way to see another Pita.
Still, I tried to appreciate the suering shown in the work,
thinking of the four centuries since it was painted and the care and
importance of its display in a separate room. I turned to leave and
there the gray man was again, smiling at me. I shrugged, making
what the French call a mou, a sort of pout, trying to indicate my
puzzled reaction to the work. I looked at it once more and went to
ask where I might nd the Van Eycks.
Ou se trouve . . . I asked the guard. Pretty good French, I
thought, but he refused to understand. The gray man asked if he
could help: Are you looking for a particular work? The serious
British gentleman glanced at the list in my hand.
Id like to nd the Van Eyck paintings. He spoke in rapid,
perfect French to the guard, and told me which way to go. As I
wandered from one room to another, I often saw the same people,
which seems to happen in museums. Sometimes the people seem
more interesting to me than the works on the walls.
406
I noticed the gray man as I studied one religious painting after

another. In front of Rembrandts Tobias and the Angel we found
ourselves together again, and he said: Beautifully painted, of
course, but I should not like to live with it. It was an odd remark, I
thought, and walked on. He was on one side of the long broad corridor that leads to the exit, while I walked along the opposite side.
Why are you passing these? he asked me.
Who are they?
Poussin and Lorrain.
Who are they? I was trying to be funny: I really knew who they
were.
I happen to own a Lorrain, he said, and Id like to tell you
about these paintings.
Well, that was impressive.
Poussin is a signicant gure in French art . . . . He started a
brief lecture on the classical tradition. We stopped in front of one
painting, and he talked on, took my arm, and led me from one enormous landscape to another.
Im more involved in music than in art, I told him. I have
never taken an art history course, but I really do know who Poussin
and Lorrain are. The list in my hand is a suggestion from an artist
friend. And I have another assignment, one I have given myself. I
have always wanted to see the Cluny tapestries, and every time I try
to go there I get lost.
Ill be glad to show you the way, he said. Whenever Im in
Paris I go to the Cluny.
We had a sandwich lunch on a bench outside the Louvre, making cautious contact. His name, he told me, was Northleigh Yorke
Lodge, a distant cousin of your Henry Cabot Lodge, but a dierent
stripe altogether. He meant that he is not a conservative. He knew
New York well; he had worked at the United Nations. When I told
him where we lived, he approved of the address: Thats a good
street, he said. A barrister, he retired when his wife died, about
407
three years before we met. I told him about my lifemy rst marriage, my four children, Indian Hill, how Mordy and I founded the
school, and the children who attended it. He was intrigued.
We took the Metro to the Cluny. Mr. Lodge told me the stories of
the Unicorn tapestries as he guided me around the circular room.
I had a wonderful time. I was enchanted with the gentleness of
this gray stranger, as well as with his knowledge and his ability to
share it.
His charm and easy involvement with me seemed out of characternot my idea of a proper British gentleman. He struck a responsive chord in me, and I couldnt wait to tell my daughter about him.
I told him that I planned to take her out to dinner. Why dont
you join us? Her roommates will come too; they are all graduate
students, bright and interesting. Youd enjoy them, and I know my
daughter would love to talk to you.
Oh, I cantI really cant. I get very tired and I need to rest. I
dont think I can.
Then try to meet me after dinner. Im meeting friends; theyre
involved in musicyoull like them, too. He promised to call me
at Liss apartment and gave me his card: Chief Education Ocer of
Warwickshire; 28 Beauchamp Avenue, Leamington Spa.
As I walked into the apartment, four ights up in the 16th arrondisement, I called out to those budding scholars: I met such an
interesting man in the Louvre! He took me to the Cluny, so I nally
saw those tapestries. We had lunch together; I had a great day.
Mother! No daughter can tolerate a mothers adventureswe
all know that.
Somewhat to my surprise, that chance acquaintance did call me
shortly before we went out for dinner, and even agreed to meet me
briey in the lobby of my friends hotel. He could not, he said, join
us for our night on the town, but he repeated his invitation: Please
come to Leamington Spa. Ill show you around Warwickshire,
Shakespeares school, Stratford, the lovely old villages in the area,
408
and the home of Washingtons ancestors. Take the 9:25 at Victoria

Station and you can get the 5:20 back to London. Im sure youll
want to visit London before you go home.
I thanked him, having no intention of going to London, and gave
little further thought to this formal, but interesting stranger. Well,
not so formal, really. Elisabeth thought I was mad to pick up an
Englishman in the Louvre.
Was he Jewish?
No, Isaac. Northleigh Yorke Lodge!! No, he wasnt Jewish, but,
he told me, a sympathizer.
Elisabeth had been studying so hard I oered to take her to the
south of France for a few days. We rented a car and followed the
trail of the Huguenots as they ed persecution. We had a wonderful
time together, all past friction forgotten. We visited Roman ruins,
stayed in a beautiful inn near Les Baux, which reminded us of the
Hobbit tales, and got lost in the Dordognes. But ten days were quite
enough qualityas well as quantitytime together.
When we returned to Paris, I had a few days left before my return
ight to New York. Elisabeth suggested, Why dont you go to London for the Memorial Day weekend? Theres nothing much you can
do at home during that holiday. Visit my friend Ann Huxley. Youll
love her. And thats how I went to London.
Ann was welcoming. We stayed up late talking about our daughters, her three and my one and only. I told her about the fascinating
Englishman I encountered. Next morning Ann said she was very
busy and could not show me around London that day and suggested
that I make my own plan. Why dont you take the train to Leamington; Mr. Yorke Lodge will be your tour guide. You shouldnt miss
this chance to see Warwickshire.
What a crazy idea! I was startled; I had not taken the invitation seriously, but I also did not look forward to wandering about
London alone. Interesting as the trip might be, I held back. Mr.
Lodge had no phone, how could I let him know I was coming?
409
What are you worried about? Ann asked. If hes not home,
take a hotel room or go to Stratford, take a tour bus and see the
countryside. It would be much nicer than London. Tomorrow Ill
be free.
But I had my pride and thought I should at least go to a beauty
parlor. I couldnt make the 9:24 as Mr. Lodge suggested. I packed
a small bag, went to the station feeling foolish, and took the next
trainabout 11:00to Leamington Spa.
On our trip together, Elisabeth and I found a stamp of the Cluny
tapestries in a small village post oce somewhere in the south of
France. We sent it on a card to Northleigh. I knew he would remember me, but I was certainly worried that he might not be home,
and then what would I do? And I was uneasy about how he would
greet me. What would he think of this forward American? By the
time I reached Leamington, it was past noon. I was hungry and felt
increasingly indiscreet.
How far is it to Beauchamp Avenue? I asked the rst locallooking person.
You walk up High Street, turn right after you pass the grocer
about a twenty-minute walk. But you can take a taxi. I decided to
walk, carrying my small bag, postponing the inevitable moment
when I had to face the reality of what I was doing. Finally I was at
Beauchamp Avenue, number 28. In front of the house a small green
car was parked, a Morris Minor. I decided it could be Northleighs,
and rang the bell. No answer. Small panic and a little temporary
relief, postponing seeing Northleighs reaction. It wasnt dicult,
however, to make the next move. Number 28 was in the middle of
a row of connected houses: brick painted white, bow windows, a
big lavender hydrangea bush at the door. I went next door and rang
that bell.
Do you happen to know if Mr. Yorke Lodge is in? I asked the
little old lady who answered my ring. Oh, yes, she said. Poor dear
410
Mr. Yorke Lodge is so lonely since his wife died. Hes fast asleep on
his back balcony. Does he expect you?
Not really. I came to bring him a happy day. He doesnt know
Im here, but he did ask me to come. May I go through your house
to the back and call him? What nerve I had! I walked toward the
garden, trying not to be too nosy about her old-fashioned kitchen
with its ancient furnishings.
Youre so brave! he looked down at me, astounded that I was
actually there. He was sitting on his balcony, formal in his siesta,
with a sti white collar, jacket, and tie. Ill be right down.
I had caught him he said, with the silver not out, and the bedspread not on the bed. He let me in and hastened to unwrap the
large silver tea set and spread his wifes hand-crocheted cover on
the big antique bed that looked like a boat. I looked at the family tree hanging in the front hall. The long list that began about
four centuries ago, full of Lodges and Yorkes, ending with an empty
space where the line stopped with Northleigh. No descendants. I
took the house tour, admired the silver, the Lorrain and a Poussin,
and heard more about his family.
We had a small lunch in the dining room, while Northleigh tried
to readjust his day, talking about what we would do and what he
would show me. Before we went anywhere, I told him, I must buy
owers for his neighbor, Mrs. Bowen.
I had seen a second bedroom in his house, but there was no suggestion that I might stay in itat least, it was obviously not in his
mind. I would have been delighted to sleep there, with no fear or
embarrassment. However, Northleigh took me to the local inn and
made a reservation; he called the Stratford Theater to order tickets,
and then made a tour plan.
Northleigh described his position as Chief Education Ocer of
the County of Warwickshire: He was responsible for all the schools,
from Shakespeares school in Stratford to Warwick University.
His wife was a French orphan, brought up by maiden aunts. They
411
came to England to meet Northleighs family when the young couple decided to marry. Northleighs father was a minister, an educated man. I was astonished to learn that Northleigh had not known
his father spoke French until he heard his conversation with the
aunts.
Im not surprised, Isaac said. That seems like typical British
reticence; but your friend Northleigh doesnt seem to suer from it.
Why do you think he didnt invite you to stay in his house?
He may not have been as reticent as his father, but he was
proper. I think of him as the last surviving nineteenth-century gentleman.
Northleigh told me about his family. I have a cousin Philip,
whom I call the Boy Scout. He lives with his friend in a run-down
family estate called Erddig, near Wales. They are buskers. They perform in old peoples homesnot very exciting work. If he dies rst,
Ill inherit the estate; if I die, hell have to deal with it. Its the last
surviving example of an English Squires home; the barns, work
houses, and all the antiques are still there. The odd thing about this
house is that nothing was ever removed from it since it was built in
the 17th century. Theres a complete history of the bicycle in one
storage room! But its in terrible shape because it suers from subsidence.
Old mines underneath it have fallen, creating big open spaces
in the ground under the house. The walls crack, the roof leaks, and
I have no idea how we can maintain it.
He showed me pictures of the estate, and we talked about going
to see it, but there wasnt enough time. I promised to come back
some day and bring Elisabeth, maybe even Mordy. And since Northleigh knew the train schedules to the American Berkshires as well
as the entire British train system, I asked him which train hed take
when he visited us in Stockbridge!
Even with his position in Warwickshire, he could not get tickets
to the theater, so instead we spent a pleasant, talkative evening,
412
with dinner at the inn and more shared condences. Next morning
he arrived at the hotel, formal again in his sti collar and still all in
gray. He was very thin, dapper, almost elegant. The car sputtered
and stalled. That didnt upset him, he smiled tolerantly, talked to
the Morris Minor and drove very slowly.
We wandered around Warwickshire; now a history lesson was
added to the art lesson at the Cluny. At the Banbury Cross train
station, I reached to kiss him goodbye and felt his dry, ascetic lips.
Watching him from the train window, I suddenly realized why he
seemed familiar: he looked like Alec Guinness!
When my self-assured husband met me at the airport, I blurted
out: Wait till I tell you about the fascinating man I spent an evening with! It says even more about his secure personality when he
answered: Tell me about him. How did you meet? What did you
do? We drove to Stockbridge and I sang Northleighs praises all
the way home.
Then began a two-year correspondence, which lasted until
Northleighs death in 1967. His rst letter was dated May 26, 1965,
the second July 3, an answer to two of mine. I wrote about my children and details of work at Indian Hill, getting our school ready for
the summer session.
Something is wrong with the pool lter. We bought a tractor
and Marc spent the morning breaking it in on the lawns. (Marc
was 13.) Jake came to see us and suggested we try to lm some
scenes on 16mm as a kind of test to see what we get with the
forces we have. He will write movie reviews for Newsweek
watch for them. My husband sends his greetings and said he
thought you should have a telephone. Your name has become a
household word here . . . .
I began to send friends and relatives who were traveling around

England to see him:
Youll be getting more knocks on your door than youll know
413
how to deal with. I do not approve of your solitude. However,

you have a choice: You can always refuse to answer.
His letters, written in a cramped but legible hand on both sides

of small sheets, seemed to be composed rather than written. Mine
are rapidly typed, single-spaced, chatty. Northleighs rst letter
repeated the list of places we had visited, so that I should not forget
them. And he corrected a mistaken bit of history: Washington was
a fourth-generation American, not a third as he had told me. Obviously, he had looked it up. Later letters always included a comment
about the political scene, in the United States as well as in England. We wrote frequently, at least once a month, more often twice.
The Stockbridge post oce was a scene of struggle: who would read
Northleighs letter rst, Mordy or I.
In November I had a postcard from Elisabeth reporting that she
was with Northleigh: A cold but pleasureful day in Warwickshire,
well worth the trip! And a note below: Surprise, surprise! Here
we are together. A bientt. Northleigh.
What had begun as Dear Mrs. Bauman and Dear Mr. Lodge
was now My dear Irma and Northleigh, my dear. I saved all
our correspondence; his letters give a clear sense of his personality:
careful, correct, and with charm and wit that I didnt expect from a
formal British upper-class gentleman.
19th November, 1965
My dear Irma: Before you read this you will, I hope, have had
the postcard which Elisabeth and I sent jointly from Stratfordupon-Avon. When I heard from her, it occurred to me that it
might be a change for her to come down and see this part of
the world. Not perhaps one of my better ideas, because the
weather was intensely cold, though Elisabeth was kind enough
to say that she enjoyed the trip and that she was indeed glad to
see the countryside.
Thank you for sending me the cutting about Lord and Taylors bed. It looks a very typical lit bateau of the period. The
414
price is by no means unusual for an
Empire bed. I should hope, I think,
to get rather more for mine . . . . A
friend of mine at Sothebys tells me
that they reckon that the value of
antiques has been going up by ten
percent per annum. And certainly I
recently had a surprise there, when
I stayed to see a pair of William
III candlesticks sold. They were
dated 1698, and resembled the pair
of William II candlesticks on the
chimney piece of this room, dated
1696, and, possibly, rather ne . .
. . My pair bears the Pitt crest, we
having intermarried into the Pitt
family in the early 18th century. How did we get them? . . . The
story there is that families travelling in the 18th century often,
and indeed usually, took their cutlery with them to avoid using
the tin things in inns, and we must have mixed up some of
theirs with ours. But I wonder; at any rate, it seems clear that
we must have pinched the candlesticks.
Elisabeth wrote that she was corresponding with Northleigh.

I wasnt surprised that she had enjoyed her day with him, but I
didnt expect a real friendship to develop. He was sixty-seven, she
was twenty-six. Still, when we decided to go to Paris to see her in
December, I suggested that she write Northleigh and try to convince him to join us. He wrote to me:
Now Paris . . . Thank you for the dates: we seem to have an
overlap all right, provided that aeroplanes and trains are working normally. You never can be sure at this time of the year.
Yesterday Elisabeth was a minute early into Leamington in the
morning, but thirty-ve minutes late in getting back in the
evening . . . . I liked Elisabeth very much indeed, and particularly admired the way she stood up for Bayle when I said that I
415
thought he must be a dull dog. And she has spent her precious
francs on a copy of the Dictionnaire. And she is half-thinking
of taking up with Bishop Burnet. I am just plain no good at
theologians, particularly the hair-splitting zealots of the 17th
century.
I hope that the march in Washington did not bring any
unpleasant experiences to either of you. According to the
BBC and the English press it was a fairly orderly occasion . . . .
Of course, I am against the war in Vietnam. Of course, I am
against the segregation of coloured people. But what is even
nearer to my heart, because no-one seems to care, is the integration of women into real equality with men. I am not much
of a hand at marches, but for this cause I am prepared to join
the front row, if the ladies will have me, of a procession down
Pennsylvania Avenue. I can forget to feel tired when I think of
the way men treat women.
That was a fairly typical Northleigh letter. He was very wellinformed, and his position about politics seemed in tune with ours.
Lis wrote us in detail about her visit to Leamington, and said that
she was writing to Northleigh about her research. It was slow going,
and she hadnt begun to write her dissertation. I wondered what I
had started, introducing her to this very proper British gentleman.
I had no idea how deeply we would become involved with him.
I pressured Northleigh to meet us in Paris on his way to his
annual winter vacation in Menton, on the Mediterranean coast of
France. If you had a good time with me, and if you enjoyed meeting Elisabeth, just wait until you meet my husband! I wrote him.
You must show up in Paris when we are there.
We spent two days with Northleigh in Paris. He showed us an
out-of-the-way museum in the Opra, and we found small restaurants where we talked for hours about French politics, the New York
City mayoral race, U. S. foreign policy, and Elisabeths study of the
religious controversy after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Northleigh knew enough about French theologians to make sug-
416
gestions to Elisabeth, encouraging her just to write. Northleigh

was studying Serbo-Croat; he carried little slips of paper with verb
declensions in his pockets. I took one and kept it in my wallet. I
thought it was a good method to show our boys as they studied a
foreign language.
I might try that with my Yiddish students. Isaac wasnt serious.
Northleigh went o to Menton, and we took Elisabeth to visit
friends in Prague and then to Milan, Rome, and Naples. We sent
cards to Northleigh from every stop. When we returned home, I
wrote a letter describing a wild trip on the Amal Drive. We had
forgotten how early night falls in December, and decided to drive
back to Rome after our tour of Pompeii via the Amal Drive instead
of the Autostrada. Its a famous road, winding along the coast: hugging the clis on one side, with sheer drops on the other into the
sea. We were caught in the dark on the narrow, two-lane road. Mordy
tried to avoid oncoming buses and trucks while Lis and I were hysterical with fearleading to laughter instead of tearsclinging to
each other in the back seat.
No one drives this road in the dark, we screamed at Mordy. He
replied: Whats there to see on the Amal Drive, anyway? Not
even the road! Northleigh was horried, but relieved that we were
home safely. His letters to us continued from Menton. I copied his
letters to me for Lis; she copied his to her for me.
We began to refer to him as NYL. He waited to mail letters to
me until he had heard from Elisabeth or had telephoned to encourage her to start writing. I called him her Jewish mother, as he
nudged her on.
Hah! Isaac hooted
It was becoming obvious to us that a warm relationship was
developing between them. Northleigh had no children, and at sixtyseven he considered himself in locus grandparentis to Lis. In February he wrote that he decided to go home much earlier than he had
417
planned. How much of that decision was based on his desire to see
Elisabeth on the way I dont know. But he wrote me that he called
her and that they arranged to meet her at the Gare du Nord to have
. . . two and a half hours with her. She had the perfectly splendid idea that we should spend the time going to the Guillaume
Bequest pictures at the Orangerie; they are superlatively good,
with a great many Renoirs.
Elisabeth is well, but she surprised me by saying that she
was tired of Paris and that she wanted quiet in which to write
her thesis. She went on to say that she would like to come to
28 Beauchamp Avenue for a month or two for that purpose. I
answered that it would be lovely to have her, as, of course, it
would. But I have said that I think your approval ought to be
sought. I know she is over 21, but yet she is a very young girl to
be going half round the world on her own. Please let me know
what you think. I would see that she was properly looked after
(though my ideas on housekeeping are of the vaguest), and
that she had every opportunity of writing.
Im sure she went to live with him. How long did she stay? Did
he introduce her to some young relative? Was that the love story?
No, I know how it ended . . . she married him. Its so obvious. Isaac
took his notebook out of his pocket
You are trying to get ahead of me, I replied. Its really an
Isaac Singer story. Thats when I ran out of gas. It was a long while
before a good Samaritan stopped to help us and sent an AAA truck
to the rescue. Lots of time to continue the story.
Northleigh wrote again about Elisabeths suggestion of going to
Leamington.
I felt that there had been a great change in her attitude to life
in Paris. In December, she seemed to be enjoying everything
immensely, and even spoke of applying for another grant . . .
now she was all for getting away. I worried about it on the
train, and wrote from London to say so. I asked whether it was
418
because she was missing you and the family, In her reply, she
says Yes, I have been too long away from my family, and, in
spite of myself, associate you with them, and goes on to speak
of Leamington as providing perfect working conditions
quiet, nothing to do at night but write and write.
So there it is: this house is certainly quiet, and what a surrogate grandfather can do on behalf of you and the family shall
be done . . . . I wrote her that though I had no claim to scholarship in any eld, I was a Rock of Gibraltar in English style,
usage and grammar. I suggested that she should send me what
she wrote, for comment. Do you think that this is where the
thought of coming here originated?
Who knows where it had originated. Certainly not with me. I can
be forward, but not that pushy!
In almost every letter to Northleigh, I repeated an invitation to
visit us in Stockbridge. We had a spacious house and I wanted to
show it o; we had few antiques but a wonderful formal garden.
And we all worried about his health; he constantly fell asleep, even
on the train from London. He might have often missed his stop, but
the conductor knew him well and woke him in time.
It never occurred to me that he would adopt Elisabeth. Her
research in seventeenth-century French history was based in various Paris libraries. What would she do in Leamington Spa? I think
that living with three, sometimes four, roommates had begun to
pall, and the thought of the peace of Warwickshire must have
seemed a great relief. But to move in on this stranger! I told my secretary: Imagine Liss stockings drying in Northleighs bathroom!
How will he put up with a young womans peccadilloes! I wrote
him:
Of course we were startled at her proposal, but our main reaction was one of pleasure. The excitement and spurt of motivation for work that she expressed in her letter to us is quite
enough to give us condence thatwith a few careful ground
rulesyou both can have a happy and productive spring . . . .
419
I hope that Liss youthful enthusiasm and (perhaps) lack of

consideration for your needs will not upset you. My objective
opinion of my daughter is that she is an unadulterated joy to
have around. So, enjoy, enjoy!
Impulsively, Elisabeth left Paris and roamed around Spain. NYL

worried about her, and so did we. Its tough to be a parent, I
wrote him, and even harder to be a surrogate grandparent. We
really were worried about how my Louvre encounter would aect
these two, so disparate lives.
Northleigh wrote me, with some didence:
I have had not a little experience of reading and assessing doctoral theses on subjects of which I know nothing. In my oce,
one of the departments dealt with awards from public funds to
post-graduate students from Warwickshire. The people in it
were very good (the best, ablest and hardest-working being, of
course, a woman), and solved most of their problems, but just
occasionally they could not make up their minds and would
send the thing to me as I take the responsibility . . . . apart
from the great, scholars tend to be people who know a vast
amount about something that is very small, and, being timid
and limited, they concentrate on presentation, on notes, on
appendices, on bibliographiesthe minutiae of scholarship,
important though they may beinstead of what matters, the
thought content.
By the rst of April, Elisabeth was ensconced in Leamington

Spa, in Northleighs second bedroom. She started to work on her
dissertation right away. NYL sent me notes:
She has written 1/50th then 17/80ths of her dissertation. He
insisted upon at least thirty-ve hours a week or the experiment
would not have succeeded. She stayed with him for three months.
I had suggested some rules: she must write so much before she
can go to London to visit her cousins and friends; she must
walk to the high streetshe needs exercise. In her rst week
420
she scored 43 3/4 hours; this is net, net, net, after deductions
for eating apples or scolding me about the bath water.
Elisabeth cooked meals that she remembered from my mother,

more bland than mine and better for Northleigh. He had asked me
what she liked to eat, and I suggested feta and tomatoes for breakfastone of her favorite dishes. What is feta? I told him and he
wrote:
You really have surprised me about feta. I had asked myself
what could be mated with a tomato and eaten before 9 a.m.,
and had come to the conclusion it could only be an omelette,
a sausage or some kind of sh (you know the sort of thing,
feta vulgaria Atlantica). But the actuality is a problem, even
a series of problems. If I know my fellow-countrymen, there
is no very wide sale for a breakfast dish of this kind: we are a
fairly traditional lot. The only place I can think of to try is Fortnum and Masons in Piccadilly, the Queens grocers (where the
men who serve wear morning coats and striped trousers). Supposing I have diculty in nding what I want, is it Greek goatcheese or Greek-goat cheese I am looking for? Would a British
goat do? Or an expatriated Greek goat? I guess not, and I have
never heard of such an industry here. And then again, how
does the tomato go with it? In slices? Or cooked up with the
cheese into what the British call a Welsh rarebitnot a good
name in the circumstances. Please advise me.
And he added:
You say that you doubt whether Lis, or anyone, could work
eight hours a day on a dissertation. If she and I get into a ght
over this, whose side are you on anyway?
He sounded very excited, thrilled to have a house guest and a

cause to be working on. I was still fretting about the stockings hanging in the bathroom, but beginning to worry about how lonely NYL
would be when Lis eventually left.
Our correspondence continued regularly, my letters full of sto-
421
ries about my workmostly maintenance at Indian Hill. His small

pages of cramped handwriting reported on daily ups and downs,
expeditions to Stratford, shopping, and even to Erddig when he felt
that Lis really needed a day o. He did allow her to go to London
occasionally. As for the thesis: He corrected her style, encouraged
her to stick to the job and kept me up to date about her progress:
She has done 42 typewritten pages of text. In addition, she has
about six pages of notes waiting to be typed. I reckon therefore that by tomorrow she will have nished 50 sheets, or oneeighth of what I should regard as the probable total.
Soon his letters included comments like:

What are lox? I was reading a book in which someone had a
nebbish son-in-law. From the context, it seems to have a pejorative rather than a complimentary meaning. What, please,
are long-haired shmoes? And what is a shmegeggy? Do you
know the word?
Isaac was entertained. We know the word. But what is he reading? Isaac wondered.
I sent him two of your books, and he was enjoying them. But he
wrote that those references were not from your books, I dont know
where he read them.
His housekeeper complained about his shabby winter overcoat,
and when he hesitated about getting a new one, she threatened: If
you dont, Ill tell Elisabeth! His former assistant, Mr. Browne,
was pressing him to get a telephone, as I continued to do. He wrote:
And what do you think Mr. Browne said? If you dont, I shall tell
Elisabeth! It is the second time in a fortnight that this has happened, and I am at a loss to know how to make a riposte on these
occasions.
Lis came home at the end of June to spend the summer in Stockbridge. Northleigh wrote: Partings wound. I continued to beg
him to visit us, but he never did.
422
Oh, sighed Isaac.

