Cultures in Harmony began on June 14, 2005, when William Harvey landed in Moldova for a solo violin concert tour. He worked with UNICEF to promote their Early Childhood Development program with a benefit concert in Chisinau that collected 7,000 books, which were then distributed at community concerts in villages and youth camps. Here is his diary from the trip, edited for length:
June 14, 2005. How to begin a saga of connections? Even after one day of Music for the People’s (our name prior to 2007) Project I, I find it hard to remember who said what when, as anecdote after anecdote crowds my memory. The first thing I recall is a blue UNICEF folder, waved frantically in the air by Nicoleta Bodrug. She ran around the sea of people waiting for international arrivals at the Chisinau airport so we could meet. In the car on the way to UNICEF, her relentless energy and sharp intelligence impressed me as she outlined my upcoming schedule. I’ll be busy, but not like her: when she showed me her schedule, I gasped. I’d never seen a daily to-do list with thirty-plus entries before. Her boyfriend Oleg drove me to the apartment of Viorica Berdaga (UNICEF’s Assistant Project Officer, currently out of town), who will host me during my stay in Moldova.
Chisinau differs from many European capitals in its paucity of ancient landmarks: devastating World War II bombing took care of them. The style of architecture and infrastructure that remains could be termed post-Soviet decrepit. During their half-century in Moldova, the Soviets built imposing, utilitarian buildings which are now in decay. Even the sidewalk in front of the government building, where a huge Lenin statue once stood, crumbles dangerously. Oleg and I soon arrived at a dilapidated apartment building. Like excess make-up peeling off the face of a woman too old to wear it, the paint was falling off the aged building, both outside and in. Our elevator, barely big enough for one person, groaned mightily to lift us up to the eighth floor. We took the stairs one more flight and rang the buzzer.
The building belied the beauty of the Berdaga apartment. Spotless wood floors and shiny, elegant furniture easily reflected light, and the standard of cleanliness humbled me. Oleg introduced me to Sandu, Viorica’s 13-year-old son, who had volunteered to serve as my unofficial guide to Chisinau (Nicoleta said he’d called her three times today, demanding “Where is my William?”). He’s a dark-haired, pensive lad, initially taciturn until repeated assurances that his English is excellent got him to open up. He stands on the cusp of puberty, his voice careening unexpectedly from the baritone to soprano sections of the choir.
His bunica (grandmother) cooked dinner for us: a soup of potatoes, onions, and parsley; very dry chicken breast; a course grain topped with a cold brown onion sauce; tomatoes, pickles, cherries, and strong tea. After a post-dinner chess game, we took a walk in a local park filled with Communist and World War II statues. Sandu and I developed an easygoing camaraderie. In spite of the barriers of culture and age, he began to feel like a long-lost younger cousin. “I always walk this route when I feel a little sad,” he told me. “Does it help?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. That evening, he came into my room three times to make sure I didn’t need anything.
June 15. I was awakened by a three-hour symphony of dogs barking and roosters crowing at 4:30 a.m. After frying eggs for me, Sandu accompanied me to UNICEF: when I expressed surprise at his willingness to do so, he grinned and said, “I have to take care of you.” He also insisted on serving as my porter, refusing to allow me to carry my own bag.
At UNICEF Nicoleta introduced me to Virgiliu, my official translator, and then the four of us proceeded to the Organ Hall. The ornate continental building, guarded by large stone lions, contains a concert hall that strikes the right note between austerity and beauty: elegant high-backed chairs rest on a marble floor, and an enormous crystal chandelier hangs gracefully from the ceiling. Adjourning to the director’s office, Nicoleta and I outlined plans for the big event on June 24. I also met Ilian Girnet, the violinist with whom I’ll collaborate (fortunately, he speaks a small amount of English). I’d thought that he’d be younger than me, but it turns out he’s a stocky, confident, amiable 21-year-old who has played more concertos with more orchestras than I have.
Sandu and I lunched at Delice D’Ange, a French patisserie where I enjoyed a delectable Chicken Roulade and Cherry Tart. I treated him, but even with tip it came to 70 lei (less than $6). We enjoyed a leisurely walk through Stefan cel Mare Park, comparable in its importance in Chisinau to Manhattan’s Central Park. In honor of my monarchist brother Theodore, Sandu took my picture with the statue of Stefan cel Mare, Moldova’s legendary fifteenth-century king who fought off the Ottomans.
After a respite back at the Berdaga apartment, we returned to UNICEF via the microbus, which resembles nothing so much as the Knight Bus, the mode of transport in the Harry Potter books that moves by leaps and bounds, throwing its passengers around like pinballs as lampposts struggle to leap out of its way. Here’s how it works: stand on a corner and stick out your right arm at a low angle, and eventually a large white van will come hurtling towards you. After it screeches to the halt, enter quickly before it takes off with a bang which, if you’re lucky, will suddenly place you on intimate terms with the ravishing beauty who had been separated from you by half a van a millisecond ago. As you fumble towards one of the eleven seats or grip a ceiling handle, extract two lei from your wallet, and your fellow passengers will pass it up to the driver, who cheerfully looks away from the road to place the money where it belongs. How do you know where your microbus is going? The little route numbers in the windows only help if you have all the routes memorized. If your destination is not on a route you have memorized, flag down a microbus, get on, and ask in Romanian, “Are you going to [destination]?” If the answer is “nu,” well, it’s cheaper than a scary amusement park ride. The one rule for passengers? “Keep quiet, so the driver will not become deranged,” Sandu warned me. I kept quiet. The microbus drivers are already deranged enough.
