dark eyes
from the series cosmicomedy

by lavinia plonka

When I was a child, my immigrant parents were seduced by a ludicrous fad—the accordion. Most people don’t remember this moment of temporary insanity in America’s culture. We speak nostalgically of our hula hoops, but who reflects fondly on the accordion orchestras that crossed the nation in the early 1960’s? Or the wild popularity of Myron Floren, the matinee idol of the polka set? All we have left is some vague urge to laugh at the sound of Lady of Spain.

We were the children of the damned. Thousands of 6-13 year olds, doomed to lug 20-pound suitcases containing our glittering squeezeboxes to competitions, recitals and Aunt Sonia’s birthday party.

When I began, I was blissfully unaware of the stigma that would haunt me through adolescence. The challenge of memorizing the 120 buttons on the left side was a mnemonic game that comforted me as I practiced in my room, trying to ignore the family battles raging downstairs. I became an accordion prodigy, and my parents dreamed that someday I too, would star on Lawrence Welk.

During this heady time, my father, in an attempt to motivate me further, offered to pay me one dollar each time I played a song perfectly. And when my BIG recital came up, he told me if I played perfectly, I would get FIVE dollars. The song he insisted on was a Russian folk song – Otche Czarnia – Dark Eyes. It was a challenging song for a 9 year old, but I would do anything to please my Dad.

The day came. I sat with the sixty five other accordion players at the outdoor stadium. Mr. Semonski conducted us in an accordion symphonic arrangement of My Blue Heaven. He wore a patch over one eye. (I figured he had been a pirate but had to give it up and learn the accordion after he lost his eye.)

Then it was time. He nodded to me. I hauled myself up to the front and faced the thousand spectators. My rendition was fabulous. I got to the coda, and repeated. As I crescendoed to the final note, my hand seized in the air. I could not remember the last note. I froze, my vision whirling like one of those expensive panorama shots in corny movies, whirling over the audience, my father’s horrified face in the sea of people, the roller coaster from the nearby amusement park careening down the track, Mr. Semonski’s mouth open in a moment of suspended animation. He stage whispered, “B flat!” I hit the note and ran from the stage in mortified tears. My career as polka queen was over.But my parents, unwilling to give up their investment, pushed me on. I resentfully continued playing till I was 17. My father, by now a full blown alcoholic, would periodically confront me. “Play me something. And it better be perfect.” I had long ago stopped practicing seriously, and I only remembered one song perfectly. Since he only asked me to play when he was drunk, I just repeated the same song every time….Otche Czarnia. I felt a little guilty taking the dollar each time, but I figured if he didn’t remember the song, he wouldn’t remember giving me the money either. One day, as I sat on the stairs playing the same song yet again, my father slowly slid down the wall till he also sat on the stairs, his head bowed. I finished the song and when he looked up at me, his eyes glistened with tears. I never played the song again for money.

A few years ago, I was visiting my now aged parents for a few days. We talked about favorite folk songs of Russia and Poland. My mother mentioned Otche Czarnia. “Ah,” said my father, “Otche Czarnia. Now that song nearly got me killed during the war.”

My ears pricked up. My parents rarely spoke of the war. Although we were raised in the shadow of the horrors they had experienced, they had refused to share details with their children.

“How could a song nearly get you killed, Dad?” My father grinned. “Well, you know, it was in Vienna. I had just gotten out of the damn prison camp and I was sitting with some friends at a club. A band was playing and we were all drinking and having a good time. I guess I had been drinking a bit because I went up to the band leader, gave him a bunch of money and said, ‘Play me Otche Czarnia!’ The band leader shrugged and began to play. Suddenly, the doors to the club burst open and in walk these two Gestapo officers in their long leather coats and those boots. They stand and listen to the band, then stop the music. ‘How dare you play a Russian folk song?’ one of them demands. The band leader says it’s not his fault and points to my table. Suddenly everybody at my table is sliding down in their chairs, and I think to myself, dammit, I’m screwed. But I’d rather die than go back to that camp. The Gestapo come over and say to me, ‘Your papers please.’ Now I had no papers, but that’s another story. I think to myself, well Leo, you have nothing to lose.

‘Why should I show you my papers? Who the hell do you think you are?’
Taken aback, the head Gestapo says, ‘What are you, an idiot? Can’t you see we are Gestapo?’

‘That’s what you say. But any idiot can go buy himself a leather coat and some shiny boots and say they are Gestapo.’

‘You asked them to play a Russian folk song.’

‘Yeah, so? What’s your problem with that? I can listen to any music I choose. You have no idea who I am, do you? Well, listen to me, my friend, if you don’t want trouble with the Bureau, you better not let me know your name. Because once I report to my buddy Goebbels—maybe you’ve heard of him, well let me tell you, Goebbels and I are like this,’ (I figured what the hell, I’m a dead man anyway) ‘what a pain in the ass you were to me, your career is finished. Now get the hell out of here before I really lose my temper!’

‘Yes sir! Heil Hitler, Sir!’

‘Heil Hitler, ‘ I said, and waved them off. The only reason I got away with it was because I spoke perfect German, you see.”
I tried to imagine how boring life must have been after the ultimate adrenaline rush of facing down the Gestapo. “My God, Dad, that’s an incredible story. I mean, that took a lot of guts!”

“Kid, I was scared shit.”

“And yet, you always made me play that damn song on my accordion.”

“I did?”

“You don’t remember? The concert? All those times you made me play for you?”

He shrugged, smiled and repeated what he’s said throughout my life whenever I asked about unpleasant memories. “Hey, it’s the past. The past is the past, it’s over and done with. Forget about it and live for today.” He smiled impishly. “What do you say, I’ve been a good boy. How about a little vodka?” And he sang Otche Czarnia at the top of his lungs as he poured.

 

When not playing her accordion, Lavinia teaches others how to play, dance and run without strain using the The Feldenkrais Method®. lavinia@laviniaplonka.com