FLAMES FROM A STRING
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Yuri Cohen was dirty. Some called him a bum and said he was ignorant and without manners. He walked hunched over, as if he carried a burden of incalculable weight. On his left forearm a simple tattoo read “March 12, 1938.” A few observed his menial job of restaurant garbage collection, and would buy some salvageable items he would attempt to sell in the early evening from a broken cart in the Docklands.
As Christmas drew closer, it seemed the Blitz only intensified. Nighttime fires fed by the multitude of incendiary bombs falling from the sky grew to unimaginable proportions. Would life ever be the same? Most Londoners huddled in the underground shelters during the dark hours, appearing in early morning light, hoping a home or business survived the onslaught. While others tried to sleep, Yuri would pull his cart through the neighborhoods in search of any item that might be of value to another struggling like himself. The few occasions when he sought shelter, he felt unwelcome, but accepted the shunning, and assigned it to his uncleanliness. On the coldest nights, he wore so many layers of discarded clothing, it would be difficult to distinguish what appeared moving among the rubble, man or walking beast.
December 22, 1940, was a Sunday. Townspeople would agree it was the first day they heard the music and starting right at 6:00 a.m. Yes, it was a violin; it had to be a violin. The sound was familiar to several, but no one in the area could state a name or a composer. The nighttime blitzkrieg had ended, and morning was quiet. Heads looked up and scanned the upper floors, attempting to locate the origin of the plaintive notes. The canyon of eight story buildings created an echo as haunting as a pause between bombs falling. Each string of notes cascaded down, circled about, and drifted back to the early morning light. A crowd gathered, transfixed by this gift for a new day. The music ended. Scanning windows to see a bow waved, or a figure appear was fruitless. Heads shook, quiet words spoken, and each went their own way.
Yuri accepted his fate, as many shared the same isolation of separation. Separation from country, from family, from any connectedness to life once lived. Few businesses would pay for his collection services, but he accepted any offering of food or an unwanted item. Struggle was a word he would never say out loud to himself, but struggle it was. Walking through the Surrey Docks was daunting. The intensity of fires would blister walls, and window glass in buildings far from the flames would shatter in the heat. Each day found a new warehouse or transit shed destroyed.
Residents emerged that Monday morning to find a chilling rain mixing with the soot from nighttime fires. The pungent odor and sludge could depress any thought of optimism. There it was again, the four strings being pressed upon to form a voice from the heavens. The same notes flourished and soothed the soul for those willing to pause and linger in the rubble-strewn street. This day the crowd size more than doubled, and a greater interest arose to identify the source. Those unschooled in classical music, which in this part of the city included most listeners, knew they were witness to someone of exceptional talent.
The following morning, Horace Cruthers hobbled in pain as he made his way down the dark hallway. A knock of toes against a wall corner sent a nervous shock up his leg. All the more reason to gripe over accepting the assignment. Why risk your life going to the dangerous Docklands when bombs could still fall. As Fine Arts Editor of the London Gazette, he had little choice to say no when many telephone calls described wonderful violin music around the wharf residential buildings.
The all clear sirens were late on that Tuesday morning. Breaking rules, families left the shelters early to stand in the street looking to the upper floors. Many buildings had emptied because of the extensive damage, and it became a nighttime guessing game of who would be the first to locate their musician. Cruthers had positioned a podium lent by the Philharmonic in the center of the growing crowd. Holding out his pocket watch in a mocking notion to the trades people gathered, he blushed as the first notes struck at 6 o’clock. A knowing smirk formed on his face within thirty seconds. “It is the Adagio” he bellowed out to the crowd. Before he could say more, a half eaten apple struck his chest, followed by immediate shouts to be quiet and listen.
With the last note lingering on the ears of the multitude, the Fine Arts Editor resumed his position of authority and spoke, “The correct title is Violin Sonata no. 1 in G Minor, and the composer was Bach. We call what you just heard, the Adagio.” Pausing for a moment to make sure they directed all attention his way, he continued, “What you have listened to over the past days is no doubt a recording, and I believe Samuel Antek is the artist.” That evening, the Gazette ran an article titled “Music in the Docklands.”
Word spread that Sir Thomas Beecham, London Philharmonic Orchestra Conductor, would be on the street early Christmas morning. The article by Horace Cruthers prompted an outpouring of interest and gave ordinary folks a feeling of belonging to something greater than themselves. Sir Thomas stood on the podium with Cruthers by his side. Minutes before 6 o’clock the few lights burning went dark. A power failure.