Lis had written two chapters under his tutelage, and when she
began her rst postgraduate teaching assignment in California, she
sent several pages at a time to him across the continent and over
the ocean. He returned them with suggestions on the back of each
page, about choice of word, style, and grammar.
January 2, 1967
My dear Irma:
The gures that worry me (as I can tell you) are:
Two months writing at Leamington Spa 85 pages
Two months writing in Stockbridge 37 pages
Two months writing in California 19 pages
Since Lis wrote to me on the 26th November that she would
have to nish by the spring, she has sent me four pages (part
of the 19). Poor sweetheart, she is doing it in the hardest possible way.
Love, Northleigh
One year after Lis started to write her Ph.D. dissertation under
Northleighs guidance, she nished it. Her adviser at UCLA
approved it and she earned her doctorate.
A cable came from Northleigh: Is there a doctor in the house?
Yes. Congratulations. Lis went back to Leamington for a brief
visit; it was just two years since I picked him up, or he picked me
up, in the Louvre.
When Mordy and I went to England in September 1967, we spent
a few days in Warwickshire. I took a delightful, smiling picture of
NYL, holding a prize dahlia we picked in the garden of a very serious dahlia grower. As long as we owned the house in Stockbridge,
we changed the owers in the formal garden to dahlias, in memory
of our day with Northleigh.
Mordy had to go back to work, I stayed on for an extra week in
London. I hoped that NYL would spend more time with me, but
he kept repeating how tired he was. He did come to London one
423
day to take me to museums. He wrote that he fell asleep on the

train again, but the conductor woke him. All my lettersand there
were more than 100 of them written during the two and a half years
of our correspondencepleaded with him to come to visit us. He
excused himself on the basis of his exhaustion, and nally went to
the doctor after much prodding from me and Lis. He wrote that he
had Menires disease, but it was a brain tumor. My last letter to
him was in October, full of stories of my boys adventures at boarding school. His last letter to me, October 27, 1967, was brief, the
handwriting tinier than ever. He wrote about his foolish sister-inlaw, Nannie, and added that he did not feel well enough to visit us
during the Christmas vacation.
I decided to visit Lis during Thanksgiving week. She was teaching in Boulder, Colorado. Before I left New York I received a letter
from a stranger, Mrs. Sloane, telling me that Northleigh was in hospital, very ill, and that he would not recover. She was responsible
for his care, she said that she read my recent letter to him and that
he smiled at the stories about our boys.
Who on earth is Mrs. Sloane? I asked Lis. She had no idea,
and we felt irritated with NYL: how could he have a close friend
we didnt know; after all, we had no secrets from him! Was she a
new housekeeper or a relative? We were so puzzled. We found Mrs.
Sloanes phone number and called her from Boulder.
After suitable politesse and concern about Northleigh, I asked
her: Excuse me for asking, but who are you?
Oh, I guess Im the skeleton in the closet, she answered, giving us more to ponder..
We met a year ago in the Tate Gallery, she added, and I gasped.
He met this skeleton in an art gallery? Did he pick her up, too?
Lis and I talked of little else as we explored New Mexico, wandering around as we had through France. It was a lovely time, but
we could not feel happy, worried as we were. When I came back to
New York, there was a cable from Ann Huxley, who had started the
424
whole thing when she sent me o to Leamington, telling us that

Northleigh had died and that she had gone to the funeral. I felt
bereft.
I decided to write a letter of sympathy to Mrs. Sloane. I expressed
surprise that when I was in London alone, only a couple of months
before, Northleigh had not suggested that we meet. He knew I was
at loose ends, that Ann was occupied, and that I had no other friends
in London. Mrs. Sloane wrote and answered my questions: Tell me
about the funeral. Who was there? Where was he buried?
So few people stood at his graveside: ten or twelve in all . . .
a closed chapter it can never be: not for you and me. In truth,
apart from me there was only your family with whom Northleigh was emotionally involved. He spoke of you all with that
quiet aection, peculiar to him, and with no mean sense of
pride in his granddaughter Elisabeth . . . . and [spoke] about
his odd relatives, Philip and Nannie. Cousin Philip . . . was
present at the funeral. Quite a character, I thought, and a
charming one at that. Nannie is a simple soul, incapable of facing up to reality, and lost in a religious fervour of prayer.
And she responded to my question: why had Northleigh not introduced us when I was alone in London.
Talking of the religioun reminds me that Northleighs attitude
led me to suppose that it was more than likely you were anti-Semitic
and wouldnt approve of me.
Mrs. Sloane thought that I was an anti-Semite! Isaac put his
notebook away.
You did surprise me. Why would Mr. Lodge think you might not
have approved of her? How could Mrs. Sloane have been close to
Northleigh and not known you are Jewish? Was it possible he never
mentioned it?
I dont think he would have.
Was she the source of the words Northleigh asked about? Were
the books he was reading from her? And the skeleton in the closet
425
was also Jewish! Did Northleigh embark on an aair as soon as Elisabeth left?
Isaac began to make up a story about a proper British gentleman
who went about picking up Jewish women in museums! I told him
that wasnt Northleighs style at all! We two, Mrs. Sloane and I,
were his nal adventures!
I was curious to meet Mrs. Sloane. In October 1968 I went to London alone and found Bob, as she was called by friends and family.
Bob was a short, blowzy lady, bleached blonde hair piled high in
a fancy bouant style. I liked her immediately. She was cheerful,
funny, and bright, but it was almost incomprehensible to see her as
a skeleton in anybodys closet, certainly not a closet in that formal home. A well-to-do widow, she lived in a pleasant apartment in
Hampstead. Northleigh had left her a narrow marble table, whose
legs were carved Sphinxes. On it was a copy of the picture I had
taken of Northleigh with the dahlia. Bob spent most of her time
with her daughter and her three well-to-do sisters. They were all
involved in progressive politics.
Bob and I decided to visit Erddig, and drove to Wrexham, near
the corner of Wales, she singing popular songs all the way. We
stayed overnight in that run-down estate, somehow relieved that
supporting it was not Northleighs responsibility. Philip lived in a
small study, sleeping on a cot; a valuable Van Goyen painting hung
above his head, and a gun was tucked under his pillow. The family
silver had been stolen and he was trying desperately to protect the
rest. I slept in the Red Bedroom on a bed Philip Yorke the First may
have designed for his sister Anne Jemima, who died of consumption
in 1770. It has a crank that raises the head of the bed, or moves the
mattress sidewaysa feature that did not make it comfortable! It
is now in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. Philip gave
us an extensive tour of the house, complete with histories of each
painting and each artifact. Bob slept in the State Bedroom, no
426
more comfortably than I.

Philips busker friend, Bertam Heyhoe, known as Hoohah,
lived in another corner of the enormous house, which actually had
only one toilet, in the entrance hall, far from our rooms. Hoohah
cooked a lovely sh supper for us in a tiny kitchenette o the servants dining room, which is decorated with paintings of eughteenth- and nineteenth-century servants, each with an appropriate
verse written by one of the Yorke squires.
Bob and I signed the guest book, under Queen Marys name. All
sorts of important people were visiting Erddig at that time, as Philip
tried to persuade the National Trust to take it over and renovate it.
It was opened to the public in 1977, the only surviving example of a
country squires house, complete with outbuildings and shops. It is
handsomely restored, the original furniture in beautiful condition.
Northleighs precious antiques are added where they t.
In 1978 Mordy and I visited Erddig. Philip had died, but Hoohah
lived near Wrexham, and we found him. Of course I remember
you; Im sure you are in my diary. Such a notable event just had to
be recorded somewhere. He promised to look it up and copy it for
me, and he did:
I spent an interesting evening after youd gone yesterday hunting down your visit to Erddig in my diaries. I looked rst at
a summary of memorabilia for each month which I make up
at the back of each diary, and, would you believe it, the rst
item for October was Irma and Bob of the Chosen. You may
be intrigued to know just what I wrote pertinent to your visit.
Some of it you may very well judge impertinent; but you must
remember it was rst acquaintance, rst impression and jotted
down without much reection. Anyway, here it is, warts and
all. It was, by the way, A very lovely daymixed skiesvery
mildsilky breeze. Put oil stove in Red Room. Bottles in beds
for visitors . . . the two ladies (friends of Yorke Lodge) arrived
for tea. OneIrmaan American has four near-grownup children, and runs a posh summer school. The otherBoba bit
427
of a Rinsed Momma. Both full of spirit and talk. Left Wing.

Philip took them round House. Spent evening prep & cook
a meal for 9 p. m. Baked halibut and tomatoesegg sauce
peasspuds. Stewed pears and baked custard. Ready to the
minute. Much enjoyed. Philip got a t of bronchial congestion
(from a Calor gas leak?). Lengthy chat. Irma full of her school
and family. Both avid for Yorke family dataYorke Lodge, etc.
Coee. Fires sluggish (for hot water) almost too much for the
very mild evening. Irma (says she knows) William Schuman
whose Violin Concerto so struck me. Relayed hot water bottles. P. took them to drawing room. RELAXED! Coee. Bed
12:30.
I look at Northleighs picture. Hes holding the prize dahlia

which is bigger than his head. He wears his gray suit, gray tie, fountain pen clipped to the pocket of his jacket. He is smiling, amused
that we had no compunction about asking the dahlia grower for
a ower to photograph. I think about our aectionate relationship and remember asking him, What do your friends call you for
short? Hoohahs letter wonders
about nicknames, too.
My kind regards to Mordecai.
I asked Ted Jones just who the
original Mordecai washe being
a regular Welsh chapel-going
nonconformist. He didnt know!
And Im ashamed to say, even
after years as a choir boy, listening to chunks and chunks of the
Old Testament, I cant identify
him either. But what a splendid
name. I dont know what you call
him for shortI hope nothing.
You couldnt muck about with
Mordecai. Its magnicent.
428
We used NYL in our letters, for short. But he was always

Northleigh in person, and so he appears in the dedication of Elisabeths book. Sometimes I nd myself talking to him in my head,
telling him of the latest political maneuvers in London and Washington.
There is so much Id like to tell him!
429
Chapter Sixteen
In Praise of Learning*
HE FIRST time I heard Mordecai Bauman sing the Brecht/

Eisler song from Mother was at a Town Hall symposium. How
could I have known that it would change my life? And what was
I doing there? Maybe he invited me; maybe I was curious about
his performance. Neither of us remembers. Its quite enough to say
that I never forgot it and that the song still resonates in my head.
Eislers arrival in America in 1935 put a new spin on the musical life of this country. And on many American composers as well.
Few people are still alive in the United States who knew and worked
with Eisler. As his music is revived and made more easily available,
musicians and scholars seek Mordy out to discuss Eislers work, still
bringing new activities, relationships and excitement to our lives.
*We wrote this chapter together as an article for publication in The Brecht
Yearbook, November 2001 (No. 26), at the request of the editor, Maartin van
Dijk. We place it here toward the end of our memoir, although Eisler came
into Mordys life in 1935 and into mine in 1941, when Mordy talked about him,
his music, and his inuence on his lifehence on mine, forever after. And that
inuence led us to Leipzig in what was then East Germany and to the production of The Stations of Bach, our nal joint projectuntil we decided to write
this memoir!
430
They met in 1935. Mordy had recently graduated from the Juilliard Graduate School and Columbia College. The composer Elie
Siegmeister, his fellow student at Juilliard, recommended him to
accompany Eisler on a tour throughout the United States. He traveled with Eisler to ten cities (Boston, New York, Chicago, Detroit,
Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Berkeley, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and
Brooklyn), singing songs Eisler set to poems by Brecht. The tour was
arranged by members of Lord Marleys Committee to raise funds for
children who were victims of Nazi fascism. The rst concert was in
Boston. The next one, in New York, was at Mecca Temple on March
2, 1935, Mordys twenty-third birthday; Eisler accompanied him at
the piano. The hall was packed. They never again had such a large
audience, but Eisler didnt complain. He said that people could not
understand this music because they were unprepared.
Mordy and Eisler were together frequently after the tour while
Eisler was in New York. On one occasion, Eisler and Brecht were
invited to a party at the Soviet Union Consulate; Eisler asked Mordy
to go with them and sing some of his songs. Mordy often joined
them at historic rehearsals of the Theater Union production of Brechts play Mother.
Eisler was short, paunchy, and quite bald, with poor teeth. Careless in dress, he worried about his health, often complaining that
he didnt feel well. He had wonderful ideas about how to sing and
was a ne musician. He insisted that a pearl-shaped tone was not
acceptable, that one must aim at sense, not sensibility, and that
words came rst. (This was very important to Mordy, of course
but no pearl-shaped tones? That was how he was trained to sing at
the Juilliard.) He was also a stickler for detail. Eisler was a sociable
man, loved good food, good wine, and good talk.
Mordy remembers episodes and anecdotes from the 1935 tour.
Each city had a dierent character. Detroit was in the middle of
a severe depression, the weather was dreadful, and the audience
sparse. There was so little to do that Eisler began to work on his
Chapter Sixteen: In Praise of Learning
431
Deutsche Sinfonie. He thought of using the melody of The Peat

Bog Soldiers as the theme of the symphony, but later changed his
mind.
In contrast, the Pittsburgh concert was a great success. A
local resident, Jessie Lloyd OConnor, wife of the writer Harvey
OConnor, suggested they might nd a similar reaction in McKeesport, a nearby steel town suering from drastic unemployment.
A union organizer tried to set up a meeting. The union hall was
closed, but a room with a piano was found; a few members showed
up. Mordy sang a couple of the Brecht/Eisler songs. The material
was unfamiliar, and few of the men understood Brechts poetry and
point of view. Over their heads, Mordy said.
Years later, in 1943, he was program director at the USO (United
Service Organization) in Washington, D. C. One of his tasks was to
visit military men recovering from battle wounds or fatigue. In a
hospital he met a young solder who told Mordy he was from McKeesport. McKeesport! Mordy exclaimed. Ive been in McKeesport. As they talked, he asked the soldier what his plans were after
he left the army. Never to go back to McKeesport, he exclaimed.
And that response might explain the disinterest of the audience
when Mordy and Hanns performed there.
In St. Louis they stayed in separate rooms in a large private
home. Eisler got up in the middle of the night. Instead of nding
the bathroom, he opened the wrong door, fell down a ight of stairs,
and fractured his arm. They found an accompanist to join them. It
was in that city that Eisler said to Mordy: I want you to meet Bertolt Brecht; hes the most important poet of our time. He happens
to be here visiting Elisabeth Hauptmann. In Hauptmanns home,
the friends talked animatedly. Hauptmann, Mordy remembers,
was very attractive, seemed comfortable with Brecht, and enjoyed
Eislers charm and wit. Mordy didnt understand much of the conversation (in German), but felt he was in the presence of genius.
In San Francisco they lived in great style, shown the sights
432
by local celebrities, including Haakon Chevalier, a victim of the

attack on Robert Oppenheimer, the distinguished anthropologist
Paul Radin, and Louise Branston, a prominent San Francisco cultural leader who had arranged the Berkeley concert. Eisler wanted
to meet the labor agitator, Tom Mooney, whose imprisonment was
protested internationally. Louise was a member of the committee
trying to prove his innocence and was permitted occasional visits.
She took Eisler and Mordy across the bay to see Mooney in prison.
He told Eisler about prison life, and how the temper of the times
swayed the attitude of his treatment. When the country was in a
progressive period, he found he was given privileges; when a reactionary government was in power, those privileges were taken away
and he became the victim of restrictions. He no longer spoke as an
individual but as a cause. Eisler was most interested in the experience of a political prisoner in America, aware that his escape from
Germany saved him from a fate much worse than Mooneys.
A San Francisco paper said of Mordys singing on March 16,
1935:
On the tour Eisler is accompanied by a soloist who is said to be
an uncommonly ne baritone, Mordecai Bauman. In New York,
Bauman made a sensation with songs and ballads by Eisler,
sung to the composers accompaniment. He was acclaimed,
not merely because he could sing, but also because he revealed
himself as a great interpreter. In other words, unlike many
singers, he doesnt take the vitality out of the songs by devoting himself merely to musical sound. He thinks about the
words, every word he pronounces distinctly. What the words
say he lights up. Hes evidently one of those rare singers who
recognize that singing is exalted speaking, designed to express
both feeling and ideas.
The Hollywood-style part of the tour began at the airport in Los

Angeles. Arrivals in other cities were quiet; they were met by the
chairman of whatever committee was sponsoring the local concert.
The committee organizing the Hollywood concert was the League
433
against War and Fascism. At the airport in Los Angeles, they were
surprised to nd a large delegation in thirty limousines. It felt like a
parade. They were overwhelmed with enormous bunches of roses
an unexpected, breathtaking experience. Later they found out that
the father of one of the committee members, Seema Matlin, was a
rose grower!
Seema drove them to the Biltmore Hotel, where they were shown
to a suite of rooms and were treated like VIPs. In other cities they
had generally been taken to the home of one of the committee members; never before to a hotel. This, they felt, was truly movieland
style. It was suggested that they freshen up, because a press conference was to take place in a few minutes. And, in a little while,
reporters and photographers arrived to interview the famous German exile. Hanns was in his element.
In 1935 the American public didnt believe that concentration
camps existed or that Germans would seriously carry out a program
of genocide. Hitler was just another authoritarian personality who
was trying to improve the German condition. The Hearst reporter
used this opportunity to insinuate that the only purpose of Hannss
visit was communist propaganda. Eisler knew how to parry the
questions, and he brought o the interview with lan. Before they
had a chance to relax after the press conference, however, they
discovered true Hollywood style. Hanns had taken o his tie and
started to unpack, when a committee member announced: Weve
rented the suite only for the interview; now we will take you to
your real quarters. The committee made the most of their arrival
at the least cost. The next day newspapers featured Eislers picture
and interview, emphasizing the points he made, announcing the
forthcoming concert. They were given splendid hospitality by distinguished members of the lm community, where they each had a
comfortable room in a movie stars house, plus swimming pool.
At Madison Square Garden, on January 23, 1939, the New York
Committee of the Communist Party honored the fteenth anni-
434
versary of Lenins death with a play by Homan Hays, with music

by Herbert Haufrecht and John Garden. It was a pageant that
lasted for about an hour and played with enormous success to
22,000 spectators. Hays began his story with an episode from the
colonial period of American history and ended with the release of
Tom Mooney from prison. The play was directed by Jules Dassin
and made use of 250 actors, orchestra, and vocal music, as well as
choreography. It was presented in pantomime on a platform raised
in the center of the auditorium, with the audience banked around
all four sides.
Music, voices, and sound eects were synchronized with the
action on stage from a booth a hundred feet away, using giant overhead ampliers. This dicult method of production was necessary
so that the audience of 22,000 could hear. Mordy sang John Gardens song Sweet Liberty Land and Building North America
by Herbert Haufrecht. The enthusiastic New York Times reviewer
of this great occasion reported that Mordecai Baumans excellent
interpretation of Haufrechts and Gardens music fortied and complemented the dramatic action of the play. It was only later that
Mordy learned from Herb Haufrecht that John Garden was in fact
Hanns Eisler, who was in New York secretly, without a visa. As he
was more or less in hiding, he worked through Hays, so Mordy did
not see him on that occasion.
In 1939 he found Eisler again quite by chance at the Palacio de
Bellas Artes in Mexico. Mordy was there as the baritone soloist
accompanying Anna Sokolows dances, including Elie Siegmeisters Strange Funeral in Braddock, Pennsylvania. Sokolow had
choreographed a dance to this dissonant and harrowing piece about
a worker who fell into a vat of molten steel. It was the major work
in the repertoire, always a success with audiences. One day in May,
Mordy was standing in the orchestra pit next to the piano waiting
for the dance to start. He looked into the audience and saw Hanns
Eisler and his wife Lou. They had a great reunion. Their presence
435
in Mexico changed Mordys plans. Eisler asked him if he could help

nd a house in Mexico City to rent for some months.
Mordys high school Spanish lessons would make the search
easier. He found the Turkish Ambassadors house in Chapultapec
Heights, and Eisler invited him to stay on as his guest. The tour was
coming to an end and Mexico City appealed to Mordy, so he decided
to stay for a while. The Eislers were joined by their friends, Dr.
Henrietta Begun, a gynecologist, and her husband Hans Schroeter,
a former communist member of the Reichstag. Exiles from Germany, the two couples had never lived so luxuriously. There were
three servants to take care of them: a housekeeper, a cook, and a
chaueur. The Mexicans lived in a small house on the property.
The living room was decorated in a colorful Turkish harem style;
the furnishings were elaborate, the chairs large and comfortable.
On the wooden backs of the enormous sofas, carved snakes slithered around; their eyes were green bulbs that lit up at night.
During the run of Anna Sokolows dance company, Ted Allan,
the Canadian co-author of The Scalpel, The Sword: The Story of
Dr. Norman Bethune, came to a performance. He told Mordy that
Cliord Odets was in Mexico. Mordy had shared a cabin with Odets
in 1930, an unforgettable summer at Camp Scopus, an adult camp in
the Adirondacks. Odets, a budding playwright, had been in charge
of the evening theatrical programs; Mordy was his assistant.
Eisler had been invited to teach at the Mexico City conservatory
by Sylvestre Revueltas, but his real purpose in going to Mexico was
to immigrate legally to the United States, to settle and nd work. He
was familiar with Odetss reputation and success and was excited to
meet him in this informal atmosphere. Odets was looking for material and excitement, and he was aware of Eislers important contribution to the plays of Brecht and to the music of the time. A few
years later, Odets invited Hanns to visit him in Hollywood, where
he wrote the music for several of Odetss movies. Eisler became
involved in the lm colony and was closely associated with Charlie
436
Chaplin and Fritz Lang. He and Odets remained good friends and
continued to correspond for many years. The letters are included in
a book of Eislers correspondence, edited by Jrgen Schebera.
From that moment on, Mordy and Eisler only heard of each other
through professional activities. During the war years, Mordy performed in New York, worked for the USO in Washington, and was
eventually drafted into the army in 1943. Eisler, on the other hand,
remained in Hollywood, close to his former teacher, Arnold Schnberg, and had enough work in the movie industry.
Mordy continued to sing Eislers songs, which became part of his
permanent repertoire. His name became identied with In Praise
of Learning, Forward, Weve not Forgotten, Peat Bog Soldiers, and United Front. He sang for progressive causes everywhere. Whenever he sang those songs, they elicited immediate
response and rapport with the audience. They became so popular
that Eisler/Brecht and American Labor Songs were nally recorded
on a label called Timely, with a chorus conducted by Lan Adomian. Eisler accompanied Rise Up, whil;e Marc Blitzstein was at
the piano for the other numbers.
The records reached a reasonably large audience, were favorably
reviewed, and were the rst workers protest songs to be recorded
in the United States. Even today, we still meet people who identify
Mordy with those records; many progressives treasure them.
Eisler and Brecht read newspapers regularly, assiduously following the political machinations of the moment, but they were never
able to break through to the media to get their own point of view
across. Eisler referred to those who misunderstood his position as
gangsters. At the same time, both Brecht and Eisler were unhappy
with the adulation of progressive supporters who had no concept of
world politics and really didnt understand their work. Eisler said of
them that they had all heart and no head.
In the spring of 1978, Mordy read an item in The New York Times
Travel Section about a memorial symposium celebrating Eislers
437
work on his eightieth birthday in Berlin. Albrecht Betz arranged for

us to be invited by Eislers widow, Ste. One of the most exciting
moments for us at the Eisler Tage was when we met two Soviet musicologists, Gregori Schneerson and Israel Nestev. Schneerson took
Mordys hand and said, Mordecai Bauman! Ive had your name on
my desk since 1935, and now we meet! We must go together and
see Ernst Busch. Busch had just come out of the hospital and was
still recuperating at home. Schneerson arranged for the visit. Busch
was in a bathrobe; his elegant wife served tea, and we tried to say
something in German. (Kinder-Deutsch I called it.) At one point
Schneerson said, We have to sing The Peat Bog Soldiers. No one
remembered the words. Mrs. Busch rummaged through the library
to nd an old song book; it had been 45 years since Eisler had written the arrangement for the concentration camp song. Mordy and
Busch, elderly singers, and Schneerson, Albrecht Betz, and Nestev,
musicologists from dierent countries, sang together and wept.
The musicologists at the symposium had never seen the recordings Mordy made with Eisler in 1935. We gave the three 78 rpm
records to the archive. We still had copies of Eislers songs, music
that Hitler destroyed; they are now where they belong, in the historic Eisler archive.
Homan R. Hays, translator of Brecht poems, wrote a play called
Daniel Drew, with music by Eisler It was a project that never got o
the ground. Juliette Hays, Homans widow, sent a copy of the play
to the archive. We also brought a copy of Brechts New York production script of Mother and Workers Song Books in which Eislers
songs were published. The music of greatest interest to the musicians and organizers of the conference was the manuscript that
Eisler had composed for the pageant, A Song About America,
written by Hays for the Madison Square Garden event under the
auspices of the Communist Party. The work was not familiar to any
of the assembled participants, for the apparent reason that Eisler
could not risk identifying himself with such an event, and had cho-
438
sen John Garden as a pseudonymJohn for his rst full name,