Speaking of sanity, it amazes me how calm everyone at UNICEF is, in spite of how busy they are. They don’t have set hours, coming to work early in the morning and staying till late at night, often on weekends. Nicoleta in particular is remarkably stress-free, given that all the responsibility for coordinating the big event on June 24 and managing my schedule falls on her shoulders. She remains quite capable of carrying on a friendly conversation. Most people in her position would blither, or glare, but Nicoleta and her colleagues have realized that being relaxed and affable makes those action-packed 14-hour workdays more fun than blithering and glaring.
Nicoleta, Virgiliu, Sandu and I went to the Republican Lyceum of Music “Ciprian Porumbescu” to arrange some activities for me. It’s a bit surreal being the subject of a meeting in Romanian. Even with Virgiliu’s translation, I wasn’t sure what they were planning for me. For all I know, I’m supposed to do a juggling act involving two violas and an acetylene torch.
After my evening practice, Sandu’s bunelu (grandfather) and I played chess. He thoroughly but politely annihilated me, creating board situations where every move I made contributed to my inevitable doom.
June 16. Sandu’s bunica took Sandu, Laura, and me to the Deptartment of Information Technology to register my presence here as required by law. I got my first taste of Soviet bureaucracy. In America, we wait silently and stressfully in long lines in cold, impersonal rooms which direct your attention to the front of the room. Here, people mill around, chatting amiably in a stifling, unairconditioned maze of hallways from which wooden doors open into small rooms. You don’t see actual lines, but everyone knows his or her place in the order, and no one minds the wait. I passed the time by helping Laura with her English. She learns very quickly: is there anything so cute as a little kid carefully and eagerly learning a new language?
Hanging around UNICEF, I was impressed to notice that Sandu is treated almost like a colleague. He knows the passcodes, takes the steps two at a time, and converses on an equal footing with everyone we meet. They seem very grateful to him, and why shouldn’t they be? I would be lost, physically and emotionally, if I were in Chisinau without him.
We walked to the Organ Hall for my first rehearsal with Ilian Girnet. He is very much the violinist—interested in kinds of strings, violins, technique, and violinist-composers like Wieniawski and Ysaye. But he’s also a musician—his playing shimmers with a softly compelling poetry when the music calls for it. I told him to audition at Juilliard for his post-graduate degree, and his face lit up as he thanked me for my confidence in him. We will perform three of Bela Bartok’s Duos on June 24.
In the afternoon, Sandu and I took the microbus back to the Porumbescu Lyceum. Since Virgiliu couldn’t make it, the Berlizzo translation agency had sent Oxana, a tall girl a couple years older than I. While waiting for my meeting with the headmistress, we had a fascinating conversation about Moldovan politics, based on my limited knowledge of the conflict in Transnistria (where rebels fight for an independent, Russian-speaking country) and the post-Soviet Communist ascendancy. In 2001, Moldova elected Vladimir Voronin president, making Moldova the first former Soviet republic to elect a Communist.
During our meeting, we established that since I am a student, which the headmistress had not realized, the school will rescind their earlier invitation for me to serve on the jury of the international competition they will host next week. However, they will still allow me to present the competition’s opening recital: “Perhaps you will have something to show,” the headmistress said charitably. I gathered that they were still extending this honor because I study at Juilliard and used to study with Ilya Kaler, a big name in the Soviet music world.
June 17. After Laura and I began work on a puzzle involving all the major Disney characters, Sandu, Laura, and I went to UNICEF for my daily briefing with Nicoleta. We discussed a lot of things in English while she was talking with her colleagues and answering the phone in Romanian, cuddling Laura to her (calling her puisor, or little chicken), and complimenting me on the CD I gave her. You know those guys who spin eight or nine plates on three sticks? Nicoleta keeps eight or nine thousand plates spinning in all the rooms of a skyscraper, racing from room to room to keep them spinning, while never losing her calm or her sense of humor.
Sandu and I arrived at the Organ Hall to pay the director 10,000 lei (about $830) for the concert hall rental on June 24, then I had my second rehearsal with Ilian. The syncopations in the last Bartok duo proved difficult for him. Since we’re the same age, I had to guide him to the correct rhythm very carefully. We tried switching parts, clapping, singing, and stomping (to my embarrassment, Sandu recorded this on his cellphone and spent the next few days gleefully playing the recording to the amusement of anyone who would listen). The longer it takes to solve a musical problem, the more involved and excited I get, so I was getting quite sweaty. Finally, we did it a couple times with the right rhythm, and we both burst into grins. Nothing quite like the feeling of successfully tackling a thorny problem, especially when there’s a huge language barrier involved.
