Dances and Departures

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On Sunday the rabbi and I went to the glorious Dancing on the Square, performed by the Budapest Festival Orchestra–with special guests on cymbalom and violin–and schoolchildren, Roma and non-Roma, from all over Hungary. The seating area outside Saint Stephen’s Basilica was packed; the performance filled the air with good things, from music to tolerance to joy. There will be an online broadcast tomorrow at 6:30 p.m. Central European Summer time (12:30 p.m. EST); it will be available over the following two days.

I decided, close to the last minute,  to spend the night in Budpest (at the wonderful Baross Hotel) and then, in the morning, take a day trip to Subotica, Serbia. It all worked out–a long day, but worthwhile down to the second.

Staying at the Baross (where I stayed last September,  during my preparatory visit to Hungary) allowed me to ride the glass elevator.

The train ride to Subotica took four hours; about 30 minutes were spent at the border, where “border police” boarded to check passports. I had to show my residence permit as well (because it was clear that I had been in Hungary for a while); once I showed it, the officers had no more questions.

Subotica is unlike any border city I have visited before. Not only are street signs in several languages (Serbia, Croatian, Hungarian, English), but you sense the old presence of Serbian and Hungarian cultures. Bunjevci were once a majority here. In many ways Subotica looks like a Hungarian city–but the Secessionist (Art Nouveau) architecture is especially prominent and colorful. Overall the city showed crumbling elegance: shady parks, towering churches, long terraces of cafes and shops, a famous theater, and some falling apart here and there.

 

 

I wanted to see the synagogue (which reopened in March, after a detailed restoration); having no map, I walked around in circles for a couple of hours before overhearing a couple heading to the tourist information office. I walked along with them, benefited from their sense of direction (they found the office), and received a map. From here I found the way.

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The synagogue, designed in the 1890s and built in 1902, is one of the great Art Nouveau monuments of Subotica. Outside, the Holocaust memorial reads, in five languages, “In memory of 4000 Jewish citizens with whom we lived and built Subotica. They perished in the fascist death camps during the World War II. — Citizens of Subotica, July 10, 1994.”

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After this, I headed back to the train station; the trip home took seven hours, since it involved going back to Budapest and heading from there, on a different train, to Szolnok. In the later part of the trip, the wind and mist rolled through the windows; the train grew emptier, and I thought back slowly on the day.

“Where are you, my beloved land?”

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The synagogue concerts in Szeged and Békés keep breaking past my phrases; they will not be held back by summaries. Since its inauguration in 2014, the Budapest Festival Orchestra’s synagogue project has brought music to one synagogue after another, in cities, towns, and villages across Hungary–synagogues that once thrived but that were laid bare by the Holocaust. Fiona Maddocks writes:

One is now a table-tennis hall, another a furniture warehouse. A third has been ransacked, all the windows broken, birds flying in and out during the concert. In many cases the locals had never seen inside. The doors of one had not been unlocked since last closing, during the German occupation.

By bringing music to these places, the orchestra not only revives their memory but brings people together, in the present, for something beautiful. I attended two synagogue concerts in September and two this week; as I attend more, I not only love them more, but come to understand their meanings.

Every seat was filled. It all went by too quickly, but I remember the acoustics in Szeged, where every texture could be heard, and the intimate sound in Békés (where even those in the back row were just a few meters away from the musicians).

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They played the first movement of Schubert’s Octet in F Major (D803), the first movement of Mendelssohn’s Octet in E-Flat Major (Opus 20)–for four violins, two violas, and two cellos–and and Glazunov’s Rêverie orientale (which, as the clarinetist Ákos Ács commented in his introduction, has something of a klezmer feel). I think back on the subtle tones and changes of the Schubert; the cellos in the Mendelssohn; the dialogue between cello and clarinet, and then viola and clarinet, in the Glazunov; and then the laughing, crying, dancing, shrieking klezmer music that took us to the end. 