Johannes, and Garden for the obvious connection.
The moment that had an enormous impact on our lives came
when Mordy was delivering his brief comments at the eightieth
birthday symposium. He said that Eisler always told him that when
the war was over, he would invite Mordy to visit him in Berlin.
Being in Berlin represented closure of his association with Eisler.
That was a new buzz word for us in 1978. We dont use it any
more; it has become ubiquitous and boring. The young American
interpreter could not think of a proper translation for the word.
From the back of the auditorium came a voice: Entschuldigen Sie,
perhaps I can help. Jrgen Schebera came up to the platform and
made the reference clear. After Mordys speech, Jrgen told us that
he was in the process of writing a book about Eisler. We promised
to send him a picture of Mordy at twenty-three.
Please call me when you come to Leipzig, he said.
Were not going to Leipzig, we said. Jrgen was astonished.
How can you be here and not go to Leipzig? When we thought
about it, we realized how foolish it would be to skip Leipzig. We
agreed to go to Leipzig partly because Jrgen reminded us that it
was Eislers home town, but mainly because Bach spent twentyseven years there as Kapellmeister for the city.
Experiencing the atmosphere of the St. Thomas Church in
Leipzig was awesome. When we recovered our equilibrium, Mordy
said: It will be Bachs 300th birthday in 1985; we have to do something to celebrate that. Well make a documentary lm about Bach.
We have seven years to accomplish that. It took twelve.
What an adventure that became! Mordy was sixty-six years old
and had never made a lm. He would not even have dreamed of
such a project if we had not come to the Eisler Tage, if we had not
met Jrgen, if we had not gone to Leipzig. When Mordy talks about
his collaboration with Eisler, he repeats what a signicant inuence
it was in his artistic growth. And Eisler led us back to Bach.
439
Some years later we visited Brechts home, now a museum. It was

a Saturday morning, a quiet time in East Berlin. The front entrance
was closed; we wandered up and down the street and discovered the
cemetery across the alley where Brecht, his wife, Helene Weigel,
the philosopher Hegel, Eisler, and our friend Lin Jaldati are buried. Finally we saw a worker opening a side door to the house; he
motioned us in. We met a charming young woman who oered to
show us around. She assumed we were English. When we told her
we were from New York, she wondered what Americans were doing
in East Berlin. She had never met anyone from the U.S. Mordy said
he had known Brecht and wanted to see where and how he lived.
She was certain that Werner Hecht, director of the museum, would
want to meet us. He invited us to have tea in his rooms above the
museum. Mordy talked about the Eisler tour; Hecht asked him
where he had met Brecht. In St. Louis, said Mordy.
Brecht was never in St. Louis, asserted Dr. Hecht.
But I know thats where I rst met him, Mordy claimed. He
was visiting Hauptmann.
Oh, I guess youre right. I know she was in St. Louis, and of
course Brecht might have visited her there!
One day in 1984, we had a telephone call from Europe. A young
man identied himself: My name is John Highkin, and Im calling
from Cambridge, England. Im writing a play about Hanns Eisler,
and I understand that you sang his songs. Can I use you in the play?
John was working toward his masters degree at Cambridge. When
he asked John Willett, the British scholar and translator of Brechts
works, for names of Eisler colleagues in the United States, Willett
suggested that Highkin call Mordy, who became a character in the
play More than a Fair Trial. It was performed during that summer
in Cambridge, at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and at the Berliner
Ensemble. (In Cambridge Mordys role was played by a woman.)
In 1992 another unexpected call came from a professor at Indiana University, Ronald Cohen. He was collecting American labor
440
and protest songs from the period 1926 to 1953 and working to produce CDs from hundreds of old records. Included are labor songs,
the Brecht/Eisler songs that Mordy introduced and recorded with
Eisler in the United States, and Strange Funeral in Braddock, by
Elie Siegmeister. A German rm, the Bear Family, released a set
of ten CDs titled Songs for Political Action in May 1996. A book
about the music and performers, with lyrics of the songs and many
photographs, is in the handsome box. It is because of that project
that the seventy-year-old pristine 78 rpm records we have kept so
carefully were digitized. Mordy sings nine songs.
In 1993, during one of our trips to East Germany, we saw a German documentary lm about Eisler. There were several people
(all deceased) in the lm whom we had known: Lou Eisler-Fischer,
Hannss second wife, the one Mordy knew best; Hilda Eisler, Gerhart Eislers widow; Georg Eisler, Hannss son by his rst wife.
And some well-known artists: Wolf Biermann, Gisela May, Ernst
Busch, Therese Giehse, and Brecht. And we saw a brief view of
Eislers house in Berlin, familiar to us now, focusing on his piano.
Sting opens and closes the documentary, singing his own excellent
arrangements of two Eisler songs with words by Brecht. In English translation they are, To My Little Radio Set and Where the
Wind Blows.
Almost sixty years after those years with Eisler, we read an
announcement in The Berkshire Eagle about a program of Brecht/
Eisler and Rilke in an unlikely place: Housatonic, Massachusetts,
a small village near Great Barrington. Most of its buildings that
housed large paper mills are now empty. Today, its fame is based
on Arlo Guthries rap song Alices Restaurant. Housatonic was
not only an unusual place to bring the works of Brecht, Eisler,
and Rilke together, but the combination of the three is awkward.
Albrecht Dmling, editor of the Eisler Society Newsletter, wrote,
Brecht and Eisler only liked Rilke in their youth, but turned away
from him later.
441
We had to attend this extraordinary event in a building we

knew well. It was in a loft, up a long ight of narrow stairs, above
a lumber supply store. The Swiss actress, Graziella Rossi, created the program. She was anxious to meet us and hear about
Mordys friendship with Eisler. The producer, Alexander Souri,
asked Mordy to say something about his association with Brecht
and Eisler at the performance.
Whos Eisler? the man behind us asked. Ess Whiteyes,
that is his nameturned around and said, Stuart, this man can
and will tell you all about Eisler at the end of the program.
The impressive performance was very well received, even
though it was in German. Graziella was terric: dramatic and
attractive, portraying the under- and overtones of Brechts
poetry. The German actor Nikolaus Deutsch partnered her with
strength and compassion.
Mordy talked briey about his memories of Eisler and Brecht.
He read Brechts poem In Praise of Learning and played the
1935 recording. Whats historically interesting about that poem
is the translation. Mordys friend Henry Mins changed the British translation into American vernacular, words that would be
more easily understood when sung. Mordy himself changed You
must be ready to take over, to take power, which is a less accurate translation, but with a consonant making it easier to project the nalmost important, word. A truly accurate translation
would be: You must take over the leadership, impossible to
sing. Because Henry Mins translated Brechts poem and Mordy
changed the nal word, Brecht was able to tell the Un-American
Activities Committee in 1947, No, those are not my words.
From 1978 to 1988 we traveled to both East and West Germany
to explore the places where Bach had lived. We lmed the program in May 1988. DEFA was our local producer. As we began
the editing process, we realized that we could not aord to lm
in West German cities. Fortuitously, two Berlin lm makers came
442
to the U. S. to nish their lm, My Name Is Bertolt Brecht; Exile in

America. Norbert Bunge and Christine Fischer-Defoy, two attractive and talented young Germans, came to our apartment to talk to
Mordy. As he piqued their interest with his Eisler stories, Norbert
asked him if he would be in their lm. Mordy agreed, and appeared
in the broadcast on PBS/TV.
The narrator, Alan Marks (the late American pianist), introduced
the lm in a voice-over.
New York: focus of Bertolt Brechts fascination with America
in the twenties. 1933: Brechts Three Penny Opera is staged in
New York. 1935: Brechts rst visit to the states. The production of Mother, with music by Hanns Eisler, ends in disaster.
Brechts theories of Epic Theater are totally incomprehensible.
Disillusioned, Brecht returns to Denmark. His songs remain.
In 1935, Hanns Eisler tours the USA with the American
singer Mordecai Bauman. Several records are produced.
Mordy is on screen, sitting in our living room.

Heres one of the three records that we made with Eislers
music and Brechts words: the United Front song, which is a
real popular piece of music with a real lilt to it, so that people
can sing and march at the same time. It became very popular
all over the world; everybody sang it.
While he speaks, the record is on the screen, the chorus and

Mordy singing,
At that time there was a big movement for a united front against
fascism. And it is what I became involved in: this progressive
movement to stop fascism wherever it was.
On the screen now is an old portrait of Eisler and Brecht. Mordy

continues:
I think Eisler was trying through his whole life, his total life,
to represent a new kind of man. I think Brecht was trying to
represent a new kind of theater. He was a new kind of writer.
443
I think what he was saying was something that we still havent

really accepted in America: the idea that a theater piece is also
a learning piece. I felt that what Brecht had brought, not only
to the theater but also to the musical idiom, was the concept
that became very popularmaybe ten or twenty years later
which was expressed in our terms as cool. Everything was
cool. But what it meant was: you said something that had a
really hot message, but you didnt say it with passion; you said
it with Verstand. (Intellect)
Mordy walks into the New School auditorium, across the street
from our apartment. As he walks toward the stage, he is speaking
in a voice-over:
Its over fty years since Eisler was welcomed here at the New
School in a welcoming concert. The concert was organized by
the American Music League, which was a group of workers
musical organizations. Marc Blitzstein played the piano for
me, and I sang some of Brechts songs that Eisler had written.
For instance, his famous In Praise of Learning, which came
from the play Mother; Brecht had adapted it from the novel by
Gorky. In a house of learning, Praise of Learning is not a bad
song to remember.
And he sings the rst verses without accompaniment.

During the summer of 1993, we heard of another Eisler connection: His chamber music was played for the rst time, as far as we
know, at Tanglewood. Oliver Knussen conducted Fourteen Ways
to Describe Rain. Although Eisler is well-known and respected in
Europe, in the United States most music-lovers dont know who he
was. Now because of the 100th anniversary of the births of both
Eisler and Brecht, we were surrounded by Eisler connections. The
Brecht/Eisler work Deutsche Sinfonie was played by the American
Symphony Orchestra in New York,
Rhombus, a Canadian television production company, with ZDF/
TV in Berlin and Holland TV, produced Solidarity Song, another
444
video biography of Eisler. Mordy was interviewed for the lm, sitting on our apartment roof garden, in April 1995. Larry asked him
to sing Forward, Weve Not Forgotten. He tried, but hesitated,
admitting, Well, Ive forgotten [the words]. Eberhard Rebling,
former director of the Hanns Eisler Conservatory in Berlin, told us
that it was an indication of how Eislers name and music was not
remembered. Even Mordy forgot!
It is a poignant lm, telling the story of Eislers struggles. His
teacher, Arnold Schnberg, disapproved of his political activities.
Although he thought of Eisler as one of his most gifted students,
Berg and Webernpolitically more acceptablebecame better
known. The lm describes the many tragedies in Eislers life, but
also many successes.
Gnter Mayer, editor of Eislers written works, sent us a twentyseven-page critique of the lm, enumerating what he characterized as errors of the directors judgment. He feels that Eislers life
was not as tragic as it was presented. Although he had many problems in Germany, both because of Hitler and from the East German
bureaucracy, when he returned from exile he lived to enjoy great
acclaim. He wrote the national anthem of the GDR, and the music
conservatory in East Berlin is named the Hanns Eisler Schule.
There is a revived interest in Eislers music, partly because of the
TV documentaries, Stings recording of To My Little Radio Set,
and Matthias Goerne and Fischer-Dieskaus recordings of Eisler
songs. Reunication of Germany made it possible to reissue Eisler
music originally recorded on LPs in the former German Democratic
Republic, and many CDs are available in U. S. record stores.
Not altogether unexpectedly, we were invited to participate in
the one hundredth birthday seminars about Hanns Eisler. June 24,
1998, found us in Berlin again, as guests of the Eisler Gesellschaft.
Thirty-six enormous cranes hovered over Berlin, an incredible
sight, making it dicult to get around the city. There was so much
construction, so many roadblocks and narrowed streets that many
445
taxi driversin both the east and west sections of the citycould
not nd our destinations.
Jrgen Schebera interviewed Mordy at the rst meeting of the
conference. First he thanked all our friends for their help. He was
uent, articulate, and witty. We were surprised, however, to read
the long news item about the conference. The headline read:
MORDECAI BAUMAN, A CLEVER STORY TELLER
Translation of the rst paragraph from
Der Tagesspiegel: KULTUR June 30, 1998
Mordecai Bauman remembers his 23rd birthday fondly. In the
year 1935 the young graduate of the Juilliard School was the
rst American to perform Eisler, with the composer at the
piano, in New York. The tour went to 50 [sic] U.S. cities. Now
at the age of 86, a shrewd story teller, Mordy sits here in
the Berlin Institute for Music Research as the honorary guest
of the First International Hanns Eisler Colloquium. Bauman
made the Solidarity Song well known in the U. S. and sang
the Moorsoldaten in various places, the only one he sang in
the original language. He remembers Eisler as tremendously
entertaining, but very serious, bursting with energy, dressing carelessly, not a good pianist but a great performer. As
an observer, he knows exactly why Mother was not a success in
the U.S. Neither the excellent actors nor the director understood Brecht.
A last-minute foundation grant supported a concert of Eisler

songs and piano pieces. Ste Eisler asked us to sit with her. Next
to her was Gisela May, the remarkable Eisler interpreter. She surprised the large audience by singing three Eisler songs after the
scheduled performances. Ste complained throughout: Its too
long! Hanns always said that an hour and a quarter is enough for
any concert! Its much too long! she insisted.
H. K. Gruber, called Nali by his friends, conducted the EOS
orchestra in New York in April 2001, in works of Eisler and Weill and
his own orchestral pieces. Larry Weinstein, director of Solidarity
446
Song, introduced Mordy to him, saying that he had known Eisler

and Brecht and lived with Eisler in Mexico for a month. I need two
months with you! Nali said. So we invited him to have lunch with
us. Apropos of Mexico, he told us about a wonderful American utist he conducted in the Mexico City Symphony Orchestra. She was
a student at our school, Indian Hill, I told him. He was astonished
that we knew so many people in common, a normal occurrence for
us.
Then he told us a story I enjoy repeating: A famous professor
in Vienna had a coterie of admiring students around him. He had
an enormous reputation as a great teacher; however, students were
surprised that he seemed to care so little about them that he never
kept their names on le. A student complained unhappily: Dont
you want to know how our careers develop? he asked. The professor replied: The world is round. We will certainly meet again.
Lob das Lernens In Praise of Learning
Poem by Bertolt Brecht, music by Hanns Eisler
Lerne das Einfachste!
Fr die Deren Zeit gekommen ist
Ist es nie zu spt!
Lerne das Abc,
Es gengt nicht, aber lerne es!
La es dich nicht verdrieen!
Fang an! Du mut alles wissen!
Du mut die Fhrung bernehmen!
Lerne, Mann im Asyl!
Lerne, Mann im Gefngnis!
Lerne, Frau in der Kche!
Lerne Sechzigjhrige!

Suche die Schule auf, Obdachloser!
Verschae die Wissen, Frierender!
Hungriger, greif nach dem Buch:
Es ist ein Wae.
Scheue dich nicht zu fragen, Genosse!
La dir nichts einreden, Sieh selber nach!
Was du nicht selber weit, weit du nicht.
Prfe die Rechnung, du mut sie bezahlen.
Lege den Finger auf jeden Posten
Frage: wie kommt er hierher?
Learn, learn the simple truth,
You for whom the time has come at last,
It is not too late.
Learn now the ABCs,
It is not enough but learn it still.
Fear not be not down-hearted
Begin. You must learn the lesson,
You must be ready to take power
You must be ready to take power!
Learn it men on the dole,
Learn it men in the prisons,
Learn it women in kitchens,
Learn it men of seventy.
Go back to school again, homeless people,
Just learn all you can, you freezing ones.
Starving, get hold of a book,
Let that be a weapon.
447
448
Dont hesitate to ask questions, comrade,
Dont be persuaded, but prove for yourself.
What you dont learn yourself you dont know.
Check up the bill, for its you who must pay it.
Point with your nger to every item,
Say that you want it explained!
You must be ready to take power,
You must be ready to take power.
CRADLE SONG
Cantata for the rst birthday of Jan Robert Bloch,
son of the philosopher Ernest Bloch.,
Words and music by Hanns Eisler, September 10, 1938
Schlafen Sie Ruhig, Herr Meier.
Druen lauern zwar Geist,
Doch sing sie nur halb so wild,
Wenn sie auch krchen und stinken.
Balt warden Sie von der Linken
Leise Gekillt.
Schlafen Sie ruhig, Herr Meier.
Sleep quietly, Mr. Meyer.
Outside some vultures are waiting,
But they are not as wild
As their sound and stink.
Soon the Leftists
Will kill them silently.
Sleep quietly, Mr. Meyer.
From a Los Angeles newspaper, by Roger D. Johnson: 1935

MUSICIAN, NAZI BANNED, HERE FOR RECITALS
Record-breaking systems have no allure for Hanns Eisler,
refugee German composer. In his case, phonograph records
bearing his music were ordered destroyed, his music burned
and all singing societies were forced to stop singing his songs
under penalty of imprisonment after Adolph Hitler came into
power.

Driven out of his apartment by Storm Troopers who conscated everything but one shirt, one suitcase and a toothbrush,
this musician has been living as a wanderer in London, Paris
and other cities of Europe. [Actually, Eisler was in Vienna,
having been warned by Brecht to leave Europe.] Here to give
lecture recitals during the next 10 days, Mr. Eisler is stopping
at the Biltmore Hotel, following his arrival by airplane yesterday from San Francisco.
Modernism Banned
Hitler is destroying the cultural life of his people, Mr. Eisler
claims. Jews are not the only ones persecuted. He subdues
everyone who shows any signs of arousing the population, no
matter what the eld may be. Nothing modern is permitted in
art, literature or music. Hitler wants slow romantic and sentimental music that will dull the population, serving as a narcotic and stunting their minds.
Of course [Hitlers] close associates hold the same views he
has. They must, or be wiped out. Everyone remembers that
[Hitler] shot his close friend, Ernest Roehm, within six weeks
after he had issued a public letter praising him. Americans
returning from the Saar plebiscite [where they were the guests
of Hitler], naturally have a good report to give. They were
shown only the things Hitler wanted them to see during their
short stay. Give me eight days and plenty of money and even
I could make every city in the United States look attractive to
strangers. I could make Shanghai, one of the worst cities in the
world, look beautiful through such methods.
Hitler Doom Seen
Short life for Hitler was predicted. It is shown by history that
such dictatorship cannot last, Mr. Eisler said. He will never
die in bed but through violence. When he does, there will be a
terric ght for power among his followers but I think the German people will eventually regain control of their own country.
No Attraction Here
After appearances here, including a recital Sunday night at
449
450
1441 N. McCadden Pl., Mr. Eisler and his baritone soloist,
Mordecai Bauman, will leave for Chicago. On April 12, His
newest symphony will be performed in England under the
baton of Ernest Ansermet, director of the London Symphony
Orchestra. American motion pictures hold no attraction for
me, he admitted. Only if a story of unusual possibilities were
oered would I work here. I have a contract for more pictures
in England.
At Madison Square Garden, January 23, the New York Committee of the Communist Party honored the fteenth anniversary of
Lenins death with a play by Homan Hays, with music by Herbert Haufrecht and John Garden. A Song About America spans
150 years of American history to demonstrate Lenins statement,
America has a revolutionary tradition. Billed as a historical pageant, A Song About America forgot the pageantry before the end
of its rst scene and for sixty swift minutes dealt its 22,000 spectators the sustained emotional wallop of a compactly written melodrama.
Mr. Hays began his story with an episode from the Colonial
period of American history and ended it with the release of
Tom Mooney from San Quentin Prison. Some criticism might
be directed against the choice of certain incidents and also
against the device used to bind the episodes together, but even
this is dicult to voice while one can still remember the power
of a single scene such as the Haymarket Execution. Fortune
or misfortune, it has been this reviewers experience to see
most of the allegedly great Broadway plays of the past fteen
years. Against the few memorable scenes he has witnessed in
this period, he is willing to stack the Haymarket Execution
episode from A Song About America: a scene tense and moving from its opening that is climaxed with a mammoth and
grotesquely gnarled hangmans noose descending from the
darkened heights of Madison Square Garden into a prison of
451
brilliant light framing two white-cowled, doomed, but deant

men awaiting execution.
The play made use of 250 actors, orchestra and vocal music,
as well as choreography. Presented on a platform raised in the
center of the auditorium with the audience banked around
all four sides, it was enacted in pantomime. Music, voices
and sound eects were synchronized with the action on
stage from a booth some hundred feet away. This unusually
dicult method of production, which was necessary in order
to make the play audible to 22,000 people, was carried out
with uncanny precision. In fact, the rst scene was almost over
before the audience became aware that the voices they heard
came from a cast of radio actors broadcasting through giant
overhead ampliers.
Mordecai Baumans excellent interpretation of Haufrechts
and Gardens music fortied and complemented the dramatic
action of the play. The choreography, by Elinor King, was
meaningful and at all times blended with the pattern of the
production. Jules Dassins deft, intelligent direction gave the
show a swift, exciting pace from beginning to end, yet never
for an instant obscured the central theme. To Perry Bruskin,
director of the radio group, must go credit for the best demonstration of this technique of production we have seen to date.
An unusually skillful job of lighting, a vital part of the presentation because there were no backdrops or curtain, was done
by Yola Miller.
Excerpts from a letter from Mordecai Bauman to R. G. Davis in

regard to his article about Charles Seeger, Petes father:
Seegers rejection of Eisler as European is specious. His score
for Song About America, written with Homan Hays for the
Madison Square Communist Party meeting, is as popular and
American as anything one might identify as American. Sweet
Liberty Land from that score is a favorite of Petes. Eislers
United Front song was a great success in the U. S., as was
Die Moorsoldaten. (Peat Bog Soldiers). The question is not
one of European or American music, but good or bad music.
452
Of course each (and every) countrys music has a distinctive
sound and rhythm. But much of Eislers music had an international appeal. He was a hit wherever he went...and I dont need
to argue about Brechts universality.
Seeger was a populist and a musicologista wonderful
human being. He is the perfect example of the intellectual in
political life, which he could take or leave.
Eislers part in the struggle of the left is quite dierent from
Seegers. Eisler was an ardent believer in socialism and chose
to work openly in the workers movement. He broke with his
mentor, Schoenberg, conducted workers choruses, wrote for
the left-wing press and used his music as a political weapon.
He worked to improve the condition of the workers. In Music
and Politics he wrote, A great culture begins with the creation
of a high standard of living for all.
Eisler has not been eliminated. His music is still performed
in Europe, and the left has not yet developed a history of its
own cultural achievements. Historians are now writing about
women, blacks, Indians and others who have been neglected
in time we will discover the achievements of the left.
Eisler inuenced many musicians, but his stay in the U.S. was
both short and isolated. It was almost entirely conned to the
lm industry. When he was hounded out of this country, it
didnt increase his popularity.
There must be more to workers culture than picket line
protests. We are the World may be great to raise money to
ght famine, but it doesnt give the worker a clue as to why the
famine. Thats the dierence between Seegerand Eisler and
Brecht. Eisler and Brecht wanted their works to educate the
audiences; Seegers approach is more romantic and emotional.
(The picket lines havent had a new song since Maurice Sugar
wrote Sit Down.) It would be wrong to think that European workers are much more sophisticated in their music than
Americans. One of Eislers aims was to replace the beery
songs with more militant ones. It is necessary to have a theory
in order to have a practice.
453
Chapter Seventeen
The Stations of Bach
On May 1, 1990, The Washington Post made the following
announcement in its column Washington Ways.
TWO GERMANYS, ONE INVITATION
by Donnie Radclie
If the occasion is a historic rst, the invitation itself may one
day be a collectors item. Stated simply, it announces that
East German Ambassador Gerhard Herder and West German
Ambassador Jrgen Ruhfus request the pleasure of the company [sic] Monday night at a National Press Club preview
showing of a 90-minute television documentary about the life,
music and times of Johann Sebastian Bach.
And indeed, who better than Bach to bring together the
embassies of the German Democratic Republic and the Federal Republic of Germany after the two have avoided each
other like the plague for 45 years?
Produced by Timely Productions for Television of New York
in cooperation with East and West German producers [Certainly an error; no producer in West Germany cooperated with
us], Stations of Bach is a project cosponsored by South Carolina Educational TV of Columbia, S.C., the National Endowment for the Humanities and the International Research and
454
Exchange Board, among others, and will be aired nationally by
PBS on May 25.
It was lmed in several East German sites (Leipzig, Eisenach, Arnstadt, Dresden, Potsdam and Weimar) and West German (Lbeck, Lneberg, Celle and Hamburg) in 1988 and
1989.
According to the Embassies German-German joint venture
in Washington press release: The aim is to present a picture
of Bach by focusing on his musical legacy and exploring the
artists relationship to the social, political and aesthetic forces
aecting the Germany in which he lived, and to illuminate his
humanity by revealing how, as he endured many stations of
crisis, he struggled to reach his goal.
And if that isnt wonder enough, the same night at the Soviet
Embassy, soon-to-depart Ambassador Yuri V. Dubinin will be
hosting a reception celebrating U.S.S.R. Press Day.
From 1978 to 1990 we were immersed in the life and music of