June 18. The UNICEF van picked me up at 8:15 before picking up Nicoleta and Oleg for our trip to the village of Farladani. The trip’s purpose: facilitate the connection between Katsutoshi Maeda, a Japanese businessman living in London, and the kindergarten of Farladani.
As we left Chisinau, I kept waiting for us to get on the expressway until I realized…there was no expressway. Just a three-lane road, almost empty except for the occasional car, pedestrian, or horse and buggy. We stopped at a hill overlooking the village to rest and take pictures. I met Mr. Maeda, a reserved and distinguished older gentleman in a classy gray suit; Linda Critchley, an attractive, sophisticated woman who quit her job at Marks and Spencer to work as Mr. Maeda’s personal assistant; and Ala, their pretty young Moldovan translator.
We parked in front of the school and were met by one of the teachers. The school seemed quite deserted. Nicoleta explained that the kids had been invited back from their summer recess for Mr. Maeda’s tour, but where were they?
The teacher led us down a set of stone steps. At one time, metal had lined the edge of each step; now, the steps have crumbled to the point that these thin metal rods are now dangerous tripping hazards. But of course, nothing has been done.
We rounded the back of the building to find the smiling schoolchildren lined up to welcome us. A little boy and girl in traditional Moldovan costume held a circular loaf of elaborately braided bread, topped by a small glass filled with salt. Mr. Maeda snapped off a piece of bread as cameras flashed, and then we all received bread, salt, and bouquets of wildflowers.
Our tour began with the French and math rooms. The small speech pathology room serves fifteen of the school’s fifty-seven children who have a speech impediment. The whole school has three teachers, none of whom is a speech pathologist. Their method? Use make-up mirrors to show the children their lips as they speak. A speech pathologist would be a godsend to the Farladani school. But of course, nothing has been done.
The nurse’s office contained a broken old scale that told you everything weighs a hundred kilograms. The tragically barren medicine cabinet contained a few rusty containers from the Soviet era and—could it be?—yes, an old container of potato chips. Nicoleta said it probably contained something else—my guess would be a folk medicine of some kind. A few dollars would buy the Farladani school some modern medicine—the kind that comes in bottles, not old potato chip containers. But of course, nothing has been done.
We inspected the washroom, where children use colorful buckets filled with wellwater to wash their hands. Nicoleta said that hepatitis spreads easily this way—during school, the local hospital is overwhelmed. Pure running water, flowing out of stainless steel faucets, would put a permanent stop to this. Handwashing would accomplish its intended purpose—keeping kids healthy, not making them sick. But of course, nothing has been done.
The kitchen is a disaster. Everything is broken except for one hot plate. A stove would be wonderful—who knows how many microorganisms a good stove could kill? But of course, nothing has been done.
As we left the building, Oleg joked with me, “I hope you stop shaking by the time you play.” I must have been visibly shaking with rage. Why has nothing been done? For God’s sake, how much would it cost to fill a medicine cabinet with something other than an old potato chip container? The price of a pair of American movie tickets? If four Americans gave up their cellphones for a year, wouldn’t that be more than enough to buy a stove for the Farladani school? It was a small consolation to see a U.S.D.A. poster in the kitchen indicating that the U.S. provides some funds for the school lunch. Next year when I pay my taxes for the first time, I will pay them gladly, having seen that poster. But it is not enough.
However, the worst was yet to come. “See those?” Oleg said. He pointed to a pair of buildings out in the field. “Those are the toilets.” We stopped at the first one. So much paint had chipped off, it was barely white anymore. The air around the small concrete hole inside hung thick with flies. “That’s the teachers’ toilet,” Oleg smiled. My heart sank. The students used something worse?
Sure enough, the student toilet, consisting of five holes in the concrete, was worse, but what Linda and I found truly horrifying were the large holes which yawned unexpectedly in the concrete outside the toilet. Partially obscured by tufts of grass, each one was more than big enough for a child to fall into. We peered into the holes, whose faraway bottoms were choked with shit and trash. “Have you lost any children?” Linda asked anxiously. After Ala translated, a teacher laughed nervously: “Not yet.”
It was now time for my children’s concert. The children assembled, restless and giggling, in the school’s largest room. Mr. Maeda and Linda spoke briefly, presenting the kids with a box filled with Japanese cranes. I began my concert with a lively Romanian folk dance.
“Buna ziua,” I shouted when I finished. “Buna ziua,” they responded dutifully. “I didn’t hear you,” I said, waiting for Nicoleta to translate. “Buna ziua,” they screamed. I relaxed. These kids weren’t so different from all the American kids I’ve played for.
Next, I did the “Bravo! Bravissimo!” routine that I learned from my old friend Alicia Doudna. You teach the kids to shout “Bravo!” when they like something and “Bravissimo!” when they like something so much, they can’t control themselves. I was initially thrown because I hadn’t known that “bravo” is also a Romanian word, but from their lusty yells I could tell these kids enjoyed the routine as much as their American counterparts.
