Zuzana Růžičková was one of the great harpsichordists of the twentieth century. This book is the account of a woman whose life began in pre-war Prague, with an idyllic, music- and love-filled childhood, who suffered under the horror of the Nazi-inflicted tortures of the camps, fought Communist rule to keep a life filled with music, and finally, saw the advent of a new era with the fall of the Communist regime. The book is told in her own words, written from transcripts of many interviews that author Wendy Holden conducted with the harpsichordist during the last years of her life.
The act of transcription is one that comes under a great deal of scrutiny in music. At times it is viewed warily, as something that can only detract from the original; at others, it is seen as a way of inflecting an original with new ideas. Holden here takes on the role of the musical transcriber, constructing a narrative that allows Růžičková’s voice to maintain its personality, while walking a careful line between the oral reminiscences with which she is working and the printed version she must offer the reader. As part of this process, she has chosen a rather chaotic non-chronology – she begins in 1960, on a tour of the Ukraine, Soviet Union and Poland, and from there jumps back and forth between Růžičková’s pre-war childhood, her experiences under Communist rule, and her terrible ordeal in the camps. After the initial surprise, this tactic works surprisingly well, with the effect of a keyboard suite rather than a sonata, in keeping with Růžičková’s saturation in the Baroque.
Many reviews have highlighted Růžičková’s focus on Bach, her passionately joyous way of describing his music, her reverence and respect for the spiritual messages she hears in Bach’s structures:
“[A]s the melodies begin to build, in my mind I imagine a building. I know where the highs and lows are. Bach’s modulation moves me forward like corridors. I absolutely know where and when to turn the corner. I instinctively know how it is built. I understand the architecture and where it is heading – the corridors leading to rooms; stairs leading to upper levels, and ultimately to a final melody that completes the structure perfectly.”
Bach’s music is a ribbon throughout the book, clearly helping (in her own mind) to save Růžičková, bearing her through her terrible experiences by its sublimity and power. Yet for me, the music feels secondary to the story here - the velvet in which the jewel of the narrative sits. It is so intrinsic to Ruzicková herself that it does not need to be highlighted. Who focuses the narrative spotlight on the wonder of oxygen? Besides, if one believes that music exists in the acts of doing and listening, then it is Růžičková herself who is the protector of both herself and of Bach. Bach, in all his greatness, cannot live without those who turn the score into the sounds that transport our souls. even the composer Stravinsky once wrote that notes on a page are but potential music, waiting to be actualised through performance. We need people, if this music is to be heard.
In the way of oral tradition, there is a mythology being constructed. Zuzana cannot take her music with her to Terezín, so she writes out Bach’s Sarabande from his E Minor English Suite on a piece of paper, carefully stowing it in her pocket. When she and her mother are being loaded onto the trains bearing them towards the camp, they are separated by the guards. Within the maelstrom, in her despair Zuzana inadvertently lets go of the scrap of paper. Her mother catches it and runs for Zuzana’s train, wanting to return the scrap of hope to her daughter.
“Desperate, I reached for my mother only to be pushed aside as others from behind me stretched out and snatched hold of her coat. Hoisted upwards by her shoulders, arms and lapels – anything they could grab – my dear, sweet Mummy was pulled unceremoniously into the back of the truck with me, her hands outstretched and her expression as astonished as mine.
Stunned, I looked back at the mayhem she’d created as guards chased after her, shouting and waving their rifles. Numb, I watched as the fragment of Bach’s sweet sarabande that had almost certainly saved her life flew up into the air to swirl and dance triumphantly in the inky darkness.”
Thus in the end it is the mother who is pulled into the train, not Bach, who swirls away on an eddy of air. He has been the sacrifice for the life of Zuzana’s mother. It is a moment that encapsulates how we are supposed to read Bach within Růžičková’s life; but rather than reading it with Bach as the centre, I read it as a defining moment of what is at the core of Růžičková herself. People will always come first. In the words of fellow harpsichordist Valda Ameling, who would work with Zuzana much later, she was always “a human being first, and a musician second.”
The book is put together by a biographer rather than a musician, and so a couple of musical inaccuracies have slipped through unnoticed (e.g. Brahms did not write a violin sonata in F major). It may also be petty of me, given the reminiscence narrative style, to notice the occasional grammatical error, in particular the use of nominative rather than accusative pronouns, that slipped through the editing process. Nevertheless, these minor details do not detract from a book that is a testament of faith and dedication. The sight of Beethoven’s ninth symphony being performed under the swastika flag for Hitler’s birthday in 1942 shows the ways in which the power of music lies in the hands of the musicians who make it, not intrinsically within the notes themselves. In today’s political climate, it is a timely reminder. Throughout her entire life, Růžičková made a stand on the other side of morality, finding the transcendent core of music. "My only hope,” she says at the end of the book, “is that when I die, people might say that I lived a good life and put some beauty back into the world with my music.”