Johann Sebastian Bach, and we actually succeeded in producing a
lm about his life and music. We traveled to Germany eight times,
following Bach as we visited all the various cities where he lived. I
dont think we missed any! It was an eye- and ear-opening experience for me, and a great joy for Mordy. Through Eisler and Bach we
have made many friends in Germany. When they come to New York
they visit, and we catch up on each others lives.
But in 1978, the idea of making a lm about Bach seemed another
pie in the sky fantasy to me, as Indian Hill had seemed in 1951.
With Indian Hill and life in Stockbridge behind us, Mordy took on
this new project more seriously than I. My appreciation of Bach was
not at Mordys level. I was happily involved with Marjorie Guthrie,
walking daily to 57th Street in the mornings and waiting for the
infrequent M5 bus at night to go back to 12th Street. Days ew by
until Marjorie telephoned after the 11 oclock news to go over the
days events at C.C.H.D. or in the world at large.
Albrecht Betz, the rst Eisler biographer (his book was trans-
Chapter Seventeen: The Stations of Bach
455
lated into English), arranged for Mordy and me to attend the rst
Eisler anniversary symposium in Berlin, in June 1978. Marjorie
encouraged us to go, although she expected me to continue working when I returned. Mordy was certain that he would nd the same
expectation at 1199, but that didnt happen. He was released from
his position at 1199, and began to spend time rereading our books
about Bach and collecting more.
We listened to Bachs music and bought new recordings. We
went to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, to attend the annual Bach Festival, wondering if one of the organizations appearing there might
participate in the program. We visited the Fisk organ factory in
Gloucester, Massachusetts. Mordy thought he might include a
description of Baroque organ-building in the program to describe
how Bach learned to repair organs as a young man. Many of the episodes Mordy wanted to include proved to be too costly and too long
for a television program.
Most important, we began yearly trips to the German Democratic
Republic (GDR), known as East Germany, in order to become familiar with places where Bach had lived. I kept a detailed diary of seven
trips, typed it on problematic German typewriters, and re-typed it
when we came home. Our Jewish friends were highly critical of our
travels. How can you think of going to Germany, and especially to
Communist East Germany? Some asked out of curiosity; others
were oended, even angry.
In 1980 we two, Don Smithers (a clarino player), and Christoph
Wol were the only Americans at an International Bach Festival
in Leipzig. I began to hear Bach with more receptive ears. At this
event we rst met Christoph, the eminent Bach scholar. He was
then chair of the Music Department at Harvard. Later he was dean
of the graduate school, and then appointed Adams Professor, the
highest rank in the university.
We wrote a draft for a script and sent it to Crhristoph for corrections and suggestions. He made suggestions, approved it, and
456
agreed to appear in the documentary. I felt as though we had

earned an A-minus at a Harvard correspondence course. Years
later, Christoph authenticated unknown Bach cantatas found in a
library in Berlin. Our friend Teri Towe authenticated a previously
unknown portrait of Bach, known as the Kittel portrait, and published information about various authentic portraits, including the
two referred to as the Haussmann and Kittel portraits on a web site:
www.npj.com/thefaceofbach/. (Kittel, a pupil of Bach, had commissioned the portrait.)
In our inexperience, we hadnt realized there were any particular
requirements to show a nished documentary on a PBS television
station. One station among the independent nationwide 200 had
to agree to sponsor it. Sponsorship didnt include nancing, only
an agreement that the station would broadcast the program. There
were other bureaucratic details, and we learned about pitfalls as we
began to look for a presenting PBS station.
Filmmakers in the know discouraged us from approaching our
local station, WNET. We watched and taped documentaries that
were already appearing in connection with the upcoming 300th
anniversary of Bachs birth. Some were better than others: we liked
a Canadian program very much. It included tap dancers! Mordy
thought Bach would have appreciated that. Others, particularly
those that ctionalized Bachs career, with actors as Bach, did not
appeal to us. We wanted to produce an echt (real, honest) documentary, omitting apocryphal tales.
Mordy made an appointment with the arts department at WGBH
in Boston. The person in charge of music programming seemed
intrigued by what Mordy had to say. We still had ve years before
the self-imposed anniversary deadline in 1985.
Who do you plan to use as narrator? the young music director
asked.
I expect to ask Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, Mordy told him.
Who is he? asked the man in charge of music programming.
457
He had never heard of Fischer-Dieskau, the world-renowned German baritone. Most interesting to us was that Dieskau was reputed
to be a distant relative of Bach. WGBH was not interested. We didnt
go back to Boston.
In 1982 our Toronto friend Ezra Schabas oered to call Glenn
Gould and pique his interest. Gould considered joining the project,
and Mordy planned to go to Toronto and meet him. Sadly for music
lovers, Gould died only two weeks later. Sounds dreadful, but I was
relieved; if Gould had been involved, it would have been his program, emphasizing his particular point of view about Bach. This
is no criticism of Gould; he was a marvelous interpreter of Bachs
keyboard music; we cherish his recordings of The Goldberg Variations. But Mordy wanted to produce a program representing his
own ideas about Bachs life.
By an odd chance, our friend James Day had an appointment
with the vice president of SCETV, the South Carolina Educational
TV station. Jim invited Mordy to meet him in his oce and tell the
station director about the project. After only a brief conversation he
responded with an immediate promise: if we succeeded in making
the lm, SCETV would broadcast it; and thats how it nally worked
out in May 1990, a little late for the anniversary.
Allan Miller, documentary lm maker, was our closest collaborator in the preliminary planning period. Allans lms have been
almost exclusively about music; he had already won an Oscar for his
lm From Mao to Mozart, Isaac Stern in China. John Goberman,
Executive Producer of Live from Lincoln Center, who had hired
our son Marc as coordinating producer, introduced us to Allan. He
agreed to direct the program and began to confer with Mordy frequently; he went over the script, making musical, personnel, and
scheduling suggestions.
Allan Miller, who founded Symphony Space with his friend Isaiah Sheer, the remarkable community arts project on 95th street
and Broadway in Manhattan, invited Mordy to an all-Bach concert
458
presented by violinist James Buswell. During the intermission, Buswell talked to the audience about Bach and his music. Mordy and
Allan turned to each other and in one voice said, Thats the man
who should be the narrator.
Important and impetuous decisions set up the format and personality of the program. Our friendsalmost to a mankept suggesting that we involve Leonard Bernstein; he was so articulate,
attractive, not to mention famous! But we knew that Bernstein, like
Gould or other well-known musicians, would want to make the project his. Mordy resisted, retaining his own authority over the program. Jamie, as we learned to call Buswell, is a talented, intelligent,
articulate musician. He was a wonderful choice, joining us in late
1980, frequently and patiently meeting us over the next eight years
until we nally went to Leipzig and the other Bach stations and
actually nished the project as Mordy had envisaged it.
Although Allan Miller was eventually not available to direct the
program, his nonprot corporation, Music Project for Television,
Inc., was the organization through which we applied for our rst
NEH grant in 1984. In 1987 we organized Timely Productions for
Television, Inc., the ocial and legal nonprot entity, to produce
The Stations of Bach, with the following Board of Directors: James
Day (President), Mordecai Bauman (Secretary/Treasurer), Lisa
Schwarzbaum, Marc Bauman, and (the late) Meredith Johnson.
We dissolved the corporation in 2004 and donated the program to
CUNY TV.
Meanwhile, Mordy spent ten years on the board of directors of
the radio station WBAI, the New York station created by the Pacica Network. It wasstill isan independent voice. In 1987 Mordy
was elected to the National Board of Pacica, but he resigned when
we became too involved with Bach, traveling across the ocean for
that project instead of across the country to a board meeting in San
Francisco.
Most of 1984 to 1986 was a marking-time periodwaiting for
459
grants, revising the script, talking to Allan Miller and Jamie Buswell, reading about Bach, and listening to his music. We had applied
to the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB) for a supporting
grant and had visited Donald Marbury in the Washington oce.
He encouraged us to think that there would be funding from the
CPB, so we arranged a meeting in our apartment for him and CPB
associates, plus about a dozen of us, including our son Marc, Kirk
Browning, Sidney Palmer of SCETV, and Danny Abelson, a writer
who worked on the Live from Lincoln Center broadcasts. Although
we thought we had made a very good presentation, we were turned
down.
Working with Bach experts, as Mordy was now doing almost full
time, claried more and more interesting details about Bachs life
and deepened our love for his music. We decided very early that
we would focus on the realities of Bachs experience in Leipzig
and Weimar, with brief stops in Eisenach, Arnstadt, Dresden, and
maybe Potsdam.
When Christoph Wol and Hans-Joachim Schulze participated
in a conference at Rutgers University in New Jersey, we went to Rutgers with some of our consultants to discuss script details. Arthur
Waldhorn, Sidney Palmer, and Isaiah Sheer drove with us, talking
Bach all the way. Our friend Solomon Wank recommended that
we ask Paula Fichtner, a historian at Brooklyn College, to check on
historical content and appear in the lm. Paula added fascinating
details about the period.
We heard Blanche Moyse conduct the St. Matthew Passion in
October 1984, in New York. We were already so involved in Bachs
music, especially the Passion, that we could never forget that
inspiring performance. It was the rst time we heard Arlene Auger
sing, and the rst time we saw Moyse conduct.
One of the hats Mordy wore during his early career was that of
impresario. In the spring of 1986, he took on that role again for an
event not directly related to the documentary. We arranged a three-
460
week tour in the Northeast for concerts of Yiddish music with Lin
Jaldati and her family, Eberhard, Kathinka, and Jalda Rebling.
It included a concert at the East German Mission to the United
Nations. We met the ambassador, and that certainly led to a friendlier atmosphere in our dealings with DEFA, the government lm
and television industry, based in Berlin. It also led to that elaborate
premiere performance of the Bach lm in May 1990, to which the
article quoted at the beginning of this chapter refers. And that tour
solidied our relationship with the Rebling family.
Eberhard was the rst person we met in 1978 at the rst Eisler
Tage. The retired director of the Hanns Eisler Conservatory in Berlin, he and his wife Lin Jaldati lived in a great house on a lake in
Ziegenhals, an hour from Berlin. (The name Ziegenhals means
Goats Neck and refers to the shape of an island in the middle
of the lake). They also had an apartment near Alexanderplatz in
the center of East Berlin, where we stayed during later trips to the
GDR. We were very comfortable in hotels in Berlin, Leipzig, and
Dresden, but that apartment in Berlin became our home away from
home.
When we told Lester Cole we were going to East Berlin in June
1978, our rst trip behind the so-called Iron Curtain (which wasnt
at all iron to us), he suggested that we call Victor Grossman, an
American still living in Berlin on Karl Marx Platz. Victor became
our translator; he interpreted all of our many conferences with the
DEFA documentary section. We were the rst Americans to work
in cooperation with DEFA, a unique USA-GDR joint experience
dicult to endure, but rewarding us with enough stories to ll
an entire book! Victor had the tolerance and patience of Job. The
delays and frustrations we experienced might have been similar in
any foreign country. Marc told us, during one greatly irritating episode in Berlin, that he had the same problems when he produced a
program in New York Citysimilar anyway. To lm on the streets
461
of New York City requires bureaucratic permissions as it must in

any country.
In March 1987 the NEH announced an initial grant of $225,123
for production of The Stations of Bach. We went to Germany again
in November 1987 to make nal arrangements with DEFA, encouraged by the media department at the NEH that the project would be
totally funded. The ight to Berlin set the stage for unexpected frustration. First it was cancelled and postponed to the following night.
We knew that Werner Kohlhaase planned to take the same ight;
he was a DEFA lmmaker we had met at a USA-GDR Friendship
Society meeting. We were informed by Pan Am about the cancellation, but they didnt have Werners telephone number. Fortunately
we did and were able to warn him that our plane was canceled. The
ight the next night was delayed for four hours. We sat with Werner at the airport. He gave us insights into the workings of DEFA,
where his many lms were produced.
We rented a car at the West Berlin airport and struggled to nd
Checkpoint Charlie. It was almost a political joke to discover how
dicult that was. The young woman at the rental agency gave
Mordy incompletemaybe even incorrectdirections and an inadequate, confusing map. We nally approached the west side of the
Brandenburg Gate, and a passing citizen told us just to follow the
Wall and wed come to the border crossing.
We had a pleasant encounter with a gentle, large, red-faced border guard.
What are you bringing into the GDR? he asked.
Books and records, Mordy told him.
What records? George Gershwin? Porgy and Bess? the musiclover asked. We looked at each other. What customs ocial at JFK
would ask about that opera?
The Reblings apartment at 9 Liebknechtstrasse was around the
corner from the Palast Hotel, in the center of town and convenient
to everything, with easy parking behind the building. The building
462
itself, a typical post-war shabbily constructed apartment, was Eberhards ocial pied--terre when he was director of the Hanns Eisler
Conservatory. The elevators often worked, but since the doors
opened only on the third and fth oors and the apartment was on
the fourth, we had to choose between walking up one or down one
ight. It was an education in East European luxury living.
For us it was a great gift. Our friends came to visit, we used the
sometimes-functioning telephone, and we learned to cope with
unfamiliar appliances and bathroom equipment. The tub had a very
high, nervous-making side, and there was no hook on which to hang
the hand-held shower so we could stand under it. One out of three
burners on the electric stove worked; I dared not try the oven.
Eberhard had lled the tiny refrigerator with grapefruit, coee,
bread, wine, and cookies. The glass cover of the vegetable bin made
me uneasy; it was inevitable that I would break it. Forget it, said
Eberhard when I told him. But I couldnt forget it; I was miserable,
knowing how dicult, if not impossible, it would be to repair or
replace anything in East Berlin.
Kathinka Rebling, his violinist daughter, lived in a handsome
apartment in a newly renovated area near the St. Nikolai Church.
The church itself is a museum of local medieval history. As we
walked through the area, we saw Lin Jaldatis face on a new record
jacket staring at us through the window of a record shop. When
we stayed in a hotel in East Germany, the manager registered our
names with the police. Since we were living in a private apartment,
not a hotel, our stalwart friend, Victor Grossman, took us to the
Reisebro (travel oce) to register.
We had never made contact with the American Embassy during
previous trips to East Germany, although we assumed that someone
there knew what we were doing. Now that we were traveling under
the aegis of the NEH grant, we made an appointment to see Peter
Claussen, the U.S. Cultural Attach. I had to give up my camera at
the entrance, but forgot that I had Marcs small one in my pocket.
463
I never took it out, and no one searched me or my purse. Claussen

had originally scheduled only fteen minutes for our interview, but
we ended up staying for an hour and a half. At the end, we felt we
had given him more information than he had given us. Mordy suggested that the Embassy recognize our crew with a reception when
we came to lm, but Clausen expressed no interest in that idea.
On November 11 we had another DEFA conference. Now we
met Wolfgang Plehn, who was to oversee our production. He was a
dour, uncomfortable, and tense person who never smiled. He said
he would have an estimate of DEFA costs for our projected May
1988 lming ready in a week. We spent the next two days talking
to friends, who oered lots of help and advice. Dagmar Stuchlik
told us about two documentaries she had made concerning World
War II martyrs. Dorothea Siegmund-Schultze came from Halle
and invited us to visit the Handel Museum, which her husband
Walther directed. We had dinner with Wolfgang Kohlhaase and
his wife; they introduced us to Lev Hohmann, a lm director who
also worked at DEFA. Lev suggested that we meet his cameraman,
Werner Kohlert, who was editing an old
Eisler lm for Eislers ninetieth birthday celebration in July 1988.
We drove to Leipzig to stay at our
home away from home, the Merkur
Hotel. The Dvoraks, our friends from
the Cleveland period, arrived in Leipzig
a few days later, and we went together
to the St. Thomas for the afternoon
motet concert. I took lots of pictures
of the square, and worried about the
scaolding on the Rathaus (the Town
Hall). How would we photograph it in
May? We checked the lighting on the
Bach statue, although it was bound to
464
be dierent in May. We tried to make advance decisions some of

which proved useful.
We met the Assistant Pastor of St. Thomas; he gave the sermon
that evening. We understood little. I ran up the stairs to the organ
loft to meet Hans-Joachim Rotzsch, the director of the St. Thomas
Boys Choir; we had met him several times, talked about lming the
boys if we ever had funding to make the lm. Arent you surprised
to see us? I asked him.
No. I knew you would come back! How did he have such condence we could pull o the complicated funding and lming
arrangements?
He invited us to a rehearsal. He was well aware that I struggled
to speak German and asked me to tell the boys about Mordys work
with Eisler. I tried, and he translated from my German to his! I
asked him how he could possibly understand me. We dont have
to speak to understand each other, he told me. We just look into
each others eyes and we know exactly what we mean.
I took pictures of interior shots of the St. Thomaswithout
permissionincluding the table model of Leipzig in the sixtenth
century. We saw that the Haussmann portrait of Bach was under
glass, impossible to photograph; portraits of the Town Councillors,
including the important Reiche, would be easy to lm. We looked at
the table where Bach signed his contract and the old oven (from
1551), and added those scenes to our script. The guide told us that
the Stadtpfeiers, founded in 1479, were not allowed to charge more
than 40 groschen to play at a wedding. Jrgen Schebera wanted us
to sightsee, so we went with the Dvoraks to Ltzen to see the Swedish Memorial to the Thirty Years War. Nothing to do with Bach
exactly, but we did add a comment about that period in the lm.
Jrgen took us to the Bach Museum, which became a familiar
site to us. It is known in town as the Bose Haus; the director, Herr
Winkler, was Jrgens editor for his early books. He gave us permission to use ash to photograph the rooms, preparing Marc for
465
Jrgen Schebera with Mordy and Irma.
lming there. We saw the beautiful concert room for the rst time,
and knew it would be great for music performances. It has space for
about forty people, and a balcony where musicians play for dancers
below.
Before we left the Merkur Hotel, we complained to the manager,
Herr Seik, about the exorbitant charge for laundry. We paid almost
$40 for four of Mordys shirts, three sets of his underwear, and
one of my blouses. I wondered what the crew would do about their
laundry in that hotel for three weeks in May. Because the Merkur
would be closed for cleaning on Sunday, we made arrangements
to go to Dresden and stay at the beautiful new Bellevue Hotel. We
drove in convoy with the Dvoraks, spent an evening with Peter and
Gisela Zacher. Peter was a music critic then, now hes a politician.
He was one of three dissidents in Dresden (one of the others was
Kurt Masur), who organized the enormous protests in Leipzig and
Dresden that led to the fall of the wall, which happened only a year
and a half after we nished lming! Had it fallen before our production schedule, we think we would not have been able to complete
the lm. A historical reality.
466
Werner Schmidt (then director of the print gallery at the Zwinger,

now retired director of the museum) was so gracious to us each time
we were in Dresden, taking us to exhibits in the museum and telling us about his problems with government bureaucracy. Every ve
years the museum showed the works of GDR artists. We went to the
exhibition: It was not memorable.
Back in Berlin on November 17th, we went to the Fernsehen (TV)
studios in Johannesthal. Jtta Lundemann showed us more Bach
lms, including the Bach costume drama called Stations in the Life
of Bach. (Not exactly the title Mordy had in mind, but seeing it used
similarly didnt disturb him.) We found it technically poor, long,
and boring, and we asked Jtta to turn it o. A Max Pommer teaching lm discussing a Bach French Suite was attractive and interesting. We used him in the lm only as a conductor, not in an interview; I think he was uncomfortable speaking in English on lm.
Driving home at 4:45 p.m., on a dark and rainy afternoon, we
had a car accident. Mordy spent a few miserable hours trying to
convince the trac police that it wasnt his fault, waiting for the
Apschleppdienst (tow truck) and worrying because he had decided
not to take out accident insurance. This was the only accident we
ever had in a rented car. Mordy was talking to me about the lms
we had seen, not paying close enough attention to the trac. As
a matter of fact, this was the only time in East Germany that we
encountered real trac, home-bound workers on the main street
of Berlin. Two cars had stopped in front of us in the left lane, and
Mordy stopped behind them. I was quietly relieved that nothing
had happened, when the car behind us slammed into our car, and
we bumped the car in front, not hard. There was lots of scolding in
German.
Police in white raincoats were sympathetic, Lt. Hein anxious to
know if we were hurt. Everyone involved was ticketed, no matter
who was at fault. Mordy had to ll out a report in the pouring cold
rain. The police asked if we had Deutsche marks, enough to pay a
467
250 mark ne. Of course we didnt; they suggested that we pay at

the border, implying that our name would be on a list when we left
the country. A second group of police arrived. Our car was the only
one that could not move, the rear right fender being stuck against
the wheel. The police tried to pry it away but couldnt. The righthand door wouldnt open, nor the hood or the trunk. Mordy had a
deep gash on his shin; I had slight whiplash pain, and needed to go
to the bathroomsomething erce!
Mordy waited for the truck for four hours. A policeman called
a taxi for me; I barely made it back to the Reblings bathroom. I
called Victor for help, but he was on his way to a friends eightieth
birthday party, and there was nothing he could do, But he did try to
nd Mordy on the road. I couldnt describe exactly where he was,
only that it was about 4 kilometers from the Rebling apartment on
the main road. Lev Hohmann had just had a beer and didnt dare
drive. Kathinka was not home.
When I called Manfred Schumann to explain what had ruined
our evening dinner plans, he misunderstood me; he thought I was
telling him that our car was in the garage. His car had been in the
repair shop for ve months! He kept saying that we could take the
subway to meet them for our 8 oclock dinner appointment. When
his colleague Dagmar, who planned to be with us for the evening,
reached Manfreds apartment, she called me and suggested we
postpone our meeting, I was able to make her understand that we
had had an accident. Communication with the Germans remained
dicult: no matter how well they understood English, something
was always lost in the translation.
Manfred and Dagmar dashed out of Manfreds house in the rain
and ran down the street trying to nd Mordy. By then, however,
Mordy had left the car in the garage, found a taxi, and come to the
Reblings apartment. About two minutes later, Manfred and Dagmar arrived, soaked and concerned. We all went by taxi to the renovated French Tower for a small supperwho could eat?so that we
468
could see the place Dagmar had used for her TV program. We went
home by subway from Alexanderplatz, still shaken and upset.
During an earlier trip, we had met Hauke Klingebiel, a young
lawyer in West Berlin. I called him in great distress about the car
accident, and he promised to help as soon as we crossed the border.
He wanted us to call the American Embassy and report the accident.
We were afraid he would make an international incident out of our
problem. Lev came to drive Mordy to the garage. He convinced the
mechanic that it was a DEFA car, gave him a 20-mark tip, paid 49
marks for the tow truck, and pried the fender away from the wheel
himself so that we could drive it. It was a bigger mess than we had
realized: The windshield wipers didnt work, and the trunk and the
hood still didnt open. That was the day I dropped the heavy milk
jar on the glass shelf in Reblings refrigerator. Lev tried to nd a
replacement but it wasnt availableno surprise. I felt terrible.
The day after the car accident, Brnhilde Jaeschke, representing
DEFA, and Victor Grossman, representing us, came to the apartment with the rough estimate of costs that DEFA producers had
prepared for lming in Eisenach and Leipzig. Brnhilde suggested
that we rent trucks and equipment in West Berlin; she thought it
would be less expensive. Our car, of course, was in the repair shop,
so Victor drove us in his tiny Trabant to the Fernsehen TV studios to see Dagmars lm, Pit, homage to a minister, Bernhard
Lichtenberg, who spoke too openly in opposition to Hitler and was
murdered. The second part of the lm is a pantomime dance about
a woman who remained mute so as not to reveal the names of her
friends who were working against the Nazis. Dagmars work was the
best we had seen in the GDR.
We took the U-Bahn with Lev Hohmann, who told us there was
no need for us to pay the subway fare, it being so cheap he could
treat us. He showed us the lm he had made about the St. Thomas
Boys Chorus, a charming, sensitive portrayal of Rotzsch and his
boys. We talked about lming a few minutes of an East German
469
river scene; I wanted to use it in a ten-minute test lm to show the