I had the kids raise their hand every time I played the three-note motive in the first movement of Ysaye’s Obsession Sonata. This gets them to listen carefully, plus they enjoy seeing me help them out by raising my right leg whenever they’re supposed to raise their hand.
Next, I asked them to tell me what the second movement of the Barkauskas Partita is about. Worried that they wouldn’t understand the assignment, I offered a few suggestions, such as a thunderstorm, two rabbits playing, or a silly chicken on vacation. After I played the piece, I received only combinations of those answers. I ignored one of Alicia Doudna’s cardinal rules: never force-feed kids anything. Sorry, Alicia, you were right.
I told them that I’m getting kind of tired and would need some help with the next piece. I asked for a volunteer and picked a small chap, teaching him to pluck the E and A strings. Then, I played “Pop Goes the Weasel,” prodding him to pluck those strings at the right moment. Afterwards, I motioned for his fellow students to clap for him, and to my delight, they started chanting “Bravissimo!” in perfect rhythm. I closed my program with another Romanian folk dance. I felt thrilled and humbled when I finished and the students once again chanted “Bravissimo!” as three of them gave me bouquets of wildflowers. Later, a teacher asked me when I’ll be coming back!
The children followed my performance with one of their own, singing and dancing in traditional Moldovan costume as a teacher accompanied them on the accordion. It amazed me how cheerful they are. These children risk debilitating disease and death every day by going to the toilet, and they were smiling.
My post-concert high died a bit as I sat in on the meeting where Linda asked the school officials to assess their exact needs. They need so much, I thought glumly, and violin recitals are last on that list. So many of their needs are easy to meet, but of course, nothing has been done.
And yet, as I listened to Linda grill the officials on the exact price of a well, a toilet, and sinks, my sadness evaporated as I realized: something is being done. Mr. Maeda will buy these kids their toilets. The world is not such an indifferent place after all.
Feeling guilty that I couldn’t offer the school something as concrete as a toilet, I rummaged in my bag and found a large sheaf of manuscript paper. With Nicoleta translating, I asked a teacher if they could use it in their music class. Yes, she replied, they could.
We stopped at Oleg’s parents’ home before returning to Chisinau—he grew up in Farladani. As our feet gently sank into the rich loam, we picked and ate cherries right off the tree. Oleg introduced me to the pigs, chickens, and roosters in their stinky stone houses, and I cheerfully answered each of them in their respective language.
That evening in Chisinau, Mr. Maeda generously treated Linda, Ala, Nicoleta, the director of Step-by-Step (a teacher training program), and me to dinner at Nori, a Japanese establishment considered the best restaurant in Moldova. I’m not surprised: it was the best Japanese food I’ve had, and with its mixture of modern chic and traditional décor, its outstanding cuisine, and high prices, it would be right at home in New York. I could hardly believe I was in the same country I was in this morning.
We all enjoyed the opportunity to unwind after this morning’s sobering experience. In fact, the persistent topic of the evening, made fascinating by the collective travel experiences of everyone at the table, was “Toilets I Have Seen.” I hope that one day the children of Farladani will be able to have a similar conversation.
June 20. My performance in the opening ceremonies of the Eugen Coca International Competition at the Porumbescu Lyceum was not my best playing. I had not known the name of the competition until I showed up at the hall. Suddenly, I became quite nervous, since this is a well-known East European competition. I hadn’t eaten enough, and the humidity in the hall didn’t help. While I was playing, I snuck a few glances at the competition’s jurors seated in the front row: one was reading, another was sleeping. This did nothing to improve the sound created by weak, perspiring, and intimidated little me. I got only two compliments from jurors, of the pro forma variety: “Very interesting.”
Nevertheless, I did get a couple compliments that meant a lot to me. Sandu told me that he hadn’t heard much classical music, and I immediately assumed that this meant he preferred the Ysaye, with its short movements and arresting drama, to the monumental, esoteric Bach Ciaccona. To my delight, he actually preferred the Ciaccona.
I exited the hall, talking to Oxana and Sandu, to find the large mother of one of the contestants in the competition waiting for me. She positively beamed, waxing effusive as her teenage daughter stood uncomfortably by her side. Of everything she said that Oxana translated, one comment will always stick with me: “Sometimes harmony comes down from heaven to fill the space between people.”
June 21. Sandu helped me buy a couple monarchist souvenirs for my brother before we headed to Stefan cel Mare park to meet Oxana, who had produced a fine Romanian translation of the speech I will give on Friday. Only problem is, Romanian vowels are almost impossible for the tongue schooled in English to execute effectively. I floundered like a drowning chicken in a sea of mispronounced î‘s as Oxana and Sandu valiantly struggled to contain their mirth. Finally, I got the translation to sound vaguely Romanian.