Between the pieces, a rabbi (a different one each time) spoke about synagogues in general and about the history of Jews in the particular place. In Szeged, someone else spoke as well–perhaps the person in charge of the performance space. Then Ákos Ács led the exhilarating klezmer encores–one encore in Szeged, two in Békés. He then invited us all to stay for cake; people lingered and talked and then slowly went their different ways.

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The Szeged synagogue is now a performance space; the Békés synagogue, a plum pálinka center. Each place shows its loss: the first through its bareness and the second through its refurbishment.  Upstairs in the pálinka center, the bar counter has two menorahs (you can see one of them in the photo above); are they always there, or were they put there in honor of the concert? A few minutes in these places, and you can get overwhelmed; the history is so difficult that even the brave might walk away.

These concerts make it possible to sit still here, or somewhat still–to sit with some knowledge of what happened, but more than knowledge alone. The music does something to us; we live through something together and know it when we look around afterward. We are no longer separated. Maybe we will be tomorrow, but we will still remember being here. We will remember the musicians’ gifts to us.

I biked through beautiful Békés, stopping when I saw or heard something I couldn’t ignore: the river, farmhouses, the sunset. Here’s a chicken strutting across a roof, with farm sounds in the background.

And here is a field–not a bad end to the day.

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I later learned that for the first movement of the Octet, Schubert adapted a theme from his lied “Der Wanderer” (whose words are from a poem by Georg Philipp Schmidt von Lübeck). I had to listen to both compositions several times to figure out which theme this was, but think I found it at last. In the first movement of the Octet, it is the main theme of the Allegro. In “Der Wanderer,” it is the piano part during these lyrics:

Wo bist du, mein geliebtes Land?
Gesucht, geahnt, und nie gekannt!
Das Land, das Land so hoffnungsgrün,
Das Land, wo meine Rosen blühn.

Where are you, my beloved land?
Sought for, dreamed of, but never known!
The land, the land, so green of hope,
The land where my roses bloom.

So even the bike ride was not remote from the music.

Biking from Békéscsaba to Békés and Back

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Tonight, with time and a keyboard, I will say something about the Budapest Festival Orchestra concerts in Szeged and Békés. The trip to Békés could not have gone better; as I had planned, I took the bike on the train to Békéscsaba—a colorful little city in southeastern Hungary—and then found a bike path that transported me to Békés. Sweeping me through groves and fields, it landed me in the center; I wended my way to the synagogue—now the town’s Szilvapálinka Centrum—and arrived about ten minutes early. The photo above is from the ride back to Békéscsaba; the one below, from the ride to Békés. The music cannot be summed up in a flash; “glorious” and “moving” won’t do, although they are true. I look forward to looking for better words later today.

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From Szolnok to Szeged to Szolnok to Békés and Back

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Last night’s chamber concert by members of the Budapest Festival Orchestra, at Szeged’s Old Synagogue (now a performance space), had such clear, rich acoustics that I imagined the sounds of the services there long ago. It was as if old sounds were rising up into the new. I have more to say about this event but will wait until after tonight’s synagogue concert in Békés. I am on the train back to Szolnok (from Szeged) now; this afternoon, after school, I will take the bike on the train to Békéscsaba, bike from there to Békés, attend the concert, bike back to Békéscsaba, spend the night there, and return to Szolnok in the morning. When such things are possible, and when they bring joy and learning, why not do them? They will not always be possible, so I am grateful for these days.

Music of Fire and Water

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Yesterday, after a wonderful lunch with friends from New York City and their cousin, I went to hear a Baroque concert by the Budapest Festival Orchestra with guest conductor Jordi Savall. I think this was my first time walking down the leafy Liszt Ferenc tér; it was certainly my first time at the Zeneakadémia Koncertközpont. But those were minor firsts, relatively speaking; when it came to the music, I was in for surprises of soul.

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Bach’s Orchestral Suite No. 4 sounded fresh and alive; I was immediately caught up in it. Then came Rameau’s Les Boréades Suite, which opened up the imagination in new ways. I think I have listened to it before, but not in a long time; my favorite movement was the Contredanse en rondeau, strange and gracious at once. Here’s my favorite of the performances I found online–by Les Ambassadeurs, conducted by Alexis Kossenko–but Savall and the Budapest Festival Orchestra captured something different.