NEH our progress. The word bach in German means brook. I
was obsessed with Beethovens homage to Bach: Not Brook, but
Ocean should be his name; I wanted that comment to end our
lm. We thought a shot of a river would lead into it, and wanted it
to be an echt Thuringian River. Lev hooted. They are so polluted,
you wont want to photograph any river that I know in this entire
country, he said.
In the early planning, we had met with three or four cultural attachs in Washington, some of whom were more helpful than others.
They each worked in the United States for a two-year stint.Eventually we knew Claus Wolf, Peter Vincenz, and Peter Janz, who is still
my most faithful Berlin correspondent. Another odd coincidence:
He happens to live on Hanns Eisler Strasse! We met rst with Claus
Wolf, whom we think of as a tentative person. He promised to talk
to the DEFA people to persuade them of our serious purpose, push
them to nish their budget proposal, and clarify some items we
didnt understand. As I remember, we pressured Peter Vincenz the
hardest; he was in Washington when we were working hard to convince the NEH to fund the project. But nally Peter Janz was attach when the program became really real, and he arranged for the
ambassador to entertain the Reblings in his home.
The total cost of the 1984 DEFA contract was an incredible
312,282 Deutsche marks, which at the then-current 3:1 exchange
was $104,000, much more than we thought we could raise. But it
included 85,000 marks for honorariafees to performers. Later contracts omitted that item, and the contradiction was never resolved
until we were in the middle of lming in Leipzig in May 1988. We
had convinced ourselves, and Brnhilde and Victor seemed to agree,
that since the performers were full-time government employees,
they would not demand or be entitled to extra pay. It turned out
that we were wrong, and we paid fees to all musicians.
I wrote a long letter to Plehn on Eberhards typewriter and made
470
a copy (now hardly legible) on the hotel machine. In 1987 there

were few copy machines in East Germany, and those we managed
to use were in terrible shape. (When Jrgen Schebera, who became
our production coordinator in the GDR, was in New York in the
early eighties and discovered that our local copy place was open all
night, he was so astonished he had to photocopy something to show
his wife!)
Wolfgang Plehn
Studio for Documentation
Otto Nuschke str 27-32
Berlin
We have looked at your proposed budget and realize that it
was very quickly prepared. Therefore, some of the questions
we now raise need to be claried. There is no fee included
for performing artists, such as the St. Thomas Church Choir,
Hans-Joachim Rotzsch, a harpsichordist, Max Pommer and the
Leipzig Rundfunk Chorus and Orchestra (Baroque size, with
possibly three soloists.) See the script: pp. 27, 28, 39, 40, 41,
43, 77 & 78.
While we were in Berlin, through the eorts of our friends
we saw lms, small parts of which we would like to use: The
St. Thomas Choir; a section of 1:25 minute duration, from the
Quodlibet, made for TV by Dagmar Stuchlik; and the nal
trio from Peter Schreiers lm [he was the conductor] The
Coee Cantata, 2:50 minutes. In addition, from Hohmanns
lm [of the Thomaner Chor], we might be able to use brief sections, not presently in our script but which we would incorporate: audition of a young boy, rehearsal, performance in the St.
Thomas Church of a Chorale from the St. Matthew Passion.
We need to know the cost of the use of music, previously
recorded in the GDR; please see the list of music included in
the script. How many people are included in item 3.17? Our
plan calls for an audio person, gaer and interpreter. One
remaining problem: we understand that the concert room in
471
the Bach Museum in Leipzig is only available on May 18, 19,

23, and 25 during our stay. We ask that you reserve the room
for two full days, probably May 18 and 19. We told Brnhilde
Jaeschke that we will not use the Grassi Museum or the Gohlis Schloss, which are in the present script and which we will
omit. We want to be in the Bach Museums in Eisenach and
Leipzig; the St. George Church in Eisenach, and both the St.
Thomas and St. Nicholas Churches in Leipzig; and the Leipzig
Town Hall. Franz Winkler, Director of the Bach Museum, has
assured us of his cooperation.
Our plan is to arrive in Berlin on May 10, 1988, and leave
from Berlin on May 28. DEFA crew will probably be needed for
15 or 18 days. We would feel very secure if Brnhilde Jaeschke
will be the coordinating producer, since she has known of our
eorts to produce an outstanding documentary lm about the
life of Johann Sebastian Bach since we rst met in 1981. She
has our Telex number, in care of James Day at the Childrens
Television Workshop in New York, where we can be quickly
reached. I am committed to this project and plan to return
here [to Berlin] in May with a crew of producers (3), director, cinematographer, host/narrator, and three assistants. I
am anxious to have a more detailed budget that I can sign and
return to you at the earliest possible date. I have an appointment in Boston on November 29th with James Buswell and
Dr. Christoph Wol (he is the co-editor with Hans-Joachim
Schulze of the Bach Jahrbuch), to make nal decisions about
the music selections and any changes in the script. I will, of
course, inform you of any important changes.
We are working with limited funds, and a devalued dollar.
We are hoping you will be able to help by cutting your proposed costs. Greetings to all the sta at DEFA who have been
patiently responding to our eorts over the years.
Plehn never answered the letter.

On November 21 we crossed the border at Checkpoint Charlie
going west. Kathinka guided us and promised to pay the ne if we
were stopped. We gave her cash; if she paid with a check that would
472
be our receipt. The border police were aghast at the damage. Were
you hurt? Was it your fault? No one mentioned the ne. We never
knew if Kathinka paid it.
The young guard who had asked Mordy about Porgy and Bess on
our arrival was the most concerned. Our luggage was piled on the
back seat since the trunk didnt open; it certainly looked suspicious.
The supervisor told the friendly guard to drive the car over an open
pit so that he could look underneath and see if we had contraband
or a stowaway. He was embarrassed and apologetic. Under these circumstances, we were happy to be in the West, the only time we felt
such relief upon leaving the GDR. Hauke, our West Berlin attorney,
met us, although we were an hour late for our appointment, and
took on the problem of returning the car to the rental agency and
supporting our claim that we were not at fault and should not be
required to pay for the damage. It took him some time and eort,
but he nally convinced Budget Auto Rental to try to collect from
the East German driver (whoever he was) to pay the $900 cost of
repair. I never found out what happened about that either, but we
didnt pay anything.
Thomas Thielemann, who met Mordy when he was at the Hospital Workers Union, came from Hamburg to meet us. Hauke seemed
a little shocked when I leapt out of the car to hug Thomas, so happy
to see his handsome, loving face. We agreed to meet later that night
at Alan Markss radio concert. We had met Alan in New York, and
he oered to let us stay in his studio while we were briey in West
Berlin. We slept on large couches with uy, soft cushionsrather
uncomfortable. After a couple of nights, we moved to the nearby
Hotel Lichtbourg, grateful to Alan but feeling too old to camp out.
Our co-residents in Alans apartment were Stephan Samel, brother
of Udo, an actor whose work we knew, and Rebecca Chestnut, an
American from Virginia. We took the gang out to celebrate after
Alans concert, which was a two-piano recital of Busoni and a minimalist composer named Fox. Hauke had a hard time keeping a
473
straight face during the Fox piece. The late dinner included Alan
and his wife Christina, Hauke, Thomas, Albrecht Dmling, and
Dmlings friend Madeleine Caruso, a violinist in the Berlin Philharmonic. Susan Neiman and her husband Michael Wagner joined
us late. Michael took one look at Christina and remembered that he
had had an aair with her friend Marie-Claude some years earlier.
The conversation was all in German, but of course Thomas understood everything. Next day he admitted (maybe bragged) that he
also had enjoyed an aair with the same Marie-Claude. I called her
the Alma Mahler of the Eighties.
Our very rst trip to East Germany had been in June 1978. On
Tuesday, May 10, 1988, almost exactly ten years after attending the
Eisler Tage, we arrived at the Merkur Hotel in Leipzig to actually
start lming. We were in time for dinner after a long overnight ight
and some to-be-expected problems. From the very beginning of our
negotiations with DEFA, it was clear that communication would be
a hurdle. Not only language but cultural and personality dierences
caused problems: misinterpretation of ideas and suggestions, some
of them sounding like demands, existed on both sides.
With our crew of eight (one of whom was awaiting us in Europe),
thirty-one pieces of luggage and equipment, and a hopefully almost
nal signed contract in hand, we had only two items still to be claried. A set schedule for eighteen days had been agreed to by DEFA
only some weeks before. And so we were all ready to start lming
the life of Bach.
Our rst signed contract had been only the beginning of our
negotiations with DEFA. We had signed a tentative contract with
the documentary division of DEFA in 1984, four long years before.
It covered (a fantasy) a one-million-dollar production: a documentary for PBS/TV about the life of Bach, based on the dierent places
where he had lived.
DEFA was to organize arrangements for lming in the cities of
the GDR. At that time, we had no idea how we would lm Celle,
474
Lneburg, and Lbeck in West Germany, because it would be

very expensive to go to those cities. Norbert Bunge and Christine
Fischer-Defoy solved that problem. Norbert asked Mordy to appear
in his lm about Brecht in America; in exchange he oered to lm
Bach Stations in West Germany, which would have been much
too expensive for us to produce.
The contract with DEFA was for $135,000, which turned out to
be more than the NEH grant would cover (the mark was then at
3:1). We had to abide by the budget approved by the NEH. After cutting the program from three hours to one and a half and eliminating some expensive performancesfor instance the Gewandhaus
Orchestra, with Kurt Masur conductingwe signed a substitute
contract for only $27,000 in 1987. It was a huge reduction. When
the dollar was devalued soon after, the NEH increased our grant to
cover the additional cost.
We negotiated repeatedly with DEFA, helped by Brnhilde Jaeschke, the coproducer assigned to us by DEFA/DOC; our friend
Victor Grossman translated contracts as they were revised. We had
signed DEFAs nal contract, although there were still a couple of
items that bothered us, hoping that by the time we arrived, we could
understand or eliminate them. I wrote to DEFA repeatedly, asking
for clarication, but no one ever answered; ocials had no secretaries, someone eventually explained. Letters from friends working at
DEFA assured us that all would be well. We did adhere to all DEFA
demands: $13,000 for insurance, partly to cover the risks of sending negative lm via DHL to a New York lab; a new travel schedule
requiring our crew to drive to Leipzig after an all-night ight from
New York to Frankfurt; acceptance of whatever equipment, lights,
etc., DEFA was able to provide; and a dierent shooting schedule
from the one we had carefully prepared. The new one gave our crew
days o, which, in fact, they were happily ready to do without.
Even with all this preparation, if Jrgen Schebera had not come
to the United States in March 1988, we would never have been able
475
Jamie Buswell and

Kirk Browning.
to organize the trip or make the lm. He brought a letter from the
dour Mr. Plehn, which announced that the contract was no longer
valid, and that if Mordy did not come to Berlin in April to clarify the
contract, he would cancel the entire project! How Jrgen managed
it, Ive no idea, but he was able to calm Plehn down on the telephone from our apartment, and we renegotiated, now for $42,000,
which did include the fees of musicians.
Marc had gathered a congenial crew: Kirk Browning, director of
Live from Lincoln Center programs; Marcs avuncular mentor, Don
Lenzer, cinematographer; his assistant, Thomas Krueger; Peter
Miller, sound engineer; and Beth Strauss, script coordinator. James
Buswell joined us, not only as a ne violinist, but as an attractive,
articulate, and knowledgeable spokesman. He read all his lines
ad-lib, using the script Arthur Waldhorn had written as a guide.
Kirk happily tells the story:
Jamie spoke his lines without a script, but I think it was really
an act of ventriloquism. He would put his violin down on a
bench, go to the microphone, and talk about Bach at the current station we were lming. Then he would go to where
Mordy was sitting and listening, talk for a few moments, go
back and go over his comments. I know that the eventual script
came out of Mordys head, as it should have!
476
As we prepared to go to Germany, one day at the end of March,

we spent a day lming conversations between Jamie and Christoph
Wol, and Jamie and Paula Fichtner, at the Pen and Brush Club on
10th Street in Manhattan. It was an easy and successful introduction to the working ways of the entire group.
We had bought the necessary amount of lm in New York, and
all the materials we would need. Very little equipment (not to mention Kleenex) was available in East Germany, so we had to be wellprepared. The group gathered in our living room, crowded with
boxes and luggage. Just before we left, we received a Telex from the
head of DEFA Fernsehen (Television), oering us excerpts from an
out-dated video about Bach for $2,000 a minute. It was becoming
clearer to us that we were the rich Americans who had endless
resources for this project.
Thanks to our expert travel agent, Denny Goetz, the manager of
the American Airlines departure section was prepared to shepherd
us through red tape at the airport. (Under the NEH contract, we
were required to use a U.S. carrier.) Arthur Waldhorn drove us to
JFK; the others arrived by van or taxi at 3 p.m. for a 6 oclock ight
to Frankfurt. Our baggage was ushered through with dispatch. The
boxes of lm neatly lined and taped by Tom were opened by the
customs ocial, re-taped by Mordy, and sent ahead without being
X-rayed. Don and Peter had to show the agent one piece of equipmentthe most expensive one. Fortunately, Don had worked in
Europe several times, and he warned us we would need proof that
none of the equipment would be sold abroad. Accordingly, we had
lled out carnets, listing everything we were carrying.
The customs inspector who examined the carnets would have
preferred to look at everything, but the advance arrangements
expedited details. Despite all the good will, however, it did take
one and one-half hours to get through customs. Jamie sauntered
in at 5 p.m., under the mistaken notion that departure time was 7
p.m. Marc had been anxiously awaiting his arrival, worrying that we
477
hadnt given him the right schedule. Jamie was carrying a large violin case, holding his Stradivarius and a borrowed Stainer (the same
make as the violin Bach used). Jamie was excited, planning to demonstrate the dierences and similarities between the two instruments. He opened the case to show the violins to us and everyone
else in the airport lounge. It made me uneasy.
We took o promptly at 6:10 p.m. in a fairly empty plane. Most of
the crew could stretch out and sleep for four or ve hours. Not me!
We arrived in Frankfurt on May 9th at 7 a.m., midnight for us. It was
a long struggle to get the van and two cars we had reserved; they
were in dierent parking lots, not near the airport. Beth Strauss,
the one member of our crew already in Europe, arrived from wherever she had been working. We were delighted to see her.
Marc drove the van with Don, Thomas, Peter, and the equipment. Kirk drove the car with the sun roof, which he enjoyed, and
Beth became his regular passenger. Jamie drove the other car with
Mordy and me. When Mordy took over driving, Jamie slept calmly
in the back. Marcs rst problem was to get the van close to where
we were guarding the luggage; he drove around and around the airport, trying to nd the right routenot the rst or last time we
would wait for him.
Throughout the shoot, we always drove in tandem. I doubted we
would have the same VIP treatment as at the airport in New York,
and we needed to be together in case of a problem. The rst control ocer at the border didnt expect us, although we thought it
had been arranged. But the wait was not long, and there were no
discussions about the equipment or our complicated work visas.
Our young camera assistant got out of the car and looked around.
Where is the Iron Curtain? he asked me. I didnt know how to
answer.
No one was overtired, so we drove on cheerfully to Eisenach,
Bachs birthplace. At 1:30 p.m. we had our rst group GDR lunch at
the Thuringia Hotel, and the rst of what would be daily servings of
S U N D AY
M O N D AY
T U E S D AY
11
W E D N E S D AY
12
T H U R S D AY
13
F R I D AY
14
S AT U R D AY
Leipzig. Exterior for

"Coffee Cantata"
setting; Bach statue
& Mendelssohn
Monument
10
Leipzig. St. Nikolai,

chorus and organ
performances.
Mi Ohlin from
Sweden. Money
exchange
21
20
Potsdam. Sans Souci

Palace
8
Crew leaves for
Frankfurt AA#68
19
Leipzig. St.
Thomas Church;
Thomaner Chor
rehearsal; Interview
with Rotzsch;
performance
Leipzig. Rathaus
interior;
Stadtpfeiffers;
Mendelssohn room;
Contract table
with Bible; Town
Councillors
18
Leipzig. Music :
Brutigam; Two
Brandenburg con.;
Andante Trio;
Badinerie; Inventions;
Goldberg Aria &
Variation #23; Royal
Theme; Prelude;
Anna Magdalena Bach
27
Leipzig. St. Nikolai

with organist &
Favorit u. Capell
Chor; Bhm,
Buxtehude & Bach on
the organ; Cantatas
#78 & 140; Wedding
Cantata: Chorus, solo
& duet, rehearsals
Leipzig. Bose Haus;

Maria Brutigam at
the harpsichord;
Chamber group
rehearsals
Interview with HansJoachim Schulze
26
Leipzig. Meeting with

DEFA & Stations
of JSB crews; and
representatives
of Bose Haus,
Pommer's orchestra,
Thomanerchor
manager; Site
inspection
25
Frankfurt. arrive
7:30 a m; rent 1 van,
2 cars; meet Beth
Strauss; Drive to
Leipzig via Eisenach
for lunch. (Border
ofcials prepared for
our arrival.) Merkur
Hotel, Leipzig
Leipzig. Buswell's
two violin
demonstration and
solo; Second trip to
Meissen
24
Eisenach. Bach
Museum and
exteriors
FRANKFURT to JFK:
AA#67
17
Leipzig. Exteriors
around town; Local
people;
Architecture
23
Eisenach. Arnstadt,
views of countryside,
shepherd and sheep
Weimar. Herder
Church; Triptych.
Farewells and drive to
Frankfurt
Sheraton HotelL
16
15
Trip to Dresden;
Zwinger & Meissen
22
Drive to Leipzig, via
Halle. Russicher Hof,
Weimar
To Eisenach. View
from the Wartburg
Castle;
Exteriors
479
Solenka soup. That became Marcs frequent joke . . . I hesitate to

say gag. Mordy cashed in some travelers checks, paid for lunch
for nine of us, and bought gas for all three vehicles. On the way to
Leipzig, although we had taken this route several times, we made
our usual mistake at Hermsdorfer Kreuz and drove toward Berlin
instead of Transit Berlin. After about ten minutes of driving in the
wrong direction, we were able to signal Marc, and all three cars
made an illegal U-turn. We nally arrived at our hotel, the Merkur,
where the friendly manager, Mr. Seik, awaited us. It was our seventh stay in that hotel, and we were welcomed with good cheer,
roses, and fruit in the rooms.
After we settled in, Mordy and I met for our rst conference with Jrgen Schebera, who had decided to take two weeks
vacation and be our expediter and translator. Victor Grossman had planned to work with us, but at the last moment had
an assignment he couldnt cancel. We felt fortunate to have Jrgens help; he always knew how to maneuver the bureaucracy,
something we could never have accomplished without him.
Jrgen was joined by our new coordinating producer, Ursula Walter. Unfortunately, Brnhilde was not available, so Ursula introduced two members of the DEFA crew who would travel with us:
Knute Musich, electrician, spoke some English (at least he tried)
and Klaus Wiegener, second cameraman (helpful but absolutely
silent).
We printed a calendar of our working days (see overleaf).That
evening Ursula handed us a brand-new schedule; there was no way
we could convince her to change her plans. We were all shocked and
upset, for everything had been sent in advance to DEFA. It was an
unexpected turn of events; clearly we could not work around such
rigidity. We learned that a meeting with a group of ocials was
scheduled for the following morning. They would include everyone who was even remotely involved in this enterprise: DEFA personnel; the Bach Museum committee and department heads; Max
480
Pommer, conductor of the Neue Bach Orchestra and his assistant;

Hans-Joachim Rotzschs assistant; Armin Schneiderheinze, representing the Research Committee; Rathaus ocials; and all the rest
of the DEFA crew who would be involved with interior shots. We
couldnt quite believe it.
Ursula announced that she had scheduled a site inspection for
our camera and sound technicians. We balked at all these new
arrangements, loudly and deantly. We had not made six trips to
see the GDR sites to spend time looking at them again. We already
knew exactly what and where we wanted to lm; DEFA also knew
what we wanted and needed. We had sent all requests in advance,
and expected that it would have been arranged with much-touted
German eciency. Mordy decided to protest the meeting.
We had a late supper at the Arabesque German restaurant in
the hotel where we were assaulted by the sound an out-of-tune violin and an inadequate piano, especially hard on Jamies ears. Marc
complained loudly, over the screeching ddle sound, about German
rigidity,
We were unprepared for the startling sight that greeted us in
the Bose Haus the morning of May 10th: thirty people representing
various institutions were seated at a large conference table, waiting
for us to join in or listen to their discussion in German. We knew
some of them: Pommer, Winkler, and Schneiderheinze. Max Pommer looked irritated but kissed me hello, then announced that he
would not play the Brandenburg Concerto and stormed out.
Why? I couldnt believe it; we had met him with Albrecht Betz,
had a good relationship with him (we thought), visited his home,
and talked at length about what we wanted to achieve in the program. Maybe it was because he realized the idiocy of the meeting
and wanted no part of it. But it was more likely that he needed
more musicians for the concerto than DEFA had agreed to provide.
The discussions then descended to internal bickering. One
481
important item, for examplw, was about who would pay to tune the
two harpsichords twice! (Cost: 100 marks each time.) Each director or person-in-charge was concerned about his own turf. Maxs
imperious or temperamental behavior stunned us, and we were not
able to explain it to Jamie, who had to work and perform with this
conductor. Kirk, sitting in silence, chin on his hand, said: We are
being treated like enemies.
We sat, trapped, unable to participate in any way and understanding little. Don, who understood German, decided to leave
with his gang: Peter, Tom, Beth, and Marc. Rotzschs assistant said,
Oh, no, the Thomaner is not going to rehearse a Bach piece when
you lm them next Friday. He told us that they planned to work
on a piece by David, a contemporary composer. Rotzsch was away
on vacation; after all our warm experiences with him, I could not
believe he would disappoint us in this way. Finally Kirk and Mordy
left and joined Don to look at the concert room on the other side of
the house. We planned to lm the performances under discussion
and tried to decide where to place the orchestra chairs. It turned
out that the orchestra stands, does not sit on the large, heavy, elaborate chairs that Marc moved around as he tried to plan camera
placement. The crew decided where they would lm the interview
with Hans-Joachim Schulze. Maria Brutigam would play the harpsichord (tuned, we hoped) in the same ante-room. Both rooms are
very attractive, and the crew was more than happy about using the
Bose House. Mordy suggested changing the metal music stands for
handsome wooden ones we discovered in a back room as we wandered about.
After our crew had left, I sat with Armin Schneiderheinze at the
long table. He expressed his discomfort at the coldness of the
atmosphere, speaking in German. I understood most of it, as we discussed what his Favorit u. Capell Chor would sing and what they
would wear. He suggested that they would sing the sacred songs in
the St. Nikolai Church, but move to a corner for the Quodlibet,
482
so that Bachs bawdy work would not appear to be performed in a

