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| Grandma at my home for Sam's graduation party last May. |
I've missed a lot lately. But life always seems clearer in the face of death.
Grandma stopped eating about ten days ago. I saw her almost every other day and her features shriveled with each visit. Skin and bones and heart. That's what was left.
As the end neared, my mom mentioned the Atlanta Symphony was performing a piece she thought I'd enjoy. Since she sings with the Atlanta Symphony Chorus, we get a free seat in the auditorium on dress rehearsal night. When I learned dad had plans to attend the rehearsal which fell on the eve of my birthday, I threw mito caution to the wind and drove down town.
Mom forgot to mention Verdi's Defiant Requiem was being performed in honor of the holocaust victims and survivors who gave it that name.
Fresh from a visit with grandma, I could well imagine a chorus of hungry, tired prisoners at Terezin, digging deep into a reservoir of strength few ever access. From there, they learned Verdi's Requiem and performed it over a dozen times in the coarse of three years - even as members were deported to certain death, and new voices took their place.
Their conductor, Rafael Schachter, told them, "We will sing to the Nazi's what we can not say to them." His leadership brought hope, life, defiance in the face of utter depravity and loss.
I wept as the performers left the stage. This review explains it well: Arts Atl.
The story hit close to home due to three dates highlighted during the dialogue portion of the performance. The chorus performed the requiem for the Red Cross when they visited on June 23, 1944. I married my first husband, Jason, on a June 23rd. Rafael Schachter was born on May 27th, 1905. Ironically, my first husband was deemed terminal on a May 27th almost four years after we married. The beloved conductor was sent to Auschwitz (where he died soon after) on October 16th, 1944. Jason had brain surgery on Sam's third birthday, October 16th 1996, and died almost three weeks later, on Nov. 3rd.
While I'm trying to not make too much out of the coincidental dates, as my birthday dawned, I couldn't help thinking about it all. And all I could figure is love, loss, and life grow us or break us.
And I want to keep living like that conductor who thrived in his exile. Who made music with an out of tune piano. And who kept conducting, even as the singers faded away.
That must be why I sang a song of mine at Jason's funeral and grandpa's... and am working on one now for grandma's service next Friday. It's my defiance. My hope. My life and love in the wake of loss.
"For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his tabernacle and set me high upon a rock. Then my head will be exalted above the enemies who surround me; at his tabernacle will I sacrifice with shouts of joy; I will sing and make music to the Lord." (Ps. 27:5-7)
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