That is what happens in a concert: you become part of a special instantiation of a piece. I was sitting all the way on the left, in the fourth row; this gave me a perfect view of the French horn section (they were playing Baroque horns, I think).

Then Muffat’s Impatientia Suite was sweet perfection: seven movements in about ten minutes. I think the third movement (Canaries) was my favorite, but it’s hard to tell now; each one proceeded like a raindrop on a string. In the last piece of the program, Händel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks, the woodwinds took the concert to still another level of beauty in the first Menuet at the end. Here’s a gorgeous performance by The Academy of Ancient Music, conducted by Christopher Hogwood–but again, it doesn’t sound quite like what I heard yesterday.

Then came three encores! For the first, the orchestra played the first suite of Händel’s Water Music; for the second, the last movement of the Rameau, the Contredanse très vive, with audience participation. Then, for the last one, I think it was the Gavotte I that they played (in honor of the ticking clock). I made it to the train just in time–a hot train, with no open windows, but with a view of rain and crepuscular rays. Fire and water: a fitting end to the day.

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I took the top photo from the train and the second when walking home from the train station and looking back westward.

Biking in Serbia (Almost)

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Yesterday, just before returning to Szolnok from Budapest, I thought of taking a train to another country, just for the day. It was too late in the day for that, so I decided to take the bike to Szeged the following morning (today) and bike down to Serbia from there.

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Well, biking to Serbia isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. First, there was a big street festival in Szeged, so I had some trouble figuring out which road to take. I didn’t want to ask, in the midst of these festivities, “How do I get to Serbia?” So I listened to a delightful musical duo–on the Belvárosi bridge–and then tried to wend my way south. (Here’s a short video I recorded.)

There are few border crossings; you have to know where they are. I biked for several hours down a dirt road right along the border–with the Tisza and Serbia to my left, and Hungary to my right–but saw no roads going into Serbia. A couple of times I followed a path in the Serbian direction, but the first one led to the Tisza (and no further), and the second led into a dense wood.

 

A police car came my way; the policemen told me that I was essentially biking on the border between the two countries. I asked them if this was permitted; they said yes. So I continued on, only to reach a dead end eventually. (That was where I turned onto the path that led to the Tisza; that’s Serbia across the river.) On my way back, I saw the policemen again; we waved at each other.

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Although I didn’t make it into Serbia, I could not have wished for a more glorious bike ride. I saw many storks, a spotted deer, a hare, horses, and sheep. I undulated through dirt and mud. Clouds started to tower in the sky, but not a raindrop splattered my way (or even in my vicinity).

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When I returned to Szeged, I discovered the route to Beograd–one of two ways to get to Serbia from the city. Next time I will know what to do; by the time I figured all this out, it was mid-afternoon, and I didn’t want to stretch the day too far. I watched a folk dance performance for a few minutes and then headed back to the train station.

In a week I will return to Szeged for a synagogue concert by the Budapest Festival Orchestra. Later in June, I hope to try the Serbia trip again.

Image and video credits: The map is from Google Maps; I took all the other pictures and videos today.

Update: I am not the only person who found the border crossing tricky.

Opening the Gates

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A piyut by R. Shlomo Ibn Gabirol (Spain, 11th century) begins, “Sha’ar asher nisgar, kuma petahehu….” (“The gate that is shut, get up and open it…”). Here is a beautiful performance. Filled with echoes of the Song of Songs, the piyut expresses a longing that is both intensely personal and communal, both immediate and bound up in history.

In Hungary, many gates to Jewish history are locked; during the Holocaust, Jewish communities throughout the countryside were destroyed. Many synagogues are now abandoned, and the unanswerable loss hidden away. The synagogue concerts I attended on Sunday and Monday–performed in Albertirsa and Baja by members of the Budapest Festival Orchestra–opened a few gates.