June 22. Viorica, Nicoleta, and I met over dinner at Hotel Dacia with Andrei Porubin, the gregarious chap who will emcee Friday’s event. I enjoyed my entrée of mamaliga, considered the Moldovan national dish: polenta, fatty beef, sheep cheese, and sour cream. When Sandu picked me up afterwards, I treated him to dessert at Delice D’Ange. It’s the least MFTP could do for him. If I had to pay for a guide, translator, personal assistant, porter, and cook 14 hours a day, 7 days a week, I’d bankrupt myself. Sandu does all that for free—but more importantly, he’s my friend.
June 24. Sandu, Nicoleta, and I arrived at the Organ Hall at about 9:15. It soon turned into a beehive of activity, supervised by Nicoleta, who frantically ran this way and that in high heels. Men fixed UNICEF and Moldcell banners to a bar that would be hoisted high above the stage. Moldcell, UNICEF’s partner in the event, sent two sexy women dressed like airline stewardesses—they were soon assigned to pass out scrolls detailing UNICEF’s goals for the book drive. Smiling, uniformed McDonald’s employees arrived to erect a playland for children with balloons, activities, and Happy Meals. I stopped to watch representatives from local bookstores put the finishing touches to elaborate book displays, available for people to purchase books to donate to the book drive. Then, I proceeded to the atrium with a box full of buttons saying “Am daruit o poveste” (I donated a fairy tale). From a distance, I shamelessly admired the beautiful 16-year-old anchorwoman from one of the many TV stations that would cover today’s event. As tables, people, pictures, banners, books, lists, boxes, video screens, wiring, and TV cameras were jockeyed into position, the Organ Hall quickly entered a state of readiness.
The opening of the doors at 10 a.m. produced a pleasing influx of donors. Since my job was to play as their reward, I began the Bach D Minor Partita. Over the next six hours I would play all the Bach unaccompanied works except the C Major and A Minor Sonatas. A man with limited English requested something Hungarian, so I dredged Monti’s Czardas from the depths of my memory. One woman listened for a while before leaving and returning with a bouquet of flowers, presented wordlessly with a smile. In general, however, people didn’t listen that much, just coming into the atrium, dropping their books on a table, picking up a button, and leaving.
It was exciting to see the table pile up with dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of books. Some people really came prepared, dragging enormous bags full of scores of books. During one of my breaks, I went to the bookstore stand and bought five books for 244 lei (about $20) as MFTP’s contribution.
During another break, a local TV station interviewed me with Oxana translating. The awkwardness of being on TV in a foreign country made me so unconfident that I wouldn’t bet on the coherence of my remarks in English, let alone in translation. Later I felt a little more comfortable giving a statement on national TV.
Lunch had to be quick, so Sandu, Oxana, and I adjourned to Bar Sonata, the Organ Hall’s café, where I enjoyed mamaliga (doubtless Moldova’s greatest contribution to international cuisine) and a dessert of prunes, nuts, and cream. I became more and more tired as the hour for the concert approached, though the frequent intervals when no one was coming to the Organ Hall meant that I did not actually play for six hours.
Since UNICEF decided to make the concert invitation-only, it began at 4 p.m. with only about 150 people scattered throughout the 550-seat hall. Oxana sat by my side to offer a running translation. Mr. Lupu, the Speaker of Parliament, and Giovanna Barberis, UNICEF’s international representative, spoke before a 10-minute video highlighted the problems facing children’s literacy in Moldova. In one part, an off-camera interviewer asked village children (about 8 or 9 years old) to name as many letters as they could. Few could name more than seven.
After the video, Andrei introduced me from the stage. I strode up to the microphone and gave my first-ever speech in Romanian: “S-ar putea sa va întrebati de ce sunt aici…” In English, the speech would go like this: You might be wondering why I am here. Why would an American violinist come to Moldova to support UNICEF’s book drive? Because I believe in it. I believe in it so much that I wrote this speech in English and had it translated to Romanian so I could tell you how much I believe in it. I believe that whenever and wherever a parent reads to their child, the best side of humanity shows itself. I believe in music’s power to reach across cultural boundaries and remind us that we are all one human family. I believe that encouraging and loving our children creates the greatest hope for our future. Thank you.
Applause frequently interrupted the speech…I later learned that some people were so moved by my delivery of the speech in Romanian (a language I don’t know) that they actually cried. My Bach Ciaccona was okay, though the first page was pretty bad. I started out with no subtlety in my bow arm at all—I felt as elegant as a rhino in heat trying to juggle toothpicks.
My other performances went better, including the fourth movement of the Barkauskas and the three Bartok duos with Ilian. We both really got into it—our camaraderie was palpable in both the music and our smile and handshake afterwards.
Two segments involving children provided an interesting contrast. In one, kids from a village, dressed in traditional costume, recited poetry about how much they love reading—it was just adorable. But the other segment, sponsored by McDonald’s, almost angered me. A gaggle of Chisinau youngsters, in modern faux-cute American style (overalls and pigtails), were trained to bounce up and down with silly grins plastered on their faces while lip-synching to a pop track—all under the group name “Loly Pops” (sic, and I do mean sic).
