Frederic Rzewski – Rubinstein in Berlin
Why did I go to Berlin?
I have tried in vain to find a logical answer to this question.
My departure from Warsaw left me in a complete vacuum.
The money I had earned in Poland
could last two or three months.
I rented a room with a bath at the hotel Bellevue, Potsdamer Platz.
I wanted escape.
I seemed to be waiting for something to happen,
to wake me from a kind of torpor.
One day my sister Jadzia arrived.
She believed I was basking in wealth and glory;
she wanted to share it with me.
My family was convinced my success was assured.
But this time things looked worse.
I had nothing to show. My career had come to a stop.
We started a merry-go-round of shows, shops, and museums.
My sister liked the food at my hotel restaurant.
My hotel bills were overdue. I had only a small sum left.
The only person who could understand was Jaroszynski.
He knew all the facts.
I wrote him a letter and begged him to send me five thousand Marks.
Without his help, I wrote, it was the end.
I was standing on the edge of an abyss.
Jadzia left. I felt alone. My credit at the restaurant was cancelled.
No news from Jaroszynski.
I felt as if I were drowning and yelling for help.
Waiting for his answer was agonizing.
I told the hotel that the money I expected was coming any day.
My diet consisted now of a wurstel at Aschinger's Automat for lunch and the same menu for dinner.
And the rest of the day? A vague fumbling for some right notes on the piano, and a chronic state of despair.
Just at that time I had fantastic dreams.
I was a famous composer. I conducted my new symphony,
which was received with endless ovations.
All the beautiful women were at my feet.
I fought battles for Poland,
I saved Jews from persecution.
I was fabulously rich,
the benefactor of humanity.
My awakening: another letter from the hotel manager under the door.
I decided to accept my dreams as reality and my days as nightmares.
I gave up all hope. I had reached the bottom.
I prepared for the finish.
I took out the belt from my old worn-out robe
and fastened it to the clothes-hook in the bathroom.
I pulled up a chair, secured the belt on the hook,
and put it around my neck.
As I pushed the chair away,
the belt tore apart and I fell on the floor with a
crash.
I cried bitterly.
Then, I staggered to the piano and cried myself out in
music.
Music: you're the one who, on that day, brought me back to life.
When one stops crying, the suffering subsides,
the same as when laughter dies, the fun is gone .
And so, nature claiming its own, I began to feel hungry.
“This time I shall have two sausages,”
I decided.
Out in the street, however, a sudden impulse made me stop.
Something strange came over me, call it a revelation or a vision.
I looked at everything around me with new eyes,
as if I had never seen any of it before.
The streets, the trees, the houses, dogs chasing each other,
and the man and woman all looked different,
and the noise of the great city –
– I was fascinated by it all.
Life seems beautiful and worth living,
even in a prison or in a hospital,
as long as you look at it that way.
Well, that night, right there in the street,
I discovered the secret of happiness,
and I still cherish it:
love
life,
for better or for worse,
without conditions.