Big Ben is the nickname of the Great Bell of the striking clock at Westminster and heard throughout the city. Anticipation was palpable as listeners prepared for their Bach Sonata. The clock struck six times, then silence invaded the assembly like an unwanted friend. Murmurs arose through the crowd, and Sir Thomas glanced at Cruthers with uplifted eyebrows. Perhaps it was a phonographic recording. Like a wave, movement brought a shuffling sound like a dirge. Wait, listen, quiet everyone. The three and four-note chords turned into sweeping runs. Men and women were wiping their eyes, and the city’s famous conductor was craning his head to find the source.
Hands clapped, whistles given, and pot banging from open windows rang through the street to meet the last notes. Sir Thomas, holding a megaphone, waved it high above his head to silence the crowd. Famous for his baritone voice and turning as he spoke to the buildings, “Sir, please show yourself, you are an Austin, an Adaskin, a magnificent gift for our wounded souls.”
Yuri knew his health was deteriorating, a constant cough plagued his ability to push the cart. The Wayfarer Inn, the one restaurant that would pay in coin, now stood in rubble. Why did he push himself when giving up on life was the path of least resistance? His answer never wavered, a daily promise to his wife and their daughter. He did not blame himself, as he so often witnessed the irony
of fate. One lives, one dies.
Each evening, the Gazette was featuring an updated article on the mysterious violinist. The Philharmonic conductor confirmed with absolute certainty that a veritable genius was in their midst. He further opined that the violin was likely crafted by Luigi Cardi of Verona. It required police to restrain the crowds that filled the early Thursday morning streets. Silence led to disappointment. A few waited until 7 o’clock hearing only the awaking sounds of daily life. The Lord Mayor Sir George Wilkinson once again summoned the police, this time to search the vacant buildings in the area.
Huddled in an alley near the shipyard, Yuri nursed the head wound to the best of his ability. A woman passing by, held her nose with a handkerchief as she swabbed the bloodied area with a disinfectant, leaving an orange and apple by his side. Listless and weakened, he abandoned the cart and slowly trudged three blocks away from the water. The fourth floor abandoned room was home for the past month. Lying on the mattress, he covered himself to ward off the chills from a presumed fever.
Only a handful gathered on Friday morning, and again sadness prevailed with the silence of music. Horace Cruthers wrote what amounted to an obituary of an unknown but beloved artist. The Luftwaffe was mounting ever increasing bombing runs, and Londoners prepared for the onslaught expected for the weekend.
For reasons unexplained, a large crowd moved into the streets on that Saturday morning. Perhaps the heart knows when to yearn for a miracle. At first, the notes were tentative. String by string, an energy arose. Like flames reaching out and scorching walls, burning the pavement of streets, and wrenching limbs, the sonata reached a new height of majesty. The crowd cheered as if a power greater than physical destruction had prevailed. London would survive!
History records in dramatic detail Saturday night and early Sunday morning. The newspapers ran a two-inch headline “ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL STILL STANDING.” On Chase Avenue, the local night warden attempted to push open the underground shelter door. Blocked by an unknown force, perhaps fallen
timber, additional men assisted to move the heavy door outward. Soon voices called out, “It’s the Ragman!”
Pushed away from the door, Yuri lay on his back, motionless, yet clutching the violin case to his chest. As sirens neared, the crowd clamored to see for themselves. Could this broken and rejected man be their violinist? Hours later, the warden delivered the black case as instructed.
Transported to St. Thomas Hospital, Yuri clung precariously to life. Horace Cruthers sat by his bedside, holding his weathered hands and speaking softly. Incoherent responses led Horace to start an investigation on behalf of the Gazette. The date tattooed on his arm correlated to Germany’s invasion of Austria, and the violin was in fact a masterpiece crafted by Luigi Cardi. An added clue was the note taped on the violin case, “Gifted to the London Philharmonic in memory of Ada and Bertina Cohen.” Yuri passed away on January 1, 1941, age 31.
Research confirmed Yuri Cohen attended the prestigious Imperial Academy of Music and the Performing Arts in Vienna. A recorded interview found from 1936 answered two other questions. The violin was a gift from an undisclosed benefactor and assumed to be a person of royalty, and Yuri spoke of a joyous marriage and the birth of their daughter Bertina. They found a former friend who confirmed the death of Yuri’s wife and daughter as they attempted escape from increasing deportations to killing centers.
On Saturday, February 1st, Queen’s Hall opened their doors for a free concert to celebrate Yuri Cohen Day. Arturo Toscanini conducted, and his lead violinist, Samuel Antek, opened with Bach’s Sonata no.1 in G Minor. Antek and Cohen were both born in 1909, although they never met. How Yuri found his way to the Docklands remains a mystery.