Everyone was impressed with Andrei’s charismatic performance as emcee, particularly in the book auction—he held even my interest, and I couldn’t understand him.
I gave Nicoleta a big hug afterwards. For all practical purposes, this was her event, planned, coordinated, and executed by her alone. She was under enough pressure to crack most people, but like a duck, she almost always appeared calm on the surface while paddling like crazy underneath.
Viorica told me that UNICEF received about 6000 books, plus monetary donations and pledges that will amount to additional thousands of books. The two of us scanned the collection for suitability. We found mostly lavishly illustrated fairy tales, but I wasn’t sure about the appropriateness of a sex encyclopedia, the complete works of the eminent poet Eminescu, or some Kafka in translation (“Mama, I had the cockroach nightmare again”).
June 25. I shared a long breakfast with Viorica, learning more about the COMBI plan developed by my friend Dr. Everold Hosein, who works as a communication advisor with the World Health Organization. COMBI, or Communication for Behavioral Impact, is a revolutionary new method sweeping the United Nations. Unlike previous campaigns, it focuses on the actual behaviors you want to change. Sounds obvious, right? Not when you consider non-COMBI campaigns such as “Say No to Poverty” or “AIDS Kills,” neither of which tells the population how to modify their behavior. COMBI also emphasizes accountability and relies on the marketing expertise of the private sector.
UNICEF-Moldova uses the COMBI approach for their Early Childhood Development campaign, which they designed not only to boost early childhood literacy, but also to encourage parental affection. In Moldova, even a small amount of parental affection can be condemned as spoiling your child, and UNICEF would like to change that, particularly because the phenomenon of village parents abandoning their children to find work in big cities might be averted if the parent-child bond were more palpable. To this end, UNICEF has identified four behavioral messages that form a cornerstone of the campaign: read to your child, hug your child, play with your child, speak to your child. I’m honored to be a part of the campaign, and Dr. Hosein’s request that I be included in it is the reason MFTP exists.
June 28. On the way to Zgurita, we were met just past the Drochia county border by Valentina Colesnic, who pulled up behind where we were parked, across from a magnificent new onion-domed Orthodox church. Doamna Valentina, a well-dressed, kindly woman of regal bearing, seems to be the wealthiest and most respected member of the Zgurita community. She also happens to be the cousin of Sandu’s bunica. I had wondered if my decision to wear a traditional Moldovan shirt would be taken the right way. I needn’t have worried: when Nicoleta pointed it out to Doamna Valentina, she enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug.
We also took on two passengers: Nicholas and Nastia. With them as our guides, we drove the rest of the way into Zgurita. Riding over the bumpy one-lane dirt road felt like being in a rowboat on a stormy sea. Lucky for us, Tudor used to be a sailor, so he had no problem driving over and around the ruts. Actually, to call those chasms “ruts” is belittling—I half expected to see tourists on donkeys carefully making their way down the sides of these canyons.
In spite of the state of the roads and widespread lack of modern plumbing, Zgurita is not entirely rustic. It struck me as a bizarre blend of the nineteenth and twenty-first centuries, particularly given the abundance of cellphones. Much of the credit for this progress must be given to Doamna Valentina, who opened a computer center for villagers to learn about the internet and a factory to export hand-woven carpets to Japan.
Doamna Valentina’s home perfectly blends old and new. An ornately wrought well stands just off the road, and in the backyard, a cow greets you with a baleful stare and a resentful moo. Inside, magnificent carpets line both floors and walls. The home boasts a state-of-the-art TV, cellphones, and (unlike many homes here) indoor plumbing from the well. Doamna Valentina presides over an indefinably large household. I soon lost track of the crowds of middle-aged adults, young adults, children, and toddlers, all of whom smiled and greeted me.
We held tonight’s concert in a dirty, damp room the village uses for weddings. As children filed in and adults milled about, talking and setting up chairs, I met Adam Ptacin, a friendly, outgoing Peace Corps volunteer from Wisconsin. Yes, he’s heard of Harry Schwartz bookstores, started in 1927 by my great-great-uncle.
The program was the same as Farladani, with two additions. I recited my Romanian speech beforehand, and after the Ysaye, I added a segment promoting the four behavioral messages of the Early Childhood Development campaign. “One of the things I like about music is that it can describe love. Some people think the next piece I’ll play describes the love of a mother for her child. As you listen, I’d like to encourage the mothers in the room to think about the four ways UNICEF recommends you show your love for your child.” Then I’d mention the four messages and play my own hackneyed arrangement of the Brahms Lullaby.
The concert didn’t go over as well as it did in Farladani. People talked, looked around, and walked around throughout. However, I got some good creative answers when I asked the kids what the Barkauskas was about. Nicholas mentioned birds leaving for autumn, and a bright-eyed little blonde in a yellow dress said it sounded like kids playing before a thunderstorm.
Seldom have I witnessed a more chaotic or meaningful experience than the book distribution that followed the concert. After I finished playing, Nicoleta spoke for a while before some women moved the book table closer to where the kids were seated. Nicoleta, Doamna Valentina, Daniela, and some other women started passing out the books, and after a while, I lifted a stack of books and followed Nicoleta around.