I begin with the ending: in Baja, at the Ady Endre Library, whose building was once the city’s synagogue. After the first piece (the first movement of Brahms’s Sextet, Opus 18), the rabbi (Rabbi Slomó Köves, I believe), who spoke in between the pieces and gave a rousing shofar demonstration, asked someone to open up the ark. It remained open for the rest of the concert and afterward, so we could see the Torah scrolls, siddurim, photographs, hanukkiah, Shabbat candles, tallit, and more. As you can see in the photo above, the musicians performed right in front of the ark. I understood this as a gesture of gratitude and hope. Here is a closer view.

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The Budapest Festival Orchestra inaugurated its synagogue concert series in 2014. This project, initially envisioned by the conductor, Iván Fischer, aims “to fill synagogues that were laid bare by the Holocaust, with life, music and culture once again.” In other words, there is more to this than “just” playing concerts in these spaces; the music and presentations, the gatherings and assemblies, gently transform the people, synagogues, and towns.

This series is one of the orchestra’s many community initiatives. Orchestra members bring concerts to the elderly, the sick, the disabled, pregnant women, disadvantaged children, and people who cannot afford to travel. They give free concerts, open to all, in cities, towns, and villages around Hungary. (On Saturday evening, in Szeged, I attended their wonderful church concert of two Bach cantatas; I will say more about that in another piece. People came from all over the city: on foot, by bike, and by car. One family brought a big Border Collie.) The orchestra hosts an annual “Dancing on the Square” on Heroes’ Square in Budapest; over 500 children of different backgrounds work with teachers for six months to prepare a dance choreography for this celebration.

On the surface, the Albertirsa and Baja concerts had identical programs: the Brahms, Alexander Glazunov’s Rêverie orientale, Jacques Ibert’s Three Short Pieces, and, for the encore, a beautiful melancholic piece, evocative of a Nishmat melody, by a Hungarian Jewish klezmer composer (I will provide both his name and the name of the piece when I learn them). But beyond that, the Albertirsa and Baja concerts differed not only in the architecture and acoustics, not only in the audiences, but in the many layers of present and past. I remember the big echoing sound of Albertirsa and the warm resonance of Baja, but those adjectives say only so much.

I took the train from Szeged to Albertirsa late Sunday morning. Arriving in mid-afternoon, I had some time to wander around and get my bearings. I found my way to the little town square, which has memorial dedicated to the residents of Alberti and Irsa who died in World War II. I sat on a bench there for an hour or two.

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Around 3:30 I saw a stream of people all walking in the same direction: children, elderly people, families. I thought they might be going to the concert, so I followed them. Indeed, that was so. We were all going to the same place.

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I later learned (from Szolongo Szani, the orchestra’s community program coordinator, that when the BFO played at this synagogue in 2015, the building was abandoned and in ruins. It seems that the concert inspired the community to restore and make use off the space, which now serves as a House of Arts (Művészetek Háza). This was a project of spirit and care.

Here’s a view of the inside. I took the photo about twenty minutes before the concert started; by the time it began, the hall was full.

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Each piece in the program had a perfect and memorable ending: the pizzicato of the Brahms, the hush of the Glazunov, the glorious final run of the Ibert, and the encore’s final notes. Those endings stay with me and tug at me. The end of a piece can be a revelation: right then, in those fleeting seconds, you grasp the piece as a whole.

A ending of this kind also seems to say, “Remember and return.” You walk away with something of the piece, and it brings you back to the listening.

After each piece, the audience clapped heartily, in rhythm (a gesture analogous to standing ovations in the U.S.). There was a reciprocity in the room: not only between the audience, musicians, and rabbi, but between past and present. The concert was part instruction, part music for the sake of music; the clarinetist Ákos Ács gave the initial introduction (about the series itself), and the rabbi spoke twice. Since this was all in Hungarian, I missed most of the rabbi’s humor but understood some of the gist: he spoke of the history of the synagogue and of certain Jewish practices (such as the blowing of the shofar). He pointed out where the women once sat and where the Torah scrolls were once kept.

after the concertAfter the concert, there was cake. People stayed and talked outside for a long time. In this photo you can see the cellist Rita Sovány (now one of my favorite cellists) and the violist Barna Juhász. Lingering was part of the spirit o the event; the music was still in our ears, and many of us did not want to leave just yet. We were welcomed to stay.