church.
It became obvious that the site inspection had been helpful for
the crew. I soft-pedaled our irritation with Ursula, hoping that our
rst impression of a heavy-handed frau was mistaken. She was an
attractive middle-aged woman; we felt that she liked her role and
was satised with her work at DEFA. We soon discovered, however,
that she could only operate by the book; when we made a spontaneous suggestion she was unable to deal with it. Her rigidity created daily frustration. We wereall of usfar too casual for her.
At noon on this, our second day, we all went to the St. Thomas
Church. Karlheinz Bsel, the lone custodian, took us around, sharing church legends with us. Rotzschs assistant told us to calm
down; we would nd out soon enough what the boys will sing, he
assured us. Jrgen told us it would be the Bach Motet BWV 229, but
the assistant was not at all sure that they needed to practice that
motet. He was only certain that they would sing the David piece.
Don talked about where to place lights; Peter looked at existing
mikes and decided he would need a temporary pole for his stereo
microphones. Bsel showed him holes in the ceiling from which he
could drop a cord instead of a pole. Instead, Peter manufactured a
wooden contraption to hold his mikes from the piece of wood borrowed from a construction site.
Indeed, construction was going on everywhere we looked.
Scaolding covered faades of many churches; the square in front
of the Rathaus was under excavation for an underground mall and
garage; the clock face of the Rathaus had been removed for repairs,
so we could not photograph that building. It was also impossible to
lm the St. Nikolai Church exterior, but fortunately the St. Thomas
Church renovation was nished, and eighteenth-century houses
across from the Rathaus had been beautifully brought back to life.
We had lunch at the Press Club, poorly organized: a long wait
for service and only bread, cold cuts, some cheese, frankfurters,
483
lots of beer, and some juice. Jamie needed pitchers of plain water,
hard to come by. Ursula, pressed by us, agreed to try to arrange
for a prepared buet-style lunch the next day, but that appeared
to be very dicult. We were obviously dissatised and annoyed at
the very long lunch hour. This was one of the problems we had
anticipated, and had tried to work out long in advance. Tourists on
no xed schedule could nd restaurants and adequate food in the
GDR. Our crew, always under pressure to make a lming schedule
on time, had to wait endlessly for meal service.
We knew that Bach liked the acoustics at the St. Nikolai church
much better than the sound at the St. Thomas, so we would record
the St. Nikolai organ. The decor of the St. Nikolai is odd: palmtree-like pillars with pale green fronds and pink vaulting. You
would have to see it to believe it. The organist, Wolfgang Hofman,
expected us and agreed to play the Buxtehude and Bhm pieces we
had requested, although the message from Ursula had been that he
could not, or would not! He also agreed to play the Bach Toccata
and Fugue we had asked for. Although he had performed in the
United States and spoke English rather better than most in East
Germany, he was so nervous that when we suggested an interview
with Jamie, it quickly became obvious he couldnt do it. Armin met
us at the church. His accompanist agreed to play both the positive
organ and the harpsichord. Armin would also supply a cellist and
bassist to play the continuo.
We planned to tell the famousor infamousstory about Councillor Platz in front of his portrait: Telemann had been chosen for
the job as Leipzig Kantor, but could not be released from his position in Hamburg. The story goes that he probably used the oer
to upgrade his salary there! Platzs comment, which Jamie would
repeat in front of his portrait, was; Since the best man could not be
got, they must make do with the mediocre applicant: Bach. Jamie
would also tell the story about Bachs contract with the town, sitting
near the table where it had been signed. Jrgen told us that Mrs.
484
Richter, the musicologist, would meet us when we came to lm,

and since he knew her, he was sure she would be helpful.
Jamie wanted to talk about Mendelssohn in the room that was
set up as a memorial to him. He was already moved by having been
in the two churches, and walked around by himself, thinking about
what he would say on camera, disappearing and providentially
showing up when he was needed.
We were suddenly informed that Mr. Plehn expected the family
Bauman to join him for dinner at the Hotel Astoria, one block from
the Merkur. Marc was already so annoyed with DEFA that he said
he would not go. The appointment was for 6 p.m.; the dinner party
would include Jrgen, Ursula, Plehns eleven-year-old daughter
Claudia, and Plehns driver, who by the way, sat at dinner and was
never introduced by Plehn, the democratic republic representative. And Claudia was shy; I could not engage her in conversation.
Before going to dinner, postponed to 6:30 p.m., we went over the
script with Beth in our hotel room (enhanced by roses from Mr. Seik,
the manager, which soon wilted). The DEFA crew, Beth thought,
was adequate: in addition to Ursula and Jrgen, it included Knute
Musich, Klaus Wiegener, Peter Scherf (camera assistant), Jrgen
Lehmann (to hold and control the big halogen light), and the mysterious Ditmar Golle, introduced as the driver. Marc suspects he
was present to watch over us. He seemed a little slow.
There continued to be many misunderstandings, even among us.
Marc was sure he heard Mordy say that there would be no lming at
the St. Nikolai Church. How could he have thought that? It is one of
the most important churches in town. Someone else announced that
the great organ in that church wouldor would notaccompany
the small choir. It had never even been suggested to use it to accompany the eight-voice chorus as they sang in the church proper. They
did not want to sing in the organ loft with the enormous organ.
Ursula announced DEFA changes and/or demands: musical selections were changedor threatened to be changedwithout con-
485
sultation with Mordy. Although lunches had been planned at the

Kaeebaum, this arrrangement turned out to be impossible. We
could blame no one for the plumbing problems that aborted those
al fresco lunches.
Add the unnecessary meeting in the Bose House, all in German, very little understood by most of us and the frustration level
increased. Even the time of Plehns dinner kept being changed; we
nally met him after 7 p.m.. Mordy made a list of items for discussion, and Jrgen was there as interpreter. Three positives: (1) Border crossing had been expected and made easy; (2) Ursulas decision about the site inspection had been useful; (3) Jrgens participation, it was already obvious, would be a big help. Then the
negatives: (1) the morning meeting with 30 people was a very bad
start; (2) Music requests were not being fullled although we had
sent the list long ago to DEFA and to Max Pommer; (3) The midday meal problems seemed to be insuperable, the 17-member crew
would lose two hours of valuable time in the middle of the day when
we should be lming outdoors; (4) the Thomaner: insucient time
for possible lming of the chorus and the repertoire (the limited
half-hour rehearsal did not give us enough time to lm), and, horror upon horror, we were told that they would not sing a Bach selection; (5) already too many misunderstandings.
It appeared to us that GDR personnel saw all Americans as Rockefellers. And, I added, why didnt Plehn answer my letters, one
in November and one with the signed contract, in March? Plehn
said nothing, although Jrgen translated every comment properly.
I began to feel I understood everything and tried to speak auf
Deutsch in response. Mordy couldnt read all the negative points.
He stopped himself in the middle, realizing there were too many
and we had not even started work. Instead, Plehn answered the
questions we had raised in our letter about the contract.
Item #5 in the contract addressed the DEFA crew rules of work.
They have a ten-hour work day, but Plehn agreed that they would be
486
exible and, whenever they were needed, they would work as long
as our crew worked at no extra charge. Item #9 concerned our rights
to the lm: Did we have the contract with us? No, we didnt. Plehn
sighed, and crossed out all limitations except one which seemed to
refer to rights to a book about the lming, which we were required
to clear with DEFA if we wrote one. This last was probably irrelevant, since unication of Germany happened only a year and a half
later. Maybe anticipating it caused Plehn to sigh!
Marc, who nally did agree to join us, was his usual charming,
light-hearted self. Jrgen tried to match his easy humor, but it was
too hard for him in English, or even in German. In any case, thats
not his style. Kirk was very quiet, ate little. Plehn reminded us, in
case we had forgotten, that we were the rst American crew to work
with the Documentary Division. We realized that this was part of
his problem. He made it clear that this was truly a coproduction: It
cost DEFA more than our contract provided, possibly 30,000 marks
more (at that time $15,000).
After dinner, Mordy wandered into the hotel souvenir shop and
found a facsimile of the Bach contract with the town for Jamie to
hold when he talked about it, standing in the very place where it
had been signed. The facsimile cost only ve marks. DEFA had not
been able to provideor even ndit. Finally we went to bed and
slept hard, exhausted.
Our rst day of actual lming was Wednesday May 11th. The
crew arrived at the Rathaus at 8 a.m. Mordy called me at the hotel;
they had forgotten makeup for Jamie. After depositing $15,000 in
American Express checks in the hotel safe, I joined them and gured out how to make up Jamiewhich was not too dicult. Knute
arrived with the lights, and at 9:10 a.m. the rst cooperative shot by
USA and DEFA/DOC crews was made in the GDR. None of us predicted the imminent end of the GDR! Ditmar was always ominously
or curiously present, leaning close to the camera or sound recorder.
487
Outside drilling interfered with the story of Bachs contract; we

needed three takes of Jamie at the Platz portrait.
Mrs. Richter, Town Hall historian, arrived with Jrgen and
oered two prints of eughteenth-century Leipzig (one from England and one a German engraving) which had never been photographed or reproduced. She showed us the silver ornate Bible
upon which Bach swore to uphold the conditions of the contract.
It was in a locked, secure case, but she oered to take it out and
let us photograph it on the table. Ursula was surprisednot a little
shockedand warned us not to expect the same cooperation at the
Bach House in Eisenach. She turned out to be wrong about that;
we had friendly help wherever we went, probably to her continued
surprise. She was always hanging about, and took the opportunity
to explain that the close-up was only possible because of Mrs. Richters good will and interest in the project. It should have cost extra,
she complained.
Beautiful morning light coming through the gauze curtains of
the Mendelssohn Room drew us there to lm Jamie telling the story
about Mendelssohns rst performance of the St. Matthew Passion,
100 years before. Kirk wanted Jamie to play a theme from the Passion on the harpsichord, but it had a terrible tinny sound. We had to
stop because of the noisy drilling outside, which Ursula kept trying
to get postponed until we were nished.
Lunch at the Press Club was changed to a buet, and was much
quicker. That day was Himmelfahrt, Jrgen explained, Ascension
Day. It is celebrated on the fortieth day after Easter. The men on
the street seemed to be interpreting it as Ascension of Men Day,
a rather male chauvinist celebration. Drunken revelers abounded
in odd, silly (Greenwich Village style) costumes. As we walked to
lunch at a large, crowded, outdoor cafe, a brass band played a hardto-recognize Golliwogs Cake Walk.There was a holiday spirit.
Don was calm and quiet, whispering suggestions to Marc, Peter,
or Kirk. Marc worried about possible interference from Mordy or
488
me, not giving him his proper role as producer. This, of course,
was far from our intention. If we came up with additional ideas, he
asked us to tell him rst; he did not want us to direct suggestions
to Don or Peter, or they would just comply without discussing it
with him. Passing revelers pressed a small bottle of vodka on us,
which we never drank, nally giving it to Gnter Mayer in Weimar.
The DEFA crew seemed pleasant and helpful. Knute tried to speak
English. Tom tried to learn and use dirty words in German, which
he experimented with in front of Ursula. She reported it to Jrgen,
but was not really upset. I asked the waiter at the Merkur breakfast
to ll a thermos with coee for the crew. The charge was twelve
marks, but only Peter drank it, so I decide not to do it again. Anyway, the thermos leaked.
The good-humored Stadtpfeiers (town musicians) arrived
on time to be lmed in front of a beautiful small building, now a
Bourse. (Now a stock market, it was formerly a residence where
Goethe lived as a student in Leipzig. His statue stands in front of it.)
Kirk directed the brass choir, four cooperative middle-aged men,
dressed in Renaissance costumes. They walked up and down the
stairs in front of the Bourse, playing a short Bach Chorale over and
over. We would have preferred to lm them on the balcony of the
Rathaus where they usually played, but the construction outside
would have spoiled the eect. We thought it funny that they didnt
know the name of the chorale they were playing. Mrs. Richter came
out of the Rathaus, went back to check the rst line, and returned
with the name for us to add to the credit line.
A policeman was assigned to control the crowd of onlookers that
inevitably gathered. He did it half-heartedly, and nally gave all
our crew a souvenir: a miniature trac stick, a ball point pen that
didnt work. Jrgens eleven year-old son Sebastian arrived, and I
assigned him to watch the equipment; he took the request literally, and stood looking at the equipmentwatching it. Because of
the constant revelers and onlookers, Peter was beginning to worry
489
about his tape recorder. Beth took the names of the Stadtpfeiers
and we promised to give them screen credit.
Back in the Rathaus, Jamie was still going strong. Kirk wanted
him to appear somehow in every scene. Czech musicians arrived to
rehearse in the Great Room for that evenings concert, and we had
to nish. As it wasnt possible to photograph the Haussman portrait
of Bach behind the glass frame, Jrgen bought a large, full-size lithograph of the portrait for use in later studio work. Although it was
missing Bachs signature, we had to have that portrait in the lm.
A report from the Thomaner was delivered to us: they agreed to
sing a Bach Motet, BWV 226, not 229. We were relieved. There was
good humor among the crew. Beth worked silently and eciently,
unobtrusive in the background, but always there. She never forgot
to write the log, time the music, and keep us on schedule.
Tom was surprising. He had traveled a lot for someone his age,
but never behind the Iron Curtain. He admired Don and would
knock himself out to be his assistant. He had the lm ready for each
change and lugged the equipment in and out of the van morning
and night, always responding quickly to Dons requests, made in
whispered asides. Don never made demands, only requests. Tom
had an open and wondering personality, wandering around when
he was free and (as Mordy joked) making his local contacts. Jrgen called Peter an individualist. His work is, indeed, professional;
when we listened to the music on his earphones, we knew it would
be great.
Jamie studied Arthurs script and then spoke it easily, ad-lib.
Once he casually left his Strad on a church bench, much to my dismay. No one worried about it but me; I kept one eye always on that
valuable violin. I nally realized that no one in the GDR would dare
to touch anyone elses instrument, and I stopped worrying about
it.
We were still puzzled by Max Pommers temperamental behavior;
it was inexplicable. Armin Schneiderheinze, in contrast, was always
490
helpful and smiling, anxious that Mordy write a few complimentary words for his chorus brochure. On Wednesday evening, Ursula
requested a special meeting on the hotel balcony, Jrgen translating, to discuss the demands of Pommers orchestra manager. The
Brandenburg Concerto required an extra cellist, who required more
marks; the rest of the orchestra would want 100 marks more apiece,
totaling 2500 marks, about $1,000. An additional violinist, needed
for the Double Violin Concerto, required more money. Fairly
quickly, we decided to abandon the Brandenburg and use a recording if we needed it for background sound. Jrgen agreed, nding
the word blackmail in his already excellent English vocabulary.
I didnt know who was blackmailing us; the orchestra manager or
DEFA? They did end up playing the Brandenburg, but we didnt
lm it, only recorded the music, and, in the end we didnt use it.
The gossip from Ursula was, nally, that Max Pommer decided it
had been his error, and paid the 2500 marks himself.
We realized that Ursula was unfortunately developing a workeragainst-capitalist-boss attitude. Theres no doubt she was uncomfortable, working with an Ameican group. We had been in the GDR
so often, met so many people whom we came to love and admire,
that we had neither hesitation about our role nor awkwardness
dealing with ocials. We treated them as comrades and really
hoped our eort would promote better understanding of East Germany in the U.S. We thought we had gotten along well with most of
the DEFA ocials, and even tried to appreciate Plehns problems.
Despite all, Ursula never really trusted us.
We were beginning to wonder about events at home, and I asked
Mr. Seik if he could get a copy of the International Tribune every
day for the group; I also asked where I might process my still lm
quickly. Neither was possible. In a day or two I found an American traveler who brought a Tribune to Leipzig from Dresden. Why
couldnt the manager get one for us? We never had time to look for
491
a newspaper at the nearby railroad station. And little time to read

it, anyway.
We had dinner that night at the Astoria, which was older than the
Merkur hotel; Marc decided after eating there with Mr. Plehn that
the food was better. The menu oered Kangerooschwanze soup.
Don read schwanze as penis, a slang expression he had picked
up during his travels. We couldnt believe this was penis soup.
Don asked the waitress, who explained that it was an exotic soup,
not kangaroo tail, oxtail. We still didnt order it.
Jamie was anxious to know the next days schedule: when would
he be needed? It was hard to determine. Marc said garbage in,
garbage outwe might write it in the script, then it might be used
or edited out. On Thursday, May 12th, Don lmed a photo essay of
baroque architecture around the square that became very important in the nal edit. As we waited for him, a young man approached
Beth to ask what we were working on. He was Kai Schnbrun; they
made a date for later that evening. Beth giggled. People came close
to the crew to nd out what was going on, assuming we were British. When I said Wir machen (or drehen) ein lm ber Bach (We
are making a lm about Bach) there was a pleased and excited
response, even more so when it was discovered we were from the
United States.
Beth went to the bank with me later that morning to change
American Express travelers checks to dollars. I asked for Frau Greissler, the manager I had encountered in 1981. As we walked, I told
Beth how I knew her. In 1981 Mordy and I had gone to the bank
to buy Mntzen, GDR commemorative coins. The transaction took
more than an hour. First we had to look at the list of coins, then go
to a cashier to nd out which were available. To another to order
them. To yet another to pay for those we had ordered. Then we took
a number to stand in line to pick up the coins, and waited to be
called. What an elaborate process!
While we sat on a bench waiting, Mordy noticed a handsome,
492
well-dressed young womana type that always catches his eye.

Look at her, he said. No one in the U.S. would believe that such
a well-dressed young woman exists in East Germany! Take her picture. I took Marcs small camera out of my pocket and tried to
be unobtrusive and focus on the waiting customer. All around me
I heard loud exclamations: Verboten!! Verboten! Soon a middleaged, heavy-set woman came out from what I called backstage.
Frau Bauman, she said. Through all those transactions, our
name was well-known. Haben Sie dieses bilden nehmen? I tried
to explain in my kinder deutsch, No, I was only trying to focus
the camera; my husband was so attracted to the hbsch fraulein, he
wanted to remember her.
Frau Greissler patted my hand and made it clear that no one was
allowed to take pictures inside a bank. That wasnt hard to understand, but I couldnt get the episode out of my mind. Or forget those
cries: Verboten! We thought Id land in a German jail. Some time
later, back in Stockbridge, I thought to ask the manager of our
newly renovated bank if I might take a picture. What! Take a picture inside a bank? Not possible. No one can take a picture inside
any bank.
So of course, next time we were in Leipzig, having practiced how
I would speak in German to Frau Greissler, I was able to tell her
that her rule was the same the world over. She was welcoming and
helpful every time I went back to the bank. I always asked for the
manager!
The organist at the St. Nikolai Church was ready to perform as
scheduled, but he was very nervous. He played brief sections of
Buxtehude and Bhm compositions, repeating them over and over,
making many mistakes. Mordy, Kirk, and Jamie were in the loft as
he played. The interview we had hoped for, apropos Bachs organ
works, was not possible. We were glad to get the performance over
with. Mr. Hofmann, also relieved, showed us account books for
the church, Bachs signature written several times each year as he
493
reported payments for extra jobs: weddings, funerals, etc. Then he

gave me an original 1763 approval for a marriage in the church for
an out-of-town couple, which we had framed and gave to Marc. It
hangs in his Lincoln Center oce.
Jamie continued to wander in and out of the St. Nikolai church,
thinking about his next stand-up. Since the church door was kept
locked, someone had to be on the lookout with the large iron key
to let Jamie back in. He was only needed to sit in a pew, to be seen
on screen watching the Favorit u. Capell Choir as they sang Bach
Cantatas 78 and 140. The tenor kept the beat. The singers, dressed
appropriately in tuxedos and long red gowns, were excited to be
performing in our lm.
We realized that they werent singing the sections we had
requested, but it was no problem for them to switch to the correct
ones. They were completely professional, their balance and timing
perfect. The tenor, Ekkehard Wagner, sang the solo Komm Ssser
Tod. We planned to use it as background for the segment when
Jamie talked about Bachs death. We thought the solo was ne, but
Ekkehard asked if he could try again. A woman from an international news agency arrived to take pictures and write a publicity
story. Armin was delighted. The story of our project appeared in
three dierent press accounts.
The group moved to a corner to sing the secular Quodlibet.
They settled on my favorite verse, Grsse Hochzeit, and sang with
verve and humor. Armins wife, Johanna, and Christiana Schwartz
sang the Wir Eilen duet. Both the tenor solo and the soprano and
mezzo duet were recorded, not lmed.
We now called Jrgen the A.D. (assistant director) or P.A. (production assistant), as he took it upon himself to call out Alle Absolut Ruhe . . . Ton Anfang! (Everybody quiet, recording beginning.) The crew began to imitate his roar.
Mi Ohlin, who had been our lifeguard at the Indian Hill pool for
two summers, arrived with her husband Rolf Olsson from Sweden.
494
That was a surprise; I knew they hoped to come, but didnt really
expect them to make it. They managed to talk their way into the
locked church, convincing the key-keeper they had an appointment
with us.
Just one more organizational problem: I had made a dinner reservation for that evening at the Milano in the Merkur Hotel, knowing the crew would be very tired. Now when I added the Olssons,
a curt waitress turned me down. However, by the time the crew
did arrive and had unpacked the equipment, the corner room was
empty; Marc, Don, Peter, and Tom joined us. A friendly waiter,
three bottles of Chianti, and Marcs cheery jokes lifted spirits.
Interesting GDR hotel security sidelight: During the afternoon,
Peter asked me if I could go back to the hotel (half a mile away, perhaps) and pick up extra sound tapes from his room. I had no trouble
getting his key from the desk clerk. Later when Beth went to get
something from her room, she was able also to do another errand
for me by asking for our room key. We began to believe there was
no crime in East Germany. At the very least, there was minimum
hotel security.
Everyone in our crew seemed to like each other. Beth was adventurous, interested in new experiences. Her date with Kai turned
out okhe seemed rather nice. I asked Beth if there were organizational problems at Lincoln Center similar to those wed encountered. No, she said, because at Lincoln Center, Marc is a God!
There was a charming tea house opposite the St. Thomas Church.
Saturday, as we had planned, we lmed outdoor scenes nearby to
illustrate the The Coee Cantata scene. (The cafe burned down
years later, were told.) Peter recorded the St. Thomas chimes. Lots
of people stopped to watch what was happening, but just as many
kept on walking, continuing their daily routine. The Olssons, Jrgen, and I sat at an outdoor table as extras in the lm.
During a long wait, I wandered around the square, encountering
folk dancers performing to a pick-up folk band; they seemed to go
495
on all day. It was so charming that I ran back excitedly to tell Don to
come quick. Youll love it, I said. He stopped everything and went
with his camera. Marc was annoyed with me, because I had done
just what hed asked me not to: made a suggestion to Don without speaking to Marc rst. But it became an unexpectedly lovely
moment in the lm. Marc forgave me.
The important shot of the Bach statue was suddenly and successfully caught in the sun. Franz Winkler, director of the Bach
Museum, came by and invited us to an afternoon concert. He
explained the sculptors portrayal of the turned-out empty pants
pocket in Bachs trousers. It refers to a nineteenth-century myth
indicating how poor Bach wasthough in fact he really wasnt so
poor. Also, on the statue his coat is unbuttoned to show that he
was of a class that did not have to show respect to the hierarchy of
princes, dukes, and town ocials. As a musician, he had a special
relationship to his superiors. Jamie added those explanations to his
remarks about the statue.
Lunch for the crew was nally arranged at the Paulauner Restaurant a few steps from the St. Thomas. It was expensive and only
oered full meals, but we did have a private room. It took almost
two hours. The rst question from the waitress was always: What
do you want to drink? It was a nice respite, but unnecessarily long,
causing us anxiety and irritation. And, as always, the meal began
with the delicious, but now boring, Polish soup. In the list of credits, Marc added: Catering by Solenka. Need I say that it made us
laugh when we read it on the screen. One of Marcs neat surprises.
During all the years since Mordy decided we had to make a lm
about Bach, we met many times with members of the U.SGDR
Friendship Society. Long after the lm was broadcast, we were told
by one of the members (an IH parent by the way) that the head of
DEFA would be in New York. I decided that we must tell him that,
no matter how sympathetic we were to the East German society, we
had many complaints about the bureaucracy and the way we were
496
treated. I called his hotel and his secretary answered. I asked if she
knew who we are. Of course I do; I translated your script! she
happily told me. Then I told her that we were far from satised with
our experience making the lm. The director agreed to come and
meet us in our apartment.
I told Mordy that I would tell him about the diculties we faced.
Mordy tends to start quietly in such a circumstance, but once he
gets started, get out of his way! So I began with the complaint about
the long unnecessary and expensive lunch hours for our crew of
seventeen. His answer: Imagine my problems with a crew of one
hundred! What could I say?
On May 15, Mi and Rolf ran over to say goodbye. They had a
twelve- to sixteen-hour trip back to Sweden, including four hours on
the ferry. Although it was Sundaysupposedly a day othe crew
drove to lm scenes in Dresden. Ursula went home to Berlin for the
weekend; we were free! We parked behind the Zwinger Museum,
two cars and the van as usual. The crew seemed to have no concern
about leaving the equipment on the street in the (locked) van, an
ease not possible in any city of similar size in the United States.
When we walked to the center of the city, I saw Kirk weeping. An
ocial GDR decision left World War II bombing destruction visible, and it was more than Kirk could bear.
We looked for our friend Peter Zacher, whom Jrgen had told to
nd us somewhere near the museum. After driving around for over
an hour, he nally stumbled upon us in the courtyard.
We listened to beautiful church chimes, and Peter (Miller) became
anxious to add them to his stock recordings. It became a partial day
o. The crew wandered around the museum, happily seeing the
rare jewels in the Grne Gewlbe (Green vault). I took lots of photos of the Zwinger and the crew, the best being one of Kirk and
Jamie. For the lm, Jamie stood in front of the Wallpavillon, the
most famously photographed spot, and spoke about baroque architecturea wonderfully articulate ad-lib.
497
In Dresden
Don was trying to photograph the nymph fountain, struggling

with the sunlight, when a policeman approached and asked for credentialsthe rst and only time that happened during three weeks
in the GDR. Jrgen had all the proper papers with him. (How did he
remember to ask Ursula for them?) All was in ordnung (in order.).
Thinking of Eisler: At some point when they were in the van
together, Jrgen and Don sang the Brecht/Eisler song United
Front. I was not surprised that Jrgen knew it; hes an Eisler
scholar, after all. But I was surprised to hear Don sing the song I
had associated with Mordy for so many years. I hadnt known that
some years before, Don spent several months in Leipzig working
with a peace group, and he learned Eisler/Brecht songs then.
While we waited for Don at the fountain, two couples came by
and asked what we were doing. Again everyone assumed we were
British. I burst into song, as I often did when we were in East Germany, singing the theme from the national anthem, written by
Eisler, showing o my association with him along with my memories of Katarina Witt accepting Olympic medals.
Jrgen knew of a small, inexpensive restaurant in Meissen, the
Rathskellar, a beautiful town hall. A little before 9 p.m., as we left
498
the restaurant, Peter noticed Meissen porcelain chimes in a tower

high above a small church. Marc and Peter ran back to the van to
get the sound equipment; Peter managed to record eight of the
chimes, but a car arriving spoiled the sound of the ninth. Peter
insisted that hed come back to Meissen and try again, especially
after he and Don climbed the hill to see the cathedral and castle in
the distance, and found just the view to lm. (Of Meis n Men,
Marc quipped.)
I was becoming the camp mother, supplying Woolite to the
crew. Peter asked me to sew the lining of his coat, Tom asked me to
sew ripped pants. Jrgen said, You dont need to go with the crew
when they go back to Meissen. Ill take them. He enjoyed the companionship of our group, made us laugh, and, just like Marc, he did
not want Mordy to interfere with him.
On Monday morning, Marc decided to drive back to Leipzig via
side roads, avoiding the autobahn for the rst time. All three vehicles stopped at Scharfenburg at the side of the road, seven kilometers before Meissena lovely scene. Peter tried to record bird
sounds. In this quiet section of the Elbe, Don took a long shot of a
small village in the distance. Everywhere we drove we saw elds of
hops and yellow meadowsperfect spring scenery.
While the crew was lming Leipzig exteriors, Marc and I waited
with Jrgen in front of the Merkur Hotel to deliver lm to a DEFA
courier at noon, the scheduled time. Jrgen would translate instructions to the driver, so they would be clearly understood. He was
certain that the messenger would be at the Merkur. I thought he
would come to the Astoria, since that was where Plehn had stayed.
No, said Jrgen. Plehn denitely said the Merkur. At 1:30 p.m.
Marc, waiting to be sure the lm went o, was ready to murder all
of DEFA. He was anxious to go back to his crew and sent Jrgen to
call Berlin. Mr. Plehn said that the driver had left hours ago.
Marc insisted that Jrgen look for the courier at the Astoria, and
sheepishly, he came back with the truck. The driver showed us his
499
instructions: Hotel Astoria. Just another Situation Normal. . . .

