My Young Years & My Many Years by Arthur Rubinstein

Author:Arthur Rubinstein [Rubinstein, Arthur]
Language: eng
Format: epub

15

In New York the season was over, the Army home. Life was not so feverish and the city seemed to be taking a rest. R. E. Johnson was much impressed by my tales of Mexico. "Lulu, did ya hear that?" he cried from his swivel chair. "He says he gave twenty-six concerts in that goddamn city—I think thirteen would sound good enough." He turned to me. "I guess you got a lotta dough." When he heard that they paid in gold: "God Almighty, if I could get my hands on that." Getting back to our business, he was optimistic about my next tour in January: "We got Boston with Monteux for you, and that guy Stokowski will give you a spot. Of course, Ysaye has you again; I might even talk him into a fiddle and piano recital here in New York." I lent to all this a half-believing ear, but still it sounded encouraging.

The Draper family, including Paul, left for somewhere on Long Island. Dagmar returned to California and all the musicians of my acquaintance had disappeared. I was lucky in securing a cabin on an English steamer bound for Liverpool. It was little short of a miracle. Everybody I knew craved to go to Europe. I sent a long telegram to Mrs. Bergheim to announce my arrival. She always understood my allergy to letter writing. She was the only one I could count on to be in London, as I had no idea what had happened to other friends.

At the Ritz-Carlton grill a Pole from Chicago came up to my table and said excitedly, "There is a Polish consulate in New York!" This was a bombshell. He accompanied me to a small office on the West Side where a plaque said "Consulate of the Republic of Poland" and gave the floor number. In the office were two men who knew who I was; one of them informed me that the consul hadn't arrived yet from Poland, that he was the vice-consul and in charge of the consulate, I asked him timidly, "Are you entitled to give me a Polish passport?"

"It depends on what document you can present." At that I produced my Spanish passport, where he found the item about my being recognized by King Alfonso as a citizen of independent Poland in the year 1917. He was beyond himself with amazement. "You can be proud," he exclaimed, "to be the first person to be recognized by another nation as a citizen of free Poland. I shall give you a temporary document right away but I must keep your precious passport." The vice-consul, Pan Kwapiczewski, who was later transferred to Washington, is still alive and still my friend.

Before sailing, I inquired at my bank to see if the deposit had been made by Mr. Liebling. The answer was negative. I took a chance and called on him at his office at the Musical Courier. I knocked at the door. "Come in," he said, but as I entered, I noticed on his face an expression of disagreeable surprise.

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