Afterward I took a leisurely walk back to the train station. I did not even have to ask, “Hol van a pályaudvar?,” which I have had occasion to ask a few times. I remembered my way and had no trouble catching the train. That night I would go back to Budapest–and then, the next morning, head out to Baja.

I have stories to tell about the trip to Baja–for instance, about the delightful little red train I caught in Dombóvár. They will have to wait a little while. When I got there, I fell in love with the townlike city: its leafy park, pastel-colored buildings, and the Stars of David rising up into the sky (from the Ady Endre Library). Here again, I did not have to ask for directions.

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The city and synagogue had a different feel from Albertirsa. The synagogue, which the city purchased from the Jewish community in 1985, bears witness to a thriving past. When converting it to a library, the city restored its many details, including artwork and lettering. When I entered and saw the library staff greeting people warmly, I sensed their pride over this concert. Members of the small local Jewish community were in attendance; during his presentation, the rabbi welcomed comments from people in the audience who knew the synagogue’s history intimately.

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Within its visual splendor, the hall had a warm and subtle feel. At the end of the Glazunov you could hear the sounds so close to silence . The encore (the name of which I will find out) felt like something that happens once in a lifetime, even among hundreds of performances of the same piece. After the concert, as I got up and headed toward the cake, I made eye contact with other audience members; their eyes told me what I would not have been able to understand in words.

I stayed for a little while, took pictures of the ark, and spoke in my bare-beginner’s Hungarian with a library staff member, for whom I recited the first four lines of Ady Endre’s poem “Köszönöm, köszönöm, köszönöm,” which seemed appropriate for this night and week.

Napsugarak zúgása, amit hallok,
Számban nevednek jó íze van,
Szent mennydörgést néz a két szemem,
Istenem, istenem, istenem….

It is the hum of sunbeams that I hear,
Thy name of names is sweet inside my mouth,
And the holy thunder fills my sight,
My God, my God, my God.

(This is my own attempt at a translation; I used Leslie A. Kery’s as a starting point.)

IMG_3833The gates were opened that night, and so were the skies; that night, as I slept in a little inn in Baja, the rain came pouring down. In the morning, before sunrise, I walked back to the train station through glowing streets.

In Hebrew, HaMakom (“the place”) is one of the names of God. These synagogue concerts were not just concerts played in synagogues; the place and the music were part of each other. This is probably always true, but easily forgotten; in some way, music–the creation, playing, and listening–comes out of knowing who and where you are, even as you search your whole life for the answers, the countless answers, to these questions.

 

I made a few edits to this piece after posting it (and a few more later). Also, thanks to Jenny Golub for editing the sixth photo to make it lighter.

Before Dawn in Baja, Hungary

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At 5 a.m., in a gentle rain after a night of downpour, I walked down this street toward the Baja train station. What a beautiful week this has been. I will soon write two pieces: one about the trip overall, particularly the visit to Szolnok, and one about the Budapest Festival Orchestra concerts in Szeged, Albertirsa, and Baja.

The Red Heifer

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I had read about Iván Fischer’s opera The Red Heifer (A Vörös Tehén), often described as biting political commentary, but did not realize until yesterday that there was a beautiful video of the October 2013 world premiere! It was performed in Budapest by the Budapest Festival Orchestra, the Saint Ephraim Male Choir, students of the University of Theatre and Film Arts, and soloists and dancers; conducted by Fischer; and directed by Tamás Ascher and Kriszta Székely. Find an hour to watch it today. It’s in Hungarian (and at one point in Hebrew), but if you do not know these languages, the music will carry you along, and the unobtrusive subtitles will give you the gist.

The Red Heifer accomplishes something rare in art or life: It makes a political statement without reducing anything or anyone. It dives into the difficulty of the matter.

It has the texture of a lyric poem; with taut soul and few images, it takes up a complex historical and contemporary event: the Hungarian blood libel of 1882-1883, also known as the Tiszaeszlár affair, in which Christian townspeople and agitators accused the local Jews of ritually murdering and beheading Eszter Solymosi, a peasant girl (who had gone missing), in order to use her blood for Passover.

