Gregor von Rezzori - An Ermine in Czernopol

Blanche brought us a copy of the insane locksmith’s letter to Tildy, which went like this:

… And my pain is so great that everything good and most dear in the world can no longer heal my aching burning wounds. The sun cries, the wind is sad, the snow has turned completely blue, and the meadow is silent. The moon is deep in concern: everyone is suffering my pain. The concrete of the prison cell is cracked from my tears. The heavy iron is slowly eating through to my bones. Everything, everything feels, everything sees my suffering and my undeserved misfortune, living and dead things alike, only one human being does not. I am unhappy, indeed — the unhappiest among the unhappy.

After I was imprisoned in deepest sorrow, my hound died, then right after that all my chickens, and right after that my cow. My child was born and the sun cried through his window about my undeserved misfortune, and a few days later he was sad for his father and a few days after that he left this hated world — and today he is being carried to his grave, with no father and mother, accompanied only by strangers. Because his father is being tortured and his mother has practically forgotten the entire world, including her child and his father. She lies quietly in bed, holding a candle, looking up to heaven. I have nothing more, nothing on earth.

Tanya read it and broke down in tears.

We could see how much our sister Tanya was suffering by the way she danced. Only the visitors who had no idea what was going on could come to rehearsals and say things like: “What’s wrong with the girl? She always danced with such grace.” “She probably has stage fright, poor girl. That will pass.” “I don’t think so. That’s how it often is with talented children, they don’t fulfill their promise.” “Well, she’s coming into a difficult age now.”

Madame Aritonovich never wasted words on misunderstandings of that sort disguised as half-questions. She merely ignored them and smoked one cigarette after another, unmistakably nervous. During the rehearsals she had eyes only for Tanya. She evidently didn’t care that our performance, too, was rather mediocre. Blanche failed entirely. The corps de ballet became a wooden chaos. Madame Aritonovich nodded and said: “Fine, that will do. But Tanya has to repeat it once more.” We had the impression that she couldn’t care less whether the performance succeeded or not, that everything was being undertaken solely for the sake of Tanya. The ballet hall, which presumably had been the main dining room of the private villa that now housed the Institut d’Éducation, became the arena for a daily struggle over Tanya’s soul.

Madame Aritonovich didn’t spare her in the slightest. We quit trying to understand her relentless criticism, although at first we, too, were surprised by Tanya’s lack of fluidity. But as a consequence of the cruel repetitions, Tanya seemed to attain the peak of technical perfection. Her leaps and battements were downright acrobatic. Nevertheless, Madame Aritonovich kept interrupting: “That’s an imitation of a stork,” she said. “You’re thinking, my child, you’re thinking too much about what you’ve learned. Let it go. Forget everything except the music. Close your eyes and listen, listen. Nothing else.”

She spun around sharply to Herr Tarangolian. “Can’t you make this child’s obtuse parents take her to Paris right this minute to show her some ballet? Diaghilev is there, Coco! Think what it would mean for her!”

“I’m not certain,” said the prefect, “if Tanya’s parents would be so delighted if she chose to devote herself completely to the ballet. It’s sad, my dear Fiokla Ignatieva, but even if Diaghilev appeared in person to tell them that we have a second Pavlova, even if Pavlova herself confirmed it …”

“But that’s not what I mean at all!” she interrupted him. “Don’t you understand me either, Coco? I’m not trying to breed ballerinas here. Let me confess something to you: I’ve never really liked children. Of course I claim I do, and I persuade others as well as myself. The fact is, they torment me. I can’t bear seeing their need. But what I can stomach even less is standing idly by, watching the way they’re ruined while being processed into ‘grown-ups.’”

“Of course,” said Herr Tarangolian. “But where do you want to begin? The domestic circumstances in this case are a lot more difficult than you suspect … And don’t you say yourself that children cannot and should not be spared anything?”

“My God, Coco, how thick you are today! An everlasting kindergarten is not my notion of an ideal world. Of course they should grow up. But in a different way.”

“Don’t you think that a good portion of the unhappiness we see here is because too much is being demanded, Fiokla Ignatieva?” asked Herr Tarangolian. “Excuse me, but surely you see the pain in her eyes each time you criticize.”

“You’re confusing cause and effect, my dear — just like everyone else. I can’t do anything to help you, but I have to do something so she doesn’t make the same mistake.” She turned to Tanya and looked her over from head to toe. “Believe me, Coco,” she said, nervously inhaling, “there is no other cure than this. I know exactly why I have my children dance. I assure you, it’s not just fun and games.”

“I know, my dear,” said the prefect. “I truly admire you. You know that.”

“I know you do. But you don’t believe me. Even though we’re true soul mates, you and I. You wouldn’t be such a good prefect if you weren’t so musically — or should I say, dancerly — inclined.”

“Aha,” laughed Herr Tarangolian. “You flatter me too much. My job might be better compared to belly dancing than to your harmonious choreographies.”

“In any case, it’s a question of hearing — of hearing that goes down to the blood and bones.”

“Very beautifully put. That’s what I do: I bend my bones to the harmony of my sphere.”

“Now don’t go senile on me, my dear Coco,” Madame Aritonovich said drily. “You’re getting sentimental. But I suspect you’re simply being insincere — and always have been. You enjoy the tune you dance to, don’t try and pretend with me!” She turned back to Tanya. “Come, Tanya, once more, all by yourself. All the others to the barre!”

The person clearly most bored by the constant repetition was Solly Brill.

“As far as I’m concerned you can take all this jumping up and down and stick it in a pipe,” he said. “Anyway, I like soccer better. But this? Nothing but shmontses. Too much aesthetics and not enough athletics. From the pedagogical point of view, the whole thing is off target. What does it have to do with here and now? D’you hear about the game on shabbes afternoon? Makkabi over Jahn? Did they take a tanning or what? Seven to three — a nice embarrassment for the swastiklers. And then they wanted to get fresh on top of that. So they paid for it with a couple of teeth. Then they wanted to get at the referee. But he gave Strobel — that’s the center for Jahn — such a blow it laid him out. And meanwhile the guy was one of them. Next Sunday it’s Makkabi against Mircea Doboş. Well, I’m excited … And what are we doing?” he finished, morose. “Hopping around on our tiptoes in a hooped skirt. Am I some kind of dying swan or what? The whole thing is nothing but shmontses .”

Then, one morning, Tanya had a breakdown. She fainted for a very brief moment, and had already come to by the time anyone could help her. She smiled, a little embarrassed and confused, but it was a smile — and we hadn’t seen her smile in weeks. Then she said quietly: “It’s nothing, I’m fine, I can keep dancing.”