Nothing at all to do with East German inadequacy this time, just
stubborn Jrgen.
I conferred with Mr. Seik, our hotel manager. about room problems. For one thing, we could not hear anyone on the telephone.
Was it bugged? A technician came and changed the ear piece. Seik
agreed to the 20 percent discount I had expectedon room rent,
though not on laundry. Also he preferred to be paid in dollars, which
I was prepared to do. My trip to the bank had been to experiment
changing a few travelers checks into dollars; many East Germans
told us that it wasnt possible, but it was. Jrgens wife, Helga, and
his son Sebastian joined us for dinner with Jamie, Kirk, and Marc.
Jrgen casually announced that Yes, Max will play the Brandenburg Concerto, but the rst movement, not the third as we had
requested. How and when did he get that message? Did he forget
to tell us?
After dinner we found two messages: a mysterious one from
Bill Gilcher, our grant ocer at the NEH, the other from Gnter
Mayer, saying he would meet us in Weimar. Did Gilchers message,
Viele Gren, mean more than Many greetings? Would we get
the extra grant we had requested? The exchange rate had changed
drastically, making it impossible for us to meet the budget. We did,
indeed, get the additional grant by the time we came home. Many
thanks to Bill and the NEH.
Ivo Dvorak, our Czech friend from Cleveland days, called from
Prague. He promised to come for the weekend, bringing his wife
Vera and daughter Karolina, now a ne coloratura. We took time
to listen to tapes of the organ and chorus. The organ recording was
just about usable; the chorus was ne. We had a late-night discussion with Marc and Beth about the script: What was still missing,
what should we attempt to cover? We made some decisions about
what Jamie should try to get in and what music selections we needed
to lm or only record.
500
Marc repeated that he wanted to lm the Sans Souci Palace in

Potsdam; he had been there in 1984 and knew it would be an important scene. Arranging the trip created a big problem for Ursula, and
we nally limited lming to the exterior of the castle. Plehn was
angry at our changes, even though he had made so many without
consulting us. The additional scene cost an additional 400 marks.
May 17th began the second week at the St. Thomas church,
recording Jamies violin demonstration which, as it turned out, we
never used. There was just no room in the nal cut. He played two
additional solos: Bachs Sarabande and Gigue. The custodian, Mr.
Bsel, asked the organ tuners to wait while Jamie was playing. The
custodian was always nearby, always trying to be helpful.
We had lunch again at the Paulauner, where the waitress forgot
to charge us for seventeen salads. We went back the next day to pay
her. The crew took o for Meissen with Buswell, Jrgen happily in
charge. They reported back: great success, gorgeous shots of windmill, silhouettes of castle and cathedral, view of medieval village,
river scenes, and glockenspiel chimes. Everyone was delighted and
proud. Jrgen said that Dons shots were like Netherlands paintings. He was full of enthusiasm, so much so that he was denitely
now the assistant director. Marc started to say, Jrgens ready, now
we can begin.
Knute remembered that he had not given me change from the
50 marks to buy drinks, and returned 40 to me. He began to feel
more comfortable with us and complained bitterly about politics in
the GDR. He wanted desperately to go to the West. I have no idea
if he went.
It was the rst rainy and humid day, but it cleared in time for
sunset shots in Meissen. We were very lucky. The rst week had
been sunny, comfortable; Don would have liked a thunderstorm for
change of weather scenery.
Jamie worked on a statement he wanted to share with the crew;
where could he nd a copy machine? The next day, lming began
501
with Maria Brutigam playing the harpsichord; it proved to be as

awkward as recording Hofmann at the organ. Don lmed repeated
takes of Brutigam stumbling through the simple pieces. Kathinka
Rebling had assured us she was the best harpsichordist in all East
Germany. Perhaps she was just terribly nervous. It took hours.
Jamie joined Max Pommers orchestra in the Bach Double Violin
concerto. My eyes teared as I thought of Marjorie. She once told
me she thought that movement the most glorious music she knew.
Jamie noticed me, upset that I might not like the way he played. I
tried to explain my emotional response. I watched Jamie lie down
on the oor after the concerto to write his opening and closing
speeches, to be lmed at Bachs grave. We were all unexpectedly
emotional as the end approached.
The grave. Was it actually his grave? Bsel told us a story about
it. Apocryphal? We dont know. In any case here it is: Bach was the
ocial cantor at the St. Thomas and St. Nikolai churches, but he
belonged to the smaller St. Johns Church, and was buried there.
That church was destroyed during the war. The German ocer in
charge of the city was a music lover, enchanted with his assignment
at the St. Thomas Church where Bach had worked for twenty-seven
years.
He was approached one day by a workman walking toward the
church, pushing a wheelbarrow, in which there was a small bundle.
I bring you Bach, he said. He told the soldier that he had dug up
Bachs remains from the churchyard. We must put Bach in the
St. Thomas Church, the German decided, and thats how it happened that the Johann Sebastian Bach memorial stone is in that
churchand maybe even his bones are underneath it.
We arranged to have lunch once more at the press club. The manager, Dieter Mucke, asked if I had been looking for Jrgen Bischof,
the photographer who had helped us during previous trips. Of
course I had been. Peter and I took lots of pictures, but we needed
an expert still photographer. Dieter had been helping Bischof paint
502
his new house outside Leipzig, and happened to mention that a

U.S. crew, lming Bachs story had lhad unch every day at his club.
They must be the Baumans, cried Jrgen. So we nally found
him, not yet listed in the telephone book.
Back at Bose House the next day, we were in for another frustrating harpsichord performance. Max and his chamber group arrived
at 3 p.m. Max was cheerful, with no sign of his temperamental behavior during the rst morning. Should we believe Ursulas gossip that
Max had paid the extra fees? Should we believe any gossip?
Jamie conducted the rehearsal in master class style, and Max was
receptive to Jamies suggestions. Mordy asked him for more energy
and more dynamic changes. Max listened on Peters earphones and
agreed: You are right, Mordy. Jrgen, still in charge, was upset
when Mordy disagreed with him. Its great, he said. No, its not.
I want to do it over, said Mordy. They did it, and more than once,
until everyone was satisedeven pleased.
The interview with Hans-Joachim Schulze was not completely
successful. His English was very good, but he did not feel comfortable unless he spoke in German. Our good friend Peter Zacher came
from Dresden and translated Schulzes answers so that Jamie could
ask additional appropriate questions.
Armin and Johanna Schneiderheinze invited us to have dinner
in their apartment, with Jrgen to help translate. It was a very
interesting evening and the rst really appetizing dinner we had
hadwell planned, well served. No dessertnot the style in Saxony, except on Sunday afternoon, said Jrgen. I gave their son a
Stations of Bach teeshirt like the ones our crew wore. We sensed
some conict between Max and Armin, which may have been politicalmaybe musical. Jrgen Bischof promised to meet us at the St.
Thomas.
Brutigam recorded (not lmed) Couperins LHarlequin and
the Little Organ Book piece. Max rehearsed the chamber group for
the nal lming of the Double Violin Concerto. The men wore tails,
503
the women long dresses. They stood in a semicircle. Max conducted

as he played the harpsichord. Jrgen had told Jamie to bring a tuxedo. When it suddenly became clear that proper dress was formal.
he had to call his wife to bring his suit from Massachusetts.
The utist improved the Badinerie each time she repeated the
two-minute piece. Don was so excited he told Mordy, Im afraid
Ill piss in my pants. Jamie said, Don was so close to me with the
camera, I could have pissed in his pants.
We had lunch again at the Paulauner. Peter shot a roll of black
and white lm for Winkler and the archive at the Bach Museum,
where we will be enshrined forever. That is to say, German archives
are forever. Max invited us to have dinner with him and his wife
Gisela. We had made a reservation at the Neues Rathskellar, but
once again, as seemed to be typical in GDR restaurants, we were
told we had no reservation. It was hard to understand; didnt they
need business? Max angrily used his Leipzig clout and we were
seated.
May 20th brought the second transport of the exposed lm. The
driver arrived promptly, with receipt of the safe arrival of the rst
batch, and a bunch of owers to place on Bachs grave when we
lmed there. Kirk preferred a single rose, which I bought in the
hotel.
Peter Zacher arrived from Dresden under the impression that
Jrgen wanted time o and that he would replace him. But Jrgen
was everywhere, having a very good time developing relationships
with the local big shots: Pommer, Rotzsch, Schulze, and Schneiderheinze, not forgetting Winkler and Mrs. Richter, whom he already
knew well. He would not give this experience up. Appalled at the
dust in the organ loft in the St. Thomas Church, Beth swept it. Jrgen dusted everything in sight. Bsel was the only caretaker; no
wonder it was so dirty.
We could not place the camera in the side area of the balcony
because organ pipes were spread all aroundanother renovation
504
project. The organ faade was nished suciently that it looked

ready, and the tuning stopped for the day so tht the Thomaner Chor
could rehearse and perform in the dusty messy organ loft. And so
we were able to lm.
Rotzsch arrived at 2:15 p.m., sweet and cooperative. He was all
business, the eighty boys looked on in half-wonder, half-boredom.
They had done all this before, but never with a U.S. crew. Rotzsch
asked me to greet them, as he did once before in the St. Thomas
School when we rst met. I stumbled through something, again in
my kinder deutsch, about Hanns Eisler and Mordys travels with
him in 1935, a date that lled the boys with wonder. While Peter was
wiring Rotzsch for sound, he explained to the boys that Mordy sang
Eislers songs. We had been told the wire was illegal, but Rotzsch
made no comment or resistance. As a matter of odd fact, Jamie had
wandered around Leipzig every day, wired, forgetting to remove it.
No one ever noticed.
Rotzsch conducted the rehearsal of Motet BWV 226, as promised.
Don was all over the organ loft, looking for camera angles, kneeling in front of Rotzsch. Klaus was in a corner with a second camera,
photographing the boys. Marc was stationed way up at the left with
the third camera, which Klaus had providedheaven knows how. I
dont know if Marc had asked for it, but it became very important
that evening during the performance. Jrgen insisted that we make
a public acknowledgment at dinner of Klauss extraordinary feat.
Mordy said he did not believe in doing that because he would then
have to publicly nd something to say about each. It was in the line
of everyones duty to do what he could. How to single one out?
Jrgen said that he would take the change from the hundred
marks Mordy gave him for gas and go to an Intershop to buy a
couple of bottles of whiskey for Klaus. I wondered if that was what
Klaus liked. We told Jrgen that we didnt care what he did if he felt
it was so important, but that Mordy would not make a public presentation. Jrgen came back with the whiskey and asked me to give
505
it to Klaus. I suggested he do it himself, or give it to Marc to give

to Klaus. I dont know what he nally did with it, and wondered if
Ursula was pressuring him. I was wondering a lot about Ursula!
Back at the hotel, I saw Beth accost an American tourist and ask
for his Tribune. Where did they nd it? It was available daily at the
Hotel Bellevue in Dresden. We invited the four New Yorkers who
had given us the newspaper some days before to the Friday motet
concert; they sat in front of us, grateful that we alerted them to the
evening performance.
That afternoon, in front of the St. Thomas Church, Don lmed
the boys arriving in their sailor suits. Peter Zacher and Jrgen went
to the loft, watching the lming. Marc focused on Rotzsch with the
third camera. It may be the most touching scene in the edited lm:
charming children, a yawning boy, another scratching his nose,
gracious Rotzsch, and wonderful music. We did record the beautiful David piece, for our own enjoyment. The Dvoraks and Jamie
arrived, and Ditmar Golle, our funny DEFA driver, followed Jamies
every move. He was still in the middle of everything, peering close
to the camera and sound equipment, never saying a word. We wondered about his role: Was he assigned for security precautions? He
was only with us when the DEFA crew was around. Was he working for the Stasi (the GDR secret police), and watching them? We
decided that he was watching Don and Peter, trying to understand
what they were doing, perhaps to learn, even though his regular job
was to drive movie cans to and from movie theaters!
Jrgen was becoming more irritable and annoyed with Mordy,
who would not allow him to take over either the directors or producers role. Jrgen thought that because of the language problem,
he was better equipped to handle details. As Ursula was also became
more irritated with us, she frequently misunderstood our requests.
(On purpose?) She leaned heavily on Jrgen when conversation
became more explicit and complicated.
The crew gathered around the Bach statue, wearing our Sta-
506
tions of Bach teeshirts, and Ivo Dvorak took our pictures, using
about six cameras. Everyone wanted a shot with his own camera.
Ditmar put himself in the middle, ubiquitous as always.
When we set up the closing shot at the grave, it took a long time
to light it just right. Knute ran around working with Tom to satisfy
Don. The rose was placed on the stone, as Jamie struggled to nd
just the right words and tone for the nale about the meaning of the
name Bach: Not Brook, but Ocean should be his name!
Bsel had been so helpful and patient that we all took time to
help him reset the chairs we had moved out of sight, so the church
would be ready for a christening scheduled for the following day.
We didnt nish until 11 p.m. Peter suggested a 10 DM tip for Bsel;
Mordy gave him twenty. Unaware of this generosity, Jrgen was
worried wed neglect the tip, so he gave Marc forty marks more to
give Bsel! Never mindhe had earned it. It had been a very long,
hard fourteen-hour day.
It was Saturday, May 21, and we were o to Potsdam. As we drove
ahead of Marc, we saw him waving madly in our rear view mirror.
He and Kirk were worried about our car exhaust, smoking ercely.
We were out of oil, as happened frequently. Ursula made a navigational mistake, taking the wrong road from the autobahn an causing many extra kilometers. Ivo Dvorak, in our car, kept telling us
the route was wrong. We thought of it as Ursulas Freudian error.
She didnt want to go to Potsdam anyway, and therefore continued
her delaying actions. She disappeared for a long time to get written
permission for outdoor lming, and to pay for it. Then she stood in
another line to get pamphlets, one for each of us, describing Sans
Souci in English. She told us there was no guide who spoke English,
but indeed there was. The guide took us briey through some of the
castle rooms, working past her tour of duty. She repeated what we
had already read in the pamphlet.
Finally back in Leipzig, Marc and the Dvoraks enjoyed dinner
with us in the Merkur Japanese restaurant, although Jrgen didnt
507
recommend it. Marc asked me if I was having a good time. It was

hard for me to answer him, but I nally said, Yes, some of the time
I really am. You dont look it, he complained. I do not have his
lightness of spirit, thats obvious, and worry shows in my expression. The next day, Victor Grossman called from Berlin. It was his
sixtieth birthday, which is probably the real reason he couldnt take
time o to work with us. His family was celebrating. The diculties
we encountered would have been impossible for Victor to resolve;
Jrgen is forceful, while Victor is self-eacing. Jrgen was persistent and highly motivated, and he got things done. We should have
given him an ocial title, as the A.D. or P.A. I repeat: We could not
have made the lm without him.
In Potsdam we met our new translator, Esmy Berlt, who was
replacing Jrgen for the last week. A tiny person, she was a very
good interpreter, bright and knowledgeable. Although we didnt
absolutely need him, Jrgen decided to go with us to Weimar for
the next two nights. Kirk and Marc got up early and went to the zoo,
a tourist spot we have never taken time to visit.
On Sunday on the way to Weimar, we stopped in Halle to see the
Markt Kirche and the Handel House. Walter Siegmund-Schultze
was the director of the Handel Society and Museum and also, coincidentally, Jrgens Ph.D. adviser. The museum sta expected us,
welcoming our crew with coee and cakes.
Don and Jrgen, getting along like old friends, had left, joined by
Jrgens wife and son, for Buchenwald. The crew, including Marc,
wanted to visit Buchenwald next morning. Mordy helped liberate
more than one concentration camp at the end of World War II. Neither of us wanted to see this one.
We were in the midst of beautiful Thuringia scenery. The renovated Weimar hotel, Russische Hof, formerly a large residence on
the main street, was hard to recognize as a hotel. It was harder still
to nd a place to park. The trolley line cuts the main street in half,
so that even driving past the hotel was dicult. Around the back
508
we managed to get close enough to unload. Ursula was waiting in

the lobby to assign our rooms. The equipment was stored in a sort
of attic on the top (fth) oor. After we were settled, we walked
through the park, trying to nd a spot to lm the castle in the distance, passing the Elephant Hotel, our home away from home in
Weimar. The ocial brochure still announced: Bach slept here!
We watched crowds of people coming out of the Herder Church
after a concert. Many from the audience were still standing around
the altar looking at the Cranach triptych. It was late, and the church
ocial was trying to get everyone out. When I asked him where we
could nd the plaque referring to Wilhelm Friedemann and Carl
Philipp Emanuel Bachs baptisms, he was irritated. He said that the
Reisebro (travel bureau) always gave tourists incorrect information; he wasnt about to tell me. It is, as a matter of fact, on the wall
of a broken down house next to the Elephant Hotel.
The house where Bachs children were born was a wreck; Liszts
elaborate house is now the conservatory. That Sunday was one of
few days we werent lming. Mordy and I had never been in Erfurt
or Arnstadt, so on Monday we went to nd appropriate sites. Near
the Arnstadt church we noticed a modern statue of the young Bach,
feet oddly stretched out as if to play organ pedals; Mordy thought
it would be an amusing scene. We went on to Eisenach to meet the
crew at the Wartburg castle, stopping at the Bach House on the way
where eighteenth-century instruments were on display. Although
the instruments were behind glass doors, the guard assured us we
could open the doors to lm. We bought a recording of music performed on those instruments. Rudolf Zimmer (Jirka Dvoraks guitar teacher) played the lute in another recording.
Toms back was beginning to bother himno wonder, he carried much of the equipment. I stopped trying to put make up on
Jamies face; it seemed unnecessary, certainly in outdoor scenes.
He stood in front of the tower for the Wartburg stand-up. The script
called for a scene of a little boy (the young Sebastian Bach) running
509
down the hill. We thought it only tting to have Sebastian Schebera

stand in for Bach, but Marc ruled it out as corny. We climbed to
the top of the tower for the shot we had hoped to get from a helicopter. Soviet military encampments in the area, permissions, and
expense had precluded that. The scenery is gorgeous, especially
the 360-degree view of the countryside. Onlookers hung around
us. Jrgen did not call out his Alle Ruhe, but Esmy and Ursula made
half-hearted attempts to quiet the crowd. There were lots of people
on holiday, and restaurants were full. Ursula had not made lunch
arrangementsa repeated problem. Her excuse: She did not know
when we would be nished.
On the way toward Eisenach on the autobahn, Jrgen pointed
out a sign: Last exit before the border. We alerted the other two
cars, driving in tandem as usual, and went to look for gas. The
crew, ahead of us in the van, took side roads to look for scenery, and
noticed a shepherd leaning on his crook, overseeing a few sheep. It
was a charming scene: Don quickly set up to lm. The shepherds
wife arrived with her small child, bringing lunch. She gave her husband an aectionate greeting, and the little boy patted the dog. The
scene could not have been planned or staged this well. Cars driving
by began to blow their horns. Finally a truck stopped to warn the
crew that the van, parked a bit ahead, was in front of a Soviet military camp. They warned us to get out of there.
On Tuesday Jrgen went home, after settling with Mordy for
items he had bought for us. We knew we would miss him. Marc
called home and reported about complicated family matters awaiting his return. How would he manage to handle all those problems?
And I have only three days left to defect! he groaned.
Jalda Rebling arrived from Berlin for tea. We had made a reservation for the entire group to celebrate Knutes birthday with dinner at the Elephant Hotel. Mordy was with the crew in Arnstadt,
arguing again with Ursula. She insisted that they wait in the middle
of town for a man to show them the way to the church. He never
510
arrived. Nevertheless, she was angry with Mordy when, in his turn,
he insisted they wait no longer; he knew where the church was.
As they waited, a tame goose entertained the crew. They had a
stand-up lunch, sandwiches and ice cream. Marc had seen sheep
as they rode past bucolic elds. He got out of the car and chased
the large herd so that Peter could record the baa sound for background noise for the lovely scene of the shepherd and his wife and
child. Marc knew it would be in the nal cut. Again they saw tank
crossing signs. Marc quipped: If the Germans want to know
where the Soviets are, they have only to look for sheep. Good camouage.
At 8:30 p.m. we all met at the Elephant Hotel, no reservation for
us again. Why did we bother trying to make them? Jalda Rebling
had arrived from Berlin to join us and gave the waiter a piece of her
mind as we took over one of the many empty tables. The crew had
gifts for Knute: tools, teeshirts, peanut butter, pop music tapes,
etcetera.
Russische Hof breakfasts were not included with the room costs,
complicating the reckoning up. Ursula had tried to explain the
Leipzig Merkur Hotel bill codes to me. I never did understand the
statement. There were no slips for many items.
I walked around beautiful Weimar. It had not seemed so attractive to me the rst time we visited; now we were more familiar with
it, I suppose, or renovation had improved the main part of town.
Gnter Mayer, who had a house near Weimar, stopped by to see
us.
On Wednesday the crew went to lm the Bach Haus in Eisenach.
This is a museum, not a place where Bach ever lived. Marc told us
that after the lights were set up and everything was ready, the electric supply in the area was shut o for more than an hour! Trtz
(in spite of) Ursulas prediction, the man in charge of the museum
oered to let the crew move everything and do whatever they
needed. Jamie demonstrated both the clavier and harpsichord.
511
When the crew returned to Weimar, Marc reported that they had
stopped on the autobahn to lm more yellow elds, making Ursula
very uneasy. Indeed, a police car did stop, but their only request
was that no one walk across the highwayotherwise, the crew was
allowed to lm whatever they wanted.
Brnhilde Jaeschke, our original coproducer at DEFA, arrived
with a receipt for the second transport of the lm. She replaced
Jrgen, who had to go back to Leipzig. We were so happy to see her
again, but missed Jrgens cheerful face and active participation.
I conferred with the hotel manager, nally convincing her to
give us a 10 percent discount for the crews rooms. I asked the desk
clerk for a preview of the bills so that I could change enough American Express checks. The problem of working in an East European
country was obvious once again. The bills listed each room charge:
Jamie, Kirk, Beth, and Tom each had rooms costing 90 marks;
Marcs was 100, Peters 104, Dons 122. Why the dierence?
I asked the clerk. He explained that Don and Peter were vichtig
(importan)t) I couldnt understand that reasoning. Don and Peter
are young men, Kirk is in our generationor almostand Jamie,
after all, should have had one of the larger rooms so that he could
practice.
I asked Esmy to clarify this ultimately unimportant dierence
in cost but an inexplicable detail to me. She thought that perhaps
Don and Peter had to be near their equipment. That made no sense:
they were on the fourth oor, the camera and lights in the fth
oor storage space. Elevators stopped only at every other oor,
but that didnt seem to inuence these room assignments. Perhaps
those were the only rooms available, Esmy guessed. Ridiculous, I
thought, in that almost empty hotel. I asked her why they didnt
give Jamie and Kirk the larger or more preferable rooms; they were
older, I reminded her, and Jamie was our star! Esmys room, paid
for by DEFA, was only 45 marks; I assumed that DEFA had a government discount, but the dierent charges seemed even more puz-
512
zling, although hardly a big deal. Esmy didnt understand it either