As we made our way down each row, the children awaited us like we were passing out candy. Their eyes shone with eagerness and passion, with an almost carnal hunger for these books. They tore right into them, comparing notes, talking excitedly. What did you get? Can I have another fairy tale, please? Can I trade your novella for my poetry? What about a science book? Some traded with each other, some traded with us, some loved what they had so much they buried themselves in it right there, in spite of the hubbub. No matter how many books we gave out, they wanted more. But it had to end, and when Nicoleta announced that she was about to give out the last stack, a mob swarmed us, hands outstretched, jumping up and down. One kid made rapid grabbing motions with his fingers, looking like a fish gasping for air. That’s what books are to these kids. They are not a mere want, a passing fancy. They are oxygen. And to think—most of these kids had few if any books until tonight.
Afterwards, Nicoleta, Daniela, Tudor, Adam, and I adjourned to the local bar with Sergiu, Doamna Valentina’s son and Adam’s co-worker. I noticed that whenever a man walked in, he would shake hands with the four men, but not even look at the two women. However, when Doamna Valentina walked in, men would stand up and kiss her hand!
The others enjoyed the opportunity to unwind, but I felt too glum to order a drink. The lukewarm reception accorded my concert and the wild enthusiasm accorded the book distribution made me think that these kids needed books, not music. For the second time this trip, I wondered: what am I doing here?
Back at Doamna Valentina’s, I confided my self-doubts to Adam over a glass of homemade wine. He said, “Sounds like you’re beating yourself up for being human,” before adding that the community would not have come together for the book distribution tonight if it hadn’t been for my recital. He also said that my occasional feelings with alienation or futility are common among Peace Corps volunteers at the beginning of their 27-month commitment, but that the volunteers always get over such feelings, becoming better people in the process.
June 29. I was sorry to say goodbye to Zgurita. Doamna Valentina gave me a big hug and a beautiful carpet from her factory. A man in attendance at last night’s concert arranged for me to give another concert this morning in the neighboring village of Popesti. I was amazed by his ability to pack the school cafeteria with children at little more than twelve hours’ notice. I did my children’s concert program for the third time, after which Nicoleta wisely opted to let the teachers handle the book distribution while we returned to Chisinau.
We picked up more books at UNICEF before heading to Causeni county for our next concert at Camp Ghiocel. Built as a Soviet youth camp, the facilities now host a one-week girls camp run by the U.S. Peace Corps. Ninety of the 120 girls (age 14 to 17) speak Romanian; thirty speak Russian. They take classes in puberty, sex education, stereotypes, first aid, self-defense, cooking, English, kickball, and more. We held the concert in a circle of steps sunk into the ground; I looked up at my audience while standing in the ashes of last night’s bonfire.
I was pleasantly surprised by the enthusiastic clapping and screaming that followed the first piece, a Romanian folk dance. Talking to the girls took a while, since I had to wait for Nicoleta to translate what I said into Romanian, and then for a camp counselor to translate it into Russian. I told them that I will play a piece in three parts and asked them to come up with a story that might accompany it; then, I played the middle three movements of the Barkauskas Partita.
Their hands shot into the air when I finished. As they told their stories and the counselor whispered translations in my ear, their imaginations overwhelmed me. These stories had the complexity of novellas: one girl heard a bear in the second movement, lurking in the woods, emerging occasionally to terrorize a village. In the hypnotic, slow third movement, she heard two lovers searching for each other at night, yet never finding the other. In the relentless, presto fourth movement, someone tried desperately to warn the lovers of the bear’s impending arrival. Another girl spoke of the fourth movement, hearing a bird that tries to get closer and closer to the sun, until one of the sun’s rays burns it alive. I listened intently to three or four more fascinating stories, a bit taken aback that the Barkauskas had transported them to a realm of mystery, fire, doomed lovers, dense forests, and strange happenings in the night. Reminds me of a silly chicken on vacation, I remarked.
I expected dark stories for the Ysaye, so I decided to give them some guidance. I told them about the sonata’s subtitle, “Obsession.” I gave them the titles of the movements: Prelude, Melancholy, Dance of the Shadows, and The Furies. I described the conflict between the brilliant, sunny theme taken from Bach’s E Major Prelude and Ysaye’s appropriation of the mournful Dies Irae chant.
They listened raptly, and this time, their stories were darker, longer, more inventive. They told of fathers beating and killing mothers, a small boy trying to find his way out of a labyrinth, terrified horses and valiant warriors dying in the stench of ancient battlefields. One story I’ll never forget: I heard the beautiful things in life. Life is filled with so many beautiful things, and sometimes it’s so beautiful you can’t bear it. You don’t realize how beautiful it is until it is too late, and you want to die. At this point, the girl burst into tears. Her friend put an arm around her. After a long silence, I bowed to her, saying, “Multumesc.” Thank you.
