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Vitamins for the Soul -- September 25, 2005
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Yali Shi
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Sep 25, 2005 00:31 PDT
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Vitamins for the Soul -- September 25, 2005
A Cello in the Boiler Room
By Zara Nelsova
It was two days before Christmas, 1939, and the night of my 21st
birthday. My sister Ida and I had just traveled from war-threatened
London, England, to Toronto, Canada. Between us we had less than five
dollars—just enough money to pay for a week's boarding at the YWCA.
And there was another problem. "I'm sorry, young lady," the YWCA
director had said, eyeing the huge leather cello case in my hand, "but
you won't be able to play that around here. The walls are much too
thin."
Now Ida stood in our drab and tiny room, staring at me wearily. "Where
will you practice?"
"Maybe I can't for a while," I answered miserably. But I couldn't
imagine a day without cello practice, let alone weeks. I'd been in
training since the age of four, and I love the work as I'd always love
the music.
"It's ironic," Ida said, trying to joke. "I can still remember a time
when you didn't want to practice."
I remembered too. I was six at the time, and I resented having to take
lessons and practice in the afternoons while my schoolmates went off to
skate and toboggan. When I complained to my cello teacher, he listened
quietly, with sympathetic nods of his head. "It is sometimes hard, Zara,
but you do not have this gift by accident. It is a gift from God. If you
will do whatever you can, He will make sure that His gift is not
wasted."
"I'll be back soon," I said abruptly to Ida. "I've got to find a
telephone."
I called the one musician I knew in Toronto. "I need work," I said. "I
know musicians' jobs are scarce now because of the war, but if you could
just introduce me to a few people…"
"I can't make any promises," he said cautiously, but he did agree to
arrange some introductions.
As I walked through the YWCA lobby, I saw that the director was still
there. She looked so stern and intimidating that I almost walked right
past her, but something stopped me. "I know I can't play my cello in my
room," I blurted nervously, "but isn't there anywhere…?"
She surprised me with a warm smile. "I was just thinking of you. Do you
think you could practice in the boiler room?"
I could, and I did. Though the basement was cramped and mildewy, full of
boxes and molding crates, I practiced there every day, sometimes for six
and seven hours at a time.
My new acquaintances helped me too. As winter turned into spring and
spring into summer, I always managed to find just enough recital work to
pay for our room and board. And when I wasn't working, I was practicing.
"How can you concentrate down there?" Ida asked me one thick, humid
afternoon. I was headed back down to the basement where the boiler room
felt like a sauna.
"I try to focus only on the music," I told her. But that afternoon I
couldn't feel anything but hot. I sat on an upside-down wooden crate, my
cello gripped between my knees, and hoped desperately for a cool breeze
to riffle through my music sheets. I had to stop playing every few
minutes just to wipe away the sweat that was trickling into my eyes. One
hour passed. Then two. Overheated and disgruntled, I felt like giving
up. I didn't want to think about those words: "You do what you can…"
I moved directly beneath a window, hoping to catch more of a
cross-breeze. I picked up my bow again. And at last, in spite of the
airlessness and the heat, that "magic" moment in my playing finally
came. I could no longer feel sweat or hear street sounds drifting though
the basement windows. I played for a long time, eyes closed, arm
stretching.
"Young lady! You there! Hello!" The words came from high above my head.
I looked up and was so startled that my bow went clattering across the
floor. A man was crouching on the sidewalk, peering down at me through
the basement window. Behind him I could see a dozen more faces grinning
down at me. "You play beautifully," the man said. The rest murmured
their agreement. "My name is Elie Spiva," the man said. "I'm the
concertmaster for the Toronto Symphony."
A concertmaster? Crawling around on the sidewalk to listen to my
practicing?
But it was true. He and some members of his orchestra had been walking
to a rehearsal when they heard the sounds of my cello drifting up from
the basement. They'd been clustered by the window listening to me for
nearly 20 minutes.
"You're quite remarkable," he continued, sounding amused, "and if you
could be persuaded to come up out of that cellar, I'd be delighted to
arrange an audition for you with the symphony."
Unlikely as it seems, one week later I auditioned for Sir Ernest
MacMillan, conductor of the Toronto Symphony. After that, even more
unbelievably, I found myself playing as first cellist for that
prestigious orchestra.
I have been a cellist for more than 50 years now. I've had the good
fortune to appear as soloist with the leading orchestras of the world as
well as to give hundreds of recitals. And I still hear my teacher's
words: "You do whatever you can, and God will make sure that His gift is
not wasted."
* * *
God Bless,
Shi Yali
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