Summer of unexpected education

SHULA KLINGER

Just as I was about to start my last year at university, I spent a month in Italy. My undergraduate degree was in English language and literature and since I was attending a traditional university, they meant this very literally. No literature was to be read in other languages, even in translation. An exception was made for Anglo-Saxon, of course, which we dutifully translated ourselves.

I loved languages, though – and needed a break from the endless procession of canonical English works. I'd read a number of Robert Browning's poems at school and knew that I wanted to see Michelangelo's David, visit the Uffizi and soak up the ambiance of the city that had inspired E. M. Forster. There was no doubt in my mind. It had to be Florence.

I booked into a course at one of the city's many language schools and determined to spend the month of September 1991 in Italy. I arrived in Florence at the end of the summer and found that I would be sharing an apartment with three others. There was another young woman about my own age, a Hungarian woman living in Germany and her partner, who was an American pianist.

In my first week, I was excited to make new friends. I wanted to get to know my roommates and asked them about their homes, jobs and interests. The other young woman was occupying the noisiest room in the apartment. I commiserated with her over the loud arrival of the market vendors, setting up stalls and wares at 5:30 a.m. I was intrigued by the opera director. He was American, he said, but told me that his family had moved to the United States from Germany. He had returned there by choice.

The opera director was keen to play house. He established a kitty for the apartment and determined that we would all contribute equal amounts each week, eating and drinking together every night. I told him that, with regret, I did not wish to join in – citing the fact that I wanted to eat out some nights and my unique dietary needs.

To this, he replied that I was very independent and made it sound like a criticism. "Yes," I said. I was independent, but I still cared what he thought of me. Not wanting to cause trouble, I joined the kitty. He returned with the groceries that night carrying red wine and a huge joint of ham.

During the next couple of weeks, the young woman, whom I had befriended, confided that our fellow housemate was complaining about me. He'd said he didn't like living with me. I never cleaned up in the bathroom. I was dirty, he said. She asked him why he didn't tell me himself if he was so upset by this. He explained that there was a language barrier. This confused her – he was, after all, American – but she said nothing. I explained to her that some people hated Jews. She told me I was overreacting.

Since I already spoke French, I picked up Italian relatively quickly. I enjoyed my classes a great deal and was thrilled at seeing the world around me come into focus with my growing understanding of the language. My enemy, as I now considered him, was troubled by my affinity for the language and grumbled to my comrade at the house about this.

Annoyed by the "ham incident," I reminded my flat-mates of my need to keep kosher and informed them that I was out of the kitty. It caused quite a ripple, but there I was – free from the shackles of the household bully.

Later in the month, we were given the option of taking extra vocabulary classes. I wasn't sure that I wanted them, but it did mean I'd become more proficient.

The most lasting instruction came during one of our small vocabulary classes. We were gathered, three of us from the apartment, with one of the Italian language teachers. I do not know how the conversation arose, but I found myself listening to the expression of a sentiment I could not rightly name. I listened as my foe told the assembled company that he was sad to see how Germany had changed. In his halting Italian, he told us that Germany had lost the spirit it once had, during the 1930s.

In an instant, the instructor turned straight to me. "And what are your origins?" she asked. I looked across the table at my enemy. "I am Jewish," I said in Italian – but not to her. The conversation paused.

Soon afterwards, the school announced that there would be a performance to celebrate the completion of the month-long course. Those of us who played instruments or sang were welcome to claim a spot on the program.

I wanted to be good. I aspired to be a forgiving person, one who was able to learn from the past and make her own decisions, not be a slave to the prejudices of an earlier era. I also had some music with me and was eager to perform, but found myself engaged in a painful moral battle. Although I could certainly play a solo, unaccompanied flute is much less interesting than a piece accompanied by the piano. And so it was that I approached my enemy with Gluck's "Dance of the Blessed Spirits." He agreed to play and there it was. He and I were to perform together.

The night of the concert I was nervous, but not for fear of performing. Just picture it. It's almost material for an oil painting: young woman plays flute by grand piano, at which is seated a mature gentleman. Scene: Florence. Windows open out onto the street, just steps from the Giotto Tower. Well, that is how it looked, anyway. The Jew and the anti-Semite playing sweet baroque music together.

So there I was, my hands trembling over a piece I loved and knew well, with the instrument that has now travelled with me to Australia and back – accompanied quite expertly on the piano by a man I was trying really hard not to despise and whom I knew despised me. I knew that his contribution to the evening was pure public relations. I also knew that he was probably the most talented pianist with whom I had ever been fortunate enough to perform. I played to the end of the piece with great passion and the overwhelming hope that I would never see this man again in my life.

We completed our joint contribution to the farewell concert. The relief was tremendous. I had been good. I had shown willingness. I had been forgiving. The month was almost over. In a few short hours, I would be on a flight home, where I could breathe deeply, complain about this nasty man to my friends and stop pretending that I kept a kosher home. Thank goodness.

He rose from his piano seat and kissed me gently on the cheek.

Shula Klinger is a Vancouver freelance writer.

^TOP