Here is a link to hear Bach - Violin Sonata No. 1 in G minor, the Adagio
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Yuri Cohen was dirty. Some called him a bum and said he was ignorant and without manners. He walked hunched over, as if he carried a burden of incalculable weight. On his left forearm a simple tattoo read “March 12, 1938.” A few observed his menial job of restaurant garbage collection, and would buy some salvageable items he would attempt to sell in the early evening from a broken cart in the Docklands.
As Christmas drew closer, it seemed the Blitz only intensified. Nighttime fires fed by the multitude of incendiary bombs falling from the sky grew to unimaginable proportions. Would life ever be the same? Most Londoners huddled in the underground shelters during the dark hours, appearing in early morning light, hoping a home or business survived the onslaught. While others tried to sleep, Yuri would pull his cart through the neighborhoods in search of any item that might be of value to another struggling like himself. The few occasions when he sought shelter, he felt unwelcome, but accepted the shunning, and assigned it to his uncleanliness. On the coldest nights, he wore so many layers of discarded clothing, it would be difficult to distinguish what appeared moving among the rubble, man or walking beast.
December 22, 1940, was a Sunday. Townspeople would agree it was the first day they heard the music and starting right at 6:00 a.m. Yes, it was a violin; it had to be a violin. The sound was familiar to several, but no one in the area could state a name or a composer. The nighttime blitzkrieg had ended, and morning was quiet. Heads looked up and scanned the upper floors, attempting to locate the origin of the plaintive notes. The canyon of eight story buildings created an echo as haunting as a pause between bombs falling. Each string of notes cascaded down, circled about, and drifted back to the early morning light. A crowd gathered, transfixed by this gift for a new day. The music ended. Scanning windows to see a bow waved, or a figure appear was fruitless. Heads shook, quiet words spoken, and each went their own way.
Yuri accepted his fate, as many shared the same isolation of separation. Separation from country, from family, from any connectedness to life once lived. Few businesses would pay for his collection services, but he accepted any offering of food or an unwanted item. Struggle was a word he would never say out loud to himself, but struggle it was. Walking through the Surrey Docks was daunting. The intensity of fires would blister walls, and window glass in buildings far from the flames would shatter in the heat. Each day found a new warehouse or transit shed destroyed.
Residents emerged that Monday morning to find a chilling rain mixing with the soot from nighttime fires. The pungent odor and sludge could depress any thought of optimism. There it was again, the four strings being pressed upon to form a voice from the heavens. The same notes flourished and soothed the soul for those willing to pause and linger in the rubble-strewn street. This day the crowd size more than doubled, and a greater interest arose to identify the source. Those unschooled in classical music, which in this part of the city included most listeners, knew they were witness to someone of exceptional talent.
The following morning, Horace Cruthers hobbled in pain as he made his way down the dark hallway. A knock of toes against a wall corner sent a nervous shock up his leg. All the more reason to gripe over accepting the assignment. Why risk your life going to the dangerous Docklands when bombs could still fall. As Fine Arts Editor of the London Gazette, he had little choice to say no when many telephone calls described wonderful violin music around the wharf residential buildings.
The all clear sirens were late on that Tuesday morning. Breaking rules, families left the shelters early to stand in the street looking to the upper floors. Many buildings had emptied because of the extensive damage, and it became a nighttime guessing game of who would be the first to locate their musician. Cruthers had positioned a podium lent by the Philharmonic in the center of the growing crowd. Holding out his pocket watch in a mocking notion to the trades people gathered, he blushed as the first notes struck at 6 o’clock. A knowing smirk formed on his face within thirty seconds. “It is the Adagio” he bellowed out to the crowd. Before he could say more, a half eaten apple struck his chest, followed by immediate shouts to be quiet and listen.
With the last note lingering on the ears of the multitude, the Fine Arts Editor resumed his position of authority and spoke, “The correct title is Violin Sonata no. 1 in G Minor, and the composer was Bach. We call what you just heard, the Adagio.” Pausing for a moment to make sure they directed all attention his way, he continued, “What you have listened to over the past days is no doubt a recording, and I believe Samuel Antek is the artist.” That evening, the Gazette ran an article titled “Music in the Docklands.”
Word spread that Sir Thomas Beecham, London Philharmonic Orchestra Conductor, would be on the street early Christmas morning. The article by Horace Cruthers prompted an outpouring of interest and gave ordinary folks a feeling of belonging to something greater than themselves. Sir Thomas stood on the podium with Cruthers by his side. Minutes before 6 o’clock the few lights burning went dark. A power failure.