To lighten the tone a bit, I offered to teach one girl the violin. I chose a tall girl in the front row, who told me in halting English that she played the guitar and her lifelong dream was to learn violin and become a violin teacher. I taught her and the other girls the names of the strings, and then began the laborious process of teaching her “Twinkle, Twinkle.”
As always, I ended with Paganini. It was hardly my best playing: I was hot, tired, dirty, and hungry; I hadn’t practiced; I’d been using outhouses with no opportunity to wash my hands. And yet, I knew from their rapturous response that my performance affected them at a more profound level than a note-perfect rendition would have touched a Carnegie Hall audience.
I opened the floor to questions. Some were quite thoughtful, such as “Do you feel that your soul is in your violin?” and “Do you agree that the violin cries more than it smiles?” Since this is an all-girl camp and they must have seen me as the American knight in shining armor, soon I was getting the inevitable questions: how old are you? are you married? do you have a girlfriend? do you have children? When asked if I wanted children and I responded yes, a girl poked her head up and quipped, “Ceva voluntare?” The girls exploded in laughter, and I must have turned as red as a tomato. I didn’t need a translation on that one.
Finally, a camp counselor called an end to the questions, and the girls began clapping and stomping rhythmically for me. I had been standing in the ashes of the bonfire for nearly two hours, and they didn’t want me to leave. When they did stop clapping, about twenty of them swarmed me, begging for my autograph, address, e-mail, or a picture with me, all of which I happily supplied.
In the car, I enthused to Nicoleta, “Wasn’t that great? Weren’t their stories amazing? Weren’t their imaginations astounding?” She looked back at me, a note of sadness in her voice: “Those weren’t their imaginations. That’s their reality.”
I struggled to accept her point: I was used to dark stories at children’s concerts back home, and when concerned adults would ask me about them, I’d say that kids have darker imaginations than adults would like to believe. But here, I realized Nicoleta was right. The girls had listened to my playing and heard war, hopelessness, fathers beating their children, fathers killing mothers. Violence rages in Transnistria, not far from Causeni county. UNICEF would not be so active in Moldova if the children here had model parents. This was their reality.
How lucky I am. I can come up with as sad a story as I like, and it will always come from my imagination, never my experience. I do not know the experiences of the girl who broke down while telling her story about the Ysaye, but I can imagine. They are experiences that make it very difficult to see the beautiful things in life. Yet after today, I believe she will.
June 30. Nicoleta really succeeded in publicizing UNICEF’s campaign: reporters from newspaper, radio, and TV accompanied us to Drochia county. Because of the crowd, Nicoleta asked me to rent a van. We pulled into Camp Poienita Insorita just before 6 p.m., after three bumpy hours. I noticed a bunch of girls my age on the grass outside the cafeteria, staring curiously at our van.
Like Ghiocel, Poienita Insorita was built as a Soviet youth camp, and in a symbol of American Cold War victory, it now hosts a one-week camp run by the U.S. Peace Corps. The camp, home to 65 girls ages 17 to 21, offers classes in English, health, first aid, pregnancy, childbirth, self-defence, sports, and more. We held the concert in a large grassy common area.
Nicoleta and I agreed that I would repeat yesterday’s program, with the addition of my Romanian speech for the benefit of the media. During the Romanian folk dance, they listened intently, applauding politely afterwards. In their eyes, I saw intellectual curiosity, rather than the adoration of the Ghiocel girls. They also seemed more reserved, so I was able to relax enough to give my best performance yet this tour, though it would not have passed muster in New York.
This time, I was not naïve enough to believe that the stories the girls told were the sole product of imagination. One girl struggled to hold back tears as she told us that in the Barkauskas, she heard a child searching for his parents, or maybe he does not have parents, and then he finds someone he thinks may be his mother, and she loves him and takes care of him until she dies. The Ysaye reminded one girl of a marketplace interrupted by a funeral, and inspired another to practically come up with a novel. In the first movement, this girl heard the pain of childbirth, followed by the mother’s death. The second movement portrayed her funeral. As her son grows up in the third movement, he loses all the other people he loves and is left with only the company of his medical textbooks. In the last movement, he becomes a successful doctor and starts a hospital to treat pregnant women who suffer from the same complications that killed his mother. How this girl found optimism in the brutal, spastic virtuosity of the last movement is beyond me, but Nicoleta and I were thrilled to finally hear a happy ending.
I serenaded the ladies with an encore, “Meditation from Thais,” after which they shed their earlier reserve and stampeded me for autographs and photos. As one Peace Corps volunteer joked, “We’ll get him married off before he leaves.” Much as I loved the attention, my conscience pricked a bit. For a lot of these girls, marriage to a rich American is probably a cherished fantasy, a ticket out of whatever hell they experience. Fun though it might be for an American single guy like me, this is not the answer for them, and certainly not for Moldova. For anyone who cares deeply about Moldova, the real answer lies with the hard work of wonderful people like Nicoleta and Viorica, who are slowly preparing Moldova for a future in which parents hug their children, going to the toilet does not mean risking death, and stories of darkness come only from the imagination.