Móric Scharf, the teenage son of the synagogue sexton József Scharf, first denied all knowledge of the alleged events but later testified that, while looking through the keyhole of the synagogue, he had seen his own father and others commit the murder. (Many years later, in an interview, he said he had been tortured and threatened before his testimony.) A body with the girl’s clothes was found in the Tisza, with no cuts or evidence of murder–but the mother denied that this was her daughter. Fifteen people were formally accused, and news of the case spread fast and far.

The statesman and lawyer (and former Governor-President) Lajos Kossuth wrote letters of protest, from exile, against the accusations and proceedings; even this did not alter the course of events. Only later, when doctors reexamined the body, did it become clear to all that the girl had died by drowning and that no ritual murder had occurred. On August 3, 1883, all of the accused were acquitted–but the case had inflamed anti-Semitism in the country.  (There’s much more to all of this; I have given a bare summary.)

The opera (whose libretto is drawn from a 1931 novel by Gyula Krúdy) focuses on the boy. What would cause a teenager to accuse his father falsely? What might have been happening inside him, then and afterward? The music and choreography convey the questions and hint at possible answers. The musical idioms and forms–Hungarian and Jewish folklore, opera, fugue, rap, cantillation, and more–express not only cultures but minds. It is not a hodgepodge; as I listen, I find that some of these idioms are part of me, that I, like the characters, walk within many languages. Yet not all of them are home; home requires more than knowledge, more than fluency.

You see Móric (Jonatán Kovács) at the inn, watching the townspeople dance, yearning to be part of things, but moving invisibly in the room, as though not counted or seen. He sees the innkeeper (a Jewish woman, played by Orsolya Sáfár) slipping and sliding drunkenly around, humiliated and still magnificent; you feel him wishing to be included, wishing to be one of the others. But this is not just a matter of a teenager wishing to belong. The crowd and individuals seize and use him.

Móric’s court testimony has stunning musical form; as Alex Ross describes it in The New Yorker, he spits it out “in a terrifying triplet-rhythm rap, with Weill-like chords snapping behind him.” Then he turns to the cheering crowd and makes gestures of egging them on, not realizing that they are the ones controlling him.

Lajos Kossuth (Krisztián Cser) appears later, showing a dignity and a standard absent from the proceedings: something possible in this life, something to grow into. His voice resounds with conscience and experience. You sense that he has suffered.

All of this leads up to the astonishing scene between father and son, after the acquittal and release of the accused. (I will leave it at that; it’s better to watch and hear it for yourself.)

The red heifer itself has several meanings in this work. As Iván Fischer explains in his introduction (at the start of the video), it refers to (a) a cow that stepped on the toes of the girl and thereby provided evidence through which the body could be identified; (b) an inn called The Red Cow, where all the manipulation took place; (c) the innkeeper, who was nicknamed “The Red Cow”; and (d) the red heifer in the Torah (Numbers 19), used for ritual purification.

Maybe there’s a fifth meaning here as well. Maybe the red heifer is the great mistake or mistakes we make in our lives–the mistakes that will eventually teach us how to live. None of us is immune to mistakes; there is no static human purity, only purity of learning and return.

But the lessons of the historical event have not been fully learned. The girl’s symbolic grave in Tiszaeszlár has become a site of pilgrimage by extremists. The accusations were disproven and dismissed in 1883, but some wish to revive them even now. Thus the opera speaks not only to the past and its modern-day analogies, but to an urgent present.

How can art protest cultural and political trends while retaining its complexity and integrity? This opera achieves just that–by speaking in music and poetry and by going into the difficulty. True political life requires rejection of the glib. We are never just one thing or another; we live in conflict with ourselves. Even so, we are responsible for seeking understanding and moving toward the good. The Red Heifer suggests the possibility and profundity of this movement, not long ago or far away, but here and now.

 

 

Image credit: Painting by Yoram Raanan. The painting and opera are unrelated except through the red heifer.