and said shed ask Ursula, which turned out to be a big mistake.
Ursula was furious to learn that I had questioned her decisions.
We all went to the park to shoot the tower of the castle in the
distance; it is all that remains of the original building where Bach
worked. A man on horseback rode in and out of camera range; helicopters (Soviet?) circled overhead; a brass band at the Liszt conservatory nearby was playing Sousas Stars and Stripes! Nonetheless, we succeeded in getting the brief scene on camera.
Again no reservation for dinner, but we nally got a private room
for our last meal together, Esmy insisting. We always had to ght
restaurant management.
On our last day, we did an early morning shoot at the Herder
Church. The warden had asked if we could possibly postpone it
until Friday, but wed be in Frankfurt by then. They were working
on the organ; if we came at 7 a.m., we could get out before organ
workers arrived. Don easily photographed the Cranach Triptych,
and Jamie spoke movingly ad-lib, describing the painting. Mordy
was interviewed by an international English-speaking radio personality. What do you think of the GDR? How do you feel as a returning refugee? he was asked. I was born in New York City, Mordy
corrected the interviewer.
We packed and prepared to leave. I looked for Ursula to say goodbye. For three weeks, every morning started with Ursula saying
that our plan for the day was unmmglich (impossible)! Now she
refused to talk to Mordy and me; I saw her crying as she hugged
Don and Peter. They complained to Marc: Irma upset Ursula!
Later on the plane, Marc straightened it all out with our two colleagues. He told them it was a management vs. labor conict,
to be expected but unreasonable in this instance. My questioning
about the dierent room charges was more than Ursula could handle. I suppose she realized that she had exerted her power foolishly,
favoring the workers. It was, sadly, an unpleasant moment as we
513
ended the exciting weeks, lming the sites we had come to know
so well.
On the way to Frankfurt, we spent only one-half hour at the
border crossingvery easy. A West German woman whose car was
being eciently and completely searched said that this was the only
time she wished she were English. We were always presumed to
be English; nobody believed we were American. I showed the news
item about our project to the border guard; he smiled but wasnt
particularly interested.
En route, Tom held out a large handwritten sign: OIL! Obviously our car was still in trouble, smoking from the exhaust. We
had to stop to buy oil once moreempty againbut it was an easy
drive through pleasant countryside. Miraculously, Marc led the
way on the round-about road at the airport, right to the Sheraton.
We were now in familiar surroundings where everyone spoke English. I walked (at least one-half mile) to American Airlines to be
sure the tickets were reconrmed. We had had so many problems
with supposedly denite reservations that I wanted to be absolutely
sure there would be no last-minute snafu. The airline counter was
closed, but the Sheraton concierge checked and did reassure me
early in the morning. We had dinner with Marc and Beth, talking
about Ursula crying on Dons and Peters shoulders, reliving some
of the cultural dierences we had encountered.
When we nished the Triptych shot in the Herder Church, Mordy
said, Thats ne. We were all satised. Don asked if anyone had
anything to say. Mordy said, Yes, I do. Kirk said, Me rst. The
success of a production starts at the top. Mordys leadership and
attitude made everyone enjoy the activity. We admired Kirks quiet
and gentle directing more than we can say. Jamie said, I want to
congratulate Mordy for his vision and tenacity. Mordy added, I
had hoped that this would be a happy experience, and it turned out
beyond my expectations! Many thanksthe quality of the work was
marvelous and the performance beyond the call of duty. Marc said,
514
Im not going to surpass the eloquence that has been expressed,

but I do want to thank everyone for doing a wonderful job.
Post Production
We soon learned that lming was only the beginning of the process.
Although we came back to New York with completed lm on May
27th, it was not until October that we had our rst meeting with
Victor Kanefsky at his editing studio. Marc had arranged for Elliott
Gamson, a former Indian Hill lm student, to match the lm negative. His rm, Immaculate Matching. was immaculate indeed. We
had great fun working with an IH lm-making student. Marc chose
Nicole Houwer as editor. She was a young German editor working
then in Victors studio, now a lm producer/director. Marc knew
she would be just the right person to edit the lm. We had no idea,
of course, how much time it would take to edit so much lm into a
cohesive program. Nicole has a deep interest in music; she shaped
the ninety minutes successfully, and with seemingly little stress.
Out young, talented, and wise editor said to Mordy, We really
need a woman in this lm, dont you think? Nicole felt that a tone
was missing in the lm. Jamies ad libs were easy and straightforward, but Nicole was looking for something warmerdare I
say feminine? It took Mordy only a minute to remember how
impressed we had been when we saw Blanche Honegger Moyse conduct the St. Matthew Passion at Carnegie Hall in New York. We
had never met her, but it seemed so right to involve this remarkable woman, one of the founders of the Marlboro Festival, who had
made her career conducting the Vermont Festival Chorus singing
Bach Cantatas. Just a year after the lming in Germany, we decided
to add a segment: James Buswell interviewing Blanche in her Vermont home. When I called Blanche, she remonstrated: Oh, I have
nothing to add. You really dont want me! She is truly modest, and
truly a national treasure! What she added was astonishing, surpris-
515
ingan emotional tone that Mordy had been seeking ever since he
started the project.
On June 21, 1989, we drove to Brattleboro, Marc following us
in a truck with Don Lenzer and his assistants. We had grown to
love Don, so it was easy for us to forgive the unbelievable episode
that complicated the weekend. As he loaded his equipment into the
truck very early in the morning, he left his camera on the curb outside his storage facility on the streets of New York City! Someone
at the warehouse noticed it and took it inside, so it wasnt stolen or
lost. Don had no idea it was missing until 8 oclock in the morning
when he went to unload the camera and lights at Blanches house.
What to do? There was much moaning and tearing of hair until
Marc remembered that Ken Burns lived close by. We all had some
connection with Ken; Don, of course, knew him best and called his
home to ask if he could borrow a camera. Ken was in New York editing his Civil War documentary, but he agreed that we could send
someone to his house, about 25 miles away, and borrow his equipment. His camera was exactly the same as Dons. As it happened,
Dons assistant had brought her husband with her; he was the one
person available to take the car and drive o into the sunrise to rescue us from that mad predicament. It must have been days before
Don recovered from his embarrassment.
The interview went well, and indeed Blanche added the spirit we
felt was missing. She was warm, even funny. Her accent was dicult
for some viewers, but we loved her personality. At one point, as
she talked about Bachs two wives, she said she thought that Bach
had a wonderful relationship with both his wives, and added: If I
believed in reincarnation, I could imagine that I was one of them!
Lovely Blanche.
In the meantime, as Nicole worked and Marc supervised, we had
many meetings at Valkhn Studios with Victor, Nicole, and her assistant Tracy Morgan. We participated in decision making, always at
Nicoles request, but left much of the production detail to Marc,
516
who handled it with his usual charm and ease.

The picture was locked up on August 30th and on September
26, 1989, we watched the nal transfer from lm to video, from 6
p.m. to 3 a.m. The following day the task was nished as we worked
from 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. All the sound had been marvelously reproduced. The rst national broadcast was on May 25, 1990.
Nicole had asked Mordy to read one voice over. Thats my
grandpa, said Danielle, our then six-year-old granddaughter who
was watching the lm sitting on Joshuas lap. Half-asleep, she recognized Mordys voice. But before that, we showed the lm to anxiously waiting close friends, giving Marlene Mandel the opportunity to catch typos as she read the translations at the bottom of the
screen. What would we have done without her eagle eye? Marlene,
who was chief copy editor at Forbes magazine, saw two mistakes
made by the TVC typist. Elisabeth had caught one of my egregious
errors in the early 24-minute excerpt we made for NEH approval. I
was so concerned about principle vs. principal that I naturally
chose the wrong one. The lm isnt without error. I console myself,
perfectionist that I am, remembering Bonnie Pruddens Japanese
contractor. He built a stone house for her on Prospect Hill in Stockbridge, half a mile down the road from our house. When it was nished and we went to admire it, I saw that a molding near the bedroom ceiling had an empty six-inch space.
I whispered to Bonnie, Is that on purpose? And she told me
that its a Japanese custom to leave some imperfection as they nish
a job. This is so that the fates or the gods are not oended by mortal
arrogance. We did not plan to leave a couple of errors in, but its
probably inevitable.
SCETV had promised to pay for the promotion necessary to
launch the lm on the national PBS network, but they were in the
process of moving the station and could not spare the money. The
NEH media department granted an extra $15,000 for the express
purpose of publicizing the lm: Mordys picture was featured next
517
to JSBs in the music section of The New York Times, and there were
stories, and eventually complimentary reviews, in dozens of newspapers all around the country.
The Premiere
Happily, Jrgen Schebera was in the United States in time to join
us at the National Press Club in Washington for the most entertaining episode in the Bach Saga. On May 7, 1990, the West German
and East German ambassadors joined to celebrate the premiere of
the Bach program. It was their rst and only shared event, seven
months after the fall of the Berlin Walland it came about in a most
peculiar circumstance. Its a roundabout story:
Our friend Harriett Pitt called us from Vieques, Puerto Rico, one
day on behalf of her friends, Barbara and Hans Heymann. Hans and
his family were refugees from Hitlers Germany, who lived in Washington, where Hans taught East European economics for the State
Department. They had a vacation house near Harrietts in Vieques,
and told her about their lost paintings, stolen or destroyed during
World War II. Hanss father owned forty-ve Max Pechstein paintings, now extremely valuable. Although they were put in storage
when the family ed, after the war
they were not to be found. The
German government made nancial restitution to the Heymann
family, but it was only a small
percentage of the actual value
of the paintings. The Heymanns
had been researching the possibility that some of their paintings might surface. Pechsteins
son, who was in frequent contact
with them, informed them that a Jamie Buswell at the National Press
painting that had turned up in a Club.
518
museum near Dresden, might be one of theirs. My friends, the

Baumans, can nd out about that painting for you, Harriett condently assumed. She thought that our many trips to East Germany
made us experts on that country.
When the Heymanns came to New York, we spent time together,
talking about art and politics. We wondered how we could help. In
fact, Werner Schmidt, then the director of the Dresden Museum,
became cochairman, with the director of the Hermitage in St.
Petersburg, of an international committee trying to locate lost art.
Their dicult task was to decide whether, or to whom, to return
what they found. Rather than ask the very busy Schmidt to investigate, we suggested that the Heymanns call Peter Zacher in Dresden, hoping he could be helpful. Peter took the Heymanns to the
museum, where they saw the painting. It turned out to be similar to
one Hanss father owned, but it was not his. As far as I know, none
has been located.
When we were in Washington, we had lunch with Barbara and
told her that the East German ambassador planned to host a reception at his home to show our lm to some of his friends and members of the press. Why dont you suggest that the West German
ambassador join him and make it a real event? Barbara asked. We
have no contact with that embassy, we replied. It was much too
awkward for us to ask them to participate in the event. The West
German cultural attach turned Mordy down when he tried to elicit
her interest in the project.
I know all those attachs at the embassy, and we also know the
ambassador, Barbara said. Ill call his secretary and try to work
it out.
Preparing for that reception, our producer/son Marc warned us:
You cant have a dozen television sets lining the walls for an audience of 400. He insisted that we nd a Beta Cam projector for the
screening. And again Barbara Heymanns network solved the problem. I know all the people who work for the West German press
519
and TV, she announced, and with one phone call she arranged for
the Beta Cam to be set up at the Press Club. What a dierence the
large screen made! It was the rst and only time we saw the lm
presented in a large format, and in such style. It was an astonishing
event. The buet table was decorated with ice sculptures, one of
Bach and one of a beautiful harp. The food and drinks, provided by
the West German Embassy, were elaborate and plentiful. We were
awed by our own success.
The invitation announced the program of the evening:
6:00 p.m. Welcoming reception with Buet-Dinner and
German Beer and Wine
6:45 p.m. Opening statements by:
H.E. Ambassador Dr. Gerhard Herder
H.E. Ambassador Dr. Ruhfus and
Executive Producer Mr. Mordecai Bauman
Preview of The Stations of Bach followed by
an informal discussion
Mordys Speech:
The documentary lm you are about the see, The Stations of
Bach, is known in our family as Baumans Folly. It all began
in 1978 when I was invited to Berlin to participate in a seminar
honoring the composer Hanns Eisler. I met Jrgen Schebera
there. He asked me to be sure to call him when we were in
Leipzig. Im not going to Leipzig, I said. How can you be
here and not go to Leipzig? he asked me. Dr. Schebera is a
persuasive man, and one of the results of that 1978 trip is this
lm.
When I think back about it, the high point was entering the
St. Thomas Church, where Bach labored for over twenty-seven
years. Through my mind ashed the thought that in seven years
the world would be celebrating Bachs 300th birthday and that
I ought to do something about it. It is twelve years later now,
520
and of course I missed that birthday. I must tell you that the
longer this production took, the better it became.
Most important has been the National Endowment for the
Humanities, which provided funding. My deepest thanks to
Judy Neiman, who introduced me to the sta; to James Dougherty for his condence in me; William Gilcher for his support,
encouragement and guidance; Toby Quitslund, who picked up
the baton when it was passed to her; and Jerri Shepherd for
sending the checks.
DEFA, the lm authority of the German Democratic Republic, stayed with the project from the start. Ambassador Herders sta here in Washington responded graciously to frequent
and urgent calls for help. I am grateful to both groups. The
South Carolina Television Network assigned Sidney Palmer to
be coordinating producer, and assumed the task as presenting
station for PBS. I salute Henry Cauthen, president, and his
talented sta. Present tonight are two members of my family
who slaved on this project: my wife, Irma, who has been my
partner in our various ventures; and our son Marc, our producer, whose participation made it happen. I want to thank our
writer, Arthur Waldhorn, for his scholarly script, and Blanche
Honegger Moyse, whose enthusiasm enlivens the lm. James
Buswells contribution goes far beyond his role as host, performer and guide.
Bach was born in Thuringia and died in Saxony. Time plays
funny tricks. When I began this undertaking, history and
geography made Bach an East German. Now this is no longer
the case. I always honored him as a gift to the world, and it is in
this spirit that I hope you will enjoy the lm and this evenings
celebration.
Mordys reference to Bach as an East German was his sly and

oblique dig at the West German cultural attach. Mordy had
called her when we were just starting to think about this mad project, to ask if she might recommend a West German corporation
interested in funding a program about Bach. Her response startled
and angered him. Why should we support a program about Bach?
521
Bach was an East German. Mordy told her that he thought Bach
was an international gure! I was the only one who knew about her
gae, understanding and appreciating Mordys reference.
But his best story of that evening was what he overheard the West
German ambassadors wife say to the East German ambassadors
wife, who was soon to go back to Berlin, her husband out of a job.
Mrs. Ruhfus, wife of the West German ambassador, turned to Mrs.
Herder, wife of the East German ambassador, and said: We really
must get together some time!
One more story. On the plane returning from Germany in 1988,
Marc came to sit on the arm of our seat. In his warm way he conded: Listen, guys. I did not want to be involved in this project in
the worst way; I was wrong and you were right!
He could not have made us any happier than we were at that
moment.
Cast of Characters in the GDR:
Stephanie EislerHanns Eislers widow, his third wife.
Helgard and Gerd RienckerHelgard was administrator of
the Eisler archive; Gerd, professor of musicology at Humboldt University.
Gnter Mayerretired professor at Humboldt University, Berlin; editor of Eislers literary works.
Jrgen Scheberamusicologist, author of book about Eisler,
editor of Hanns Eisler Correspondence.
Eberhard Reblingformer director of the Hanns Eisler Conservatory in East Berlin; pianist, music critic, and author of
books on dance.
Lin Jaldatisurvivor of Auschwitz, singer of Yiddish repertoire; died August 1988.
Jalda and Kathinka ReblingKathinka, violinist, and retired
professor at the HE Conservatory; Jalda, singer/actor and
organizer of the annual festival of Jewish music in Berlin.
Georg Kneplermusicologist, friend of Hanns Eisler.
522
Petra Mayerformer wife of Gnter; director of TV programs
at DEFA.
Dagmar StuchlikTV producer and documentary lm maker
(political and musical).
Otmar Suitnerretired general music director of Berlin Staats Oper and professor in Vienna.
Manfred Schumannformer administrative director of Berlin
Schauspielhaus.
Maya Ulbrichlm maker and director of a documentary
about Lin Jaldati and Eberhard Rebling.
DEFA personnel:
Bernhard Ottodirector of sales/export.
Matthias Remmertdirector of editorial oce.
Joachim Dettkeeditor and producer.
Fritz Thodeproducer.
Angelika Mhlerexport sales.
Christel Hhndorfsales & export.
Ursula Korthproducer.
Wolfgang Kohlhaasescript writer.
Lew (pronounced Lev) Hohmannlm director.
Werner Kohlertcameraman.
Jutta Lundemannlm director.
Fritz Dohnertproducer.
Franz Winklerdirector of Bach Museum (Bose Haus).
Peter Zachertranslator/music critic; wife Gisela.
Victor Grossman (American Army deserter; real name Stephen Wechsler)translator and editor; wife Renate.
Ursula Waltercoordinating producer.
Max Pommerconductor and founder of Neues Bachisches
Collegium Musicum; wife Dr. Gisela Pommer.
Werner Schmidtformer director of Kupferstich Kabinett,
Dresden; in 1990 became director general Staatlisches
Kunstsammlungen, Dresden; wife Isolde.
Werner Hennigassistant editor, Verlag for Musik.
Jrgen Bischofphotographer.
Ottomar Treibmancomposer.
Gunter Hempeleditor Deutsche Verlag for Musik, wife Irene

Armin Schneiderheinzeformer director of Nationale Forschung & Gedenksttten J. S. Bach; organizer of Favorit u.
Capell Chor.
Hans-Joachim Schulzemusicologist, director of Bach
archive.
Hans-Joachim Rotzschformer director of Thomaner Chor.
Udo ZimmermannLeipzig Opera director/composer.
Fritz Hennenbergmusicologist.
From Prague:
Ivo Dvorakretired English language broadcaster at Radio
Prague (deceased 1997); wife Vera; daughter Karolina is a
concert singer
523
This most famous joint portrait of us was taken by Shelley Seccombe in Mordys hospital
room when I landed in the next bed, in January 2001, after an attack of transient global
amnesia. Our hands are stretched out to touch across the space between the beds, both of us
grinning as if it was the happiest moment of our lives.
525
Afterword
O
N JUNE 18, 2005 we celebrated our sixty-rst wedding anniversary; weve known each other for sixty-four years. How did
we manage it? Our children think we fought all the time. I tell them
we werent ghting, just arguing. It usually took Mordy longer to
agree with me than for me to give in. In his quiet and patient way,
he dug in his heels and waited me out. In my noisier style I tried
and tried to have my way. For instance, if I knewand I knew itan
incompetent, or worse, antagonistic sta member didnt t in the
Indian Hill program, I would assert: He has to go. Mordy would
wait long enough for the counselor or teacher to face his own shortcomings and make his own decision to leave, or at least accept his
dismissal and depart peacefully.
There is that old not-so-funny joke about a successful marriage:
The husband says, I let my wife make the unimportant family decisions, such as what school the children should attend, and whether
to buy a house or a new car. While I make the important international pronouncements: whether or not to admit China into the
United Nations. . . .which is a clue as to how hoary this joke is.
The only really real decision I made was to insist that Mordy take
the Cleveland Institute of Music teaching position in 1946, even
though my divorce agreement required that I not move my children more than fty miles from New York. He applied for the position and we moved to Cleveland for nearly ve eventful years. That
526
period turned out to be more important to us than we imagined it

would be. Our Cleveland friends were enormously helpful to us as
we started the Indian Hill project.
Mordy did make the important decisions. His resignation from
the faculty of the Cleveland Institute of Music, while I understood
his reason, still shocked and frightened me. When he decided to
create Indian Hill, I was vehemently against it. I will do it with you
or without you, he declaredmeaning it. I had little choice in the
matter; he was determined. When we visited the St. Thomas Church
in Leipzig in 1978 and he said: We must celebrate Johann Sebastian Bachs three hundredth birthday; we can produce a lm about
his life in time for the anniversary in 1985, I thought he was crazy
and told him so. Were too old, well never raise the money, and we
know nothing about lm making and very little about Bach.
Each of these momentous decisions changed the course of our
lives and inuenced our children, mostly for the better. I have tried
to chart the paths in this memoir, attempting to understand how
we survived all the pitfalls, obstacles, painful episodes, reaching
the angle of repose when we can look back on our long lives: loving, admiring each other, still enjoying our closeness, proud of our
accomplishments, and grateful for our wonderful associations and
good friends who supported us all the way.

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From Our

Irma & Mordecai Bauman

Copyright 2006 by Mordecai and Irma Bauman. All rights reserved.

All photos are property of the authors.

Designed and produced by Scott-Martin Kosofsky (IH 6770)

pr inted in the united states of amer ica

Mordys early years

The USO and the U.S. Army

After the War

Indian Hill: A Vision

Woodys Wife, Arlos Mom

The 13th International Congress

Indian Hill Stories

Enter Brooklyn College

Bread and Roses

The Northleigh Story

The Stations of Bach

HE MEMO I R we have written is for our family, former

aesthetic and political insight. Mordecai writes about his years in

From Our Angle

Y SCHEDULE as a ten-year-old was a busy one. I went

remember how sensitive Carls mother was to my feelings; she even

Lillian de la Torre Bueno, whom we visited in Colorado Springs

Monroe High School. His accompanist at the piano, Miss Anna

I enrolled at Columbia in February 1930. The college was where

catch the Seventh Avenue Broadway subway to go uptown to 116th

graduation as long as was necessary. We just wont mention it to

At Juilliard I soon was given leading operatic roles: in Helen

Top: Mordy (center) in Gilbert & Sullivans

Professor Odells book on the history of New York Theater is a

The next summer, in 1934, I had my rst and only childrens

Sylvia Fine, said Bauman. Shes a very clever girl from

Jimmy sent us a copy of the magazine. We decided that a letter to

I did hire Carol Channing to perform during a Decoration Day

the international action song, the music of Hanns Eisler and of

Max interviewed me many times, not only about my singing, but

including two Schubert lieder, the narration from Paul Bunyan,

The six labels were designed by well-known artists. William

Above: Hanns Eisler standing before

excerpt of Eislers In Praise of Learning at the New School for

In 2002 a German company produced a lm about Kurt Weill in

HOTOGRAPHS OF ME as a young girl show an unhappy

but the doll never reappeared. A second childhood memory is of

Above: Mother and

more proper than any proper

My claim to fame began in Junior

stein, lived there higher up the hill.

start a business making nurses uniforms. He became a millionaire

Columbia University. But I wouldnt nish that school either; after

row drawer of the hall table, which he never opened. Everything

A few family tales from this time continue to amuse us. My

Commanday Family History

S tories about my mother are endless. One of her cousins, Lily

then as Billy. I was just eighteen, he was twenty-three, studying

It wasnt a completely salutary experience. My roommate was

They arrived at the Pless farmhouse, where Moodys girlfriend was

ley, he often read my brothers music reviews in the San Francisco

I put it on the dresser as a sort of

trip: the Chinese steward on the boat; donkeys following us down

plained a lot to Carloss cousin, Louise Lindner, about his smoking

rapher of Freud. He warned Joes mother, Belle, not to frustrate

shocking me, I hope you have a miscarriage. Aileen blamed me

Lucian Bernhard said that when he designed a room or house,