Big Ben is the nickname of the Great Bell of the striking clock at Westminster and heard throughout the city. Anticipation was palpable as listeners prepared for their Bach Sonata. The clock struck six times, then silence invaded the assembly like an unwanted friend. Murmurs arose through the crowd, and Sir Thomas glanced at Cruthers with uplifted eyebrows. Perhaps it was a phonographic recording. Like a wave, movement brought a shuffling sound like a dirge. Wait, listen, quiet everyone. The three and four-note chords turned into sweeping runs. Men and women were wiping their eyes, and the city’s famous conductor was craning his head to find the source.
Hands clapped, whistles given, and pot banging from open windows rang through the street to meet the last notes. Sir Thomas, holding a megaphone, waved it high above his head to silence the crowd. Famous for his baritone voice and turning as he spoke to the buildings, “Sir, please show yourself, you are an Austin, an Adaskin, a magnificent gift for our wounded souls.”
Yuri knew his health was deteriorating, a constant cough plagued his ability to push the cart. The Wayfarer Inn, the one restaurant that would pay in coin, now stood in rubble. Why did he push himself when giving up on life was the path of least resistance? His answer never wavered, a daily promise to his wife and their daughter. He did not blame himself, as he so often witnessed the irony
of fate. One lives, one dies.
Each evening, the Gazette was featuring an updated article on the mysterious violinist. The Philharmonic conductor confirmed with absolute certainty that a veritable genius was in their midst. He further opined that the violin was likely crafted by Luigi Cardi of Verona. It required police to restrain the crowds that filled the early Thursday morning streets. Silence led to disappointment. A few waited until 7 o’clock hearing only the awaking sounds of daily life. The Lord Mayor Sir George Wilkinson once again summoned the police, this time to search the vacant buildings in the area.
Huddled in an alley near the shipyard, Yuri nursed the head wound to the best of his ability. A woman passing by, held her nose with a handkerchief as she swabbed the bloodied area with a disinfectant, leaving an orange and apple by his side. Listless and weakened, he abandoned the cart and slowly trudged three blocks away from the water. The fourth floor abandoned room was home for the past month. Lying on the mattress, he covered himself to ward off the chills from a presumed fever.
Only a handful gathered on Friday morning, and again sadness prevailed with the silence of music. Horace Cruthers wrote what amounted to an obituary of an unknown but beloved artist. The Luftwaffe was mounting ever increasing bombing runs, and Londoners prepared for the onslaught expected for the weekend.
For reasons unexplained, a large crowd moved into the streets on that Saturday morning. Perhaps the heart knows when to yearn for a miracle. At first, the notes were tentative. String by string, an energy arose. Like flames reaching out and scorching walls, burning the pavement of streets, and wrenching limbs, the sonata reached a new height of majesty. The crowd cheered as if a power greater than physical destruction had prevailed. London would survive!
History records in dramatic detail Saturday night and early Sunday morning. The newspapers ran a two-inch headline “ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL STILL STANDING.” On Chase Avenue, the local night warden attempted to push open the underground shelter door. Blocked by an unknown force, perhaps fallen
timber, additional men assisted to move the heavy door outward. Soon voices called out, “It’s the Ragman!”
Pushed away from the door, Yuri lay on his back, motionless, yet clutching the violin case to his chest. As sirens neared, the crowd clamored to see for themselves. Could this broken and rejected man be their violinist? Hours later, the warden delivered the black case as instructed.
Transported to St. Thomas Hospital, Yuri clung precariously to life. Horace Cruthers sat by his bedside, holding his weathered hands and speaking softly. Incoherent responses led Horace to start an investigation on behalf of the Gazette. The date tattooed on his arm correlated to Germany’s invasion of Austria, and the violin was in fact a masterpiece crafted by Luigi Cardi. An added clue was the note taped on the violin case, “Gifted to the London Philharmonic in memory of Ada and Bertina Cohen.” Yuri passed away on January 1, 1941, age 31.
Research confirmed Yuri Cohen attended the prestigious Imperial Academy of Music and the Performing Arts in Vienna. A recorded interview found from 1936 answered two other questions. The violin was a gift from an undisclosed benefactor and assumed to be a person of royalty, and Yuri spoke of a joyous marriage and the birth of their daughter Bertina. They found a former friend who confirmed the death of Yuri’s wife and daughter as they attempted escape from increasing deportations to killing centers.
On Saturday, February 1st, Queen’s Hall opened their doors for a free concert to celebrate Yuri Cohen Day. Arturo Toscanini conducted, and his lead violinist, Samuel Antek, opened with Bach’s Sonata no.1 in G Minor. Antek and Cohen were both born in 1909, although they never met. How Yuri found his way to the Docklands remains a mystery.
Here is a link to hear Bach - Violin Sonata No. 1 in G minor, the Adagio
RICHARD SWAIN