I made some edits and additions to this piece after posting it.

Back to the Map

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This coming week I go to Hungary to prepare for the move there in November and to attend several Budapest Festival Orchestra community concerts (one church concert and two synagogue concerts). These combined purposes will take me to five locations in six days: Budapest, Szolnok, Szeged, Albertirsa, and Baja, which you can see above and in Google Maps. My actual train itinerary will be Budapest-Szolnok-Budapest-Szeged-Albertirsa-Budapest-Baja-Budapest. That is, I will be stationed in Budapest but will stay overnight in Szeged and Baja as well. To put this together in my mind, I have been reading about each of the towns.

Each one is near a body of water: Szolnok and Szeged lie on the Tisza; Budapest and Baja, on the Danube. These waterways have much to do with the cities’ histories. Albertirsa is not near a body of water; its first train arrived in 1847.

Szeged was once a Roman trading post (on an island in the Tisza); its castle, a corner of which remains standing, dates back to the thirteenth century or earlier. The name Szeged may derive from the Hungarian szeg, “corner”; the Tisza bends there. The city had a massive flood in 1879; Emperor Franz Josef promised that the rebuilt city would be more beautiful than the old one. Lajos Tisza, who led the effort, fulfilled the emperor’s promise.

Albertirsa, a small town in the middle of the Great Hungarian Plain, existed first as two habitations: Alberti (mentioned by King Ladislaus IV in 1277) and Irsa (mentioned in the chapter of Buda in 1368). It became Albertirsa in 1950. The town has a rich and painful Jewish history. Moritz Goldstein, father of the mezzo-soprano opera singer Róza Csillag (1832-1892), was a hazzan of Irsa; I hope to learn more about him (and her). The synagogue, opened in 1809, has now been renovated and reopened as Művészetek Háza, House of Arts.

Since 2014, for one of its many community initiatives, the Budapest Festival Orchestra has been playing concerts in synagogues around Hungary, to bring music to local communities and to honor the Jewish history of these places. Here’s Fiona Maddocks’s article about the project (The Guardian, December 12, 2016). I intend to write a piece, possibly for this blog, possibly for another publication, after attending next week’s concerts.

The church concert in Szeged, performed by the orchestra’s Baroque ensemble, consists of two Bach cantatas (“Jesu, der du meine Seele,” BWV 78, and “Christus, der ist mein Leben,” BWV 95). The synagogue concerts in Albertirsa and Baja feature Ibert (Trois pièces brèves), Glazunov (Rêverie orientale), and Brahms (String Sextet No. 1, Op.18). I have been listening to recordings of these pieces; here’s a beautiful video of the Israeli Chamber Project performing the Glazunov.

Speaking of synagogues, I will get to attend services at Sim Shalom in Budapest this Friday and Saturday; I look forward to this with full heart.

Almost first of all, I will go to Szolnok, my first destination after Budapest. How exciting to see the school and visit a few classes! The city is just a 90-minute train ride from Budapest; the school, a direct walk from the train station. Szolnok is known as a crossroads, but it holds its own life–not only an annual goulash festival, not only mayflies, not only an airplane museum, not only a rich music culture (from what I gather), but daily life, with its many walks and ways, and strong education.

I was tempted to post a picture or two here (from other sites), but why not wait until I have taken a few on my own? My thoughts right now are preliminary and anticipatory; I don’t know any of these places yet. Next week I will only start to know them. Still, a start is farther along than a pre-start, which is farther along than no hint of a start at all. Instead of a photo, I’ll post Pál Vágó’s painting of the 1879 flood.

szeged-and-the-devastation-of-the-1879-flood-painting-by-pal-vc3a1gc3b3-ferenc-mora-museum

Image credits: (1) Google Maps; (2) Pál Vágó, painting of Szeged flood of 1879 (Ferenc Mora Museum; image courtesy of the wonderful blog Europe Between East and West).

Update: The concert schedule has changed since my original post: the September 10 synagogue concert will be in Albertirsa, not Balatonfüred. I have changed the map and post accordingly.