Neujahrskonzert

The address of my childhood until I got married was Karlsplatz 3.

When I walked out of the rather grand entrance, through which horse drawn carriages had galloped a mere 120 years ago, and turned left, counting roughly five hundred steps, I would find myself standing before one of the most famous concert halls in the world: the Wiener Musikvereinssaal.

Growing up, I took this proximity to culture entirely for granted. Only after I moved to Los Angeles in late 1974 did I truly understand why our mother had chosen this neighborhood. Everything was at our fingertips, opera, concerts, art, so easily attainable, even at the last minute, often with standing room tickets.

There were times when I had not finished my homework and missed the first half of an opera or concert. I would calculate when the intermission might begin and arrive late. There was always a kind usher who closed one eye, pretended I had a ticket, and let me stand in the back, absorbing the very best music.

In Vienna, we called this an Ohrenschmaus, a feast for the ears.

Whereas in my new hometown, it took considerable time to arrive at the only concert hall, referred to as the Music Center of Los Angeles.

We have a WhatsApp group, we meaning those of us born in Vienna. Messages fly back and forth: weddings, funerals, politics, wars, recipes, especially before the High Holidays. The group is called Donauwalzer, not only the most famous waltz in the world, but also our shared shorthand for home.

Today, one of my Donauwalzer friends, Pessy, sent us the New Year’s Concert from the Musikvereinssaal, which had taken place just hours earlier. The program consisted mostly of Strauss music.

Tickets to this concert are almost impossible to obtain; one must know someone who knows someone, usually high up in the worlds of culture or politics. But it is possible.

And so here I am, ten thousand miles away from my hometown, listening to the Blue Danube, waltzing alone from the entryway to the kitchen, and finally into the den, where my husband was immersed in his Daf Yomi. He does not hear the harmonious sounds, he only sees his wife drifting through the rooms, as if possessed by Strauss himself, and focused purely on Torah thoughts.

It was the grand finale: the Donauwalzer, followed by the final encore, the Radetzky March.

For one full hour, I disappeared into the soundscape of my youth. I allowed myself to be folded into the music like whipped cream atop a Sachertorte, savoring the indulgence of pure pleasure.

I adored the abundance of flowers arranged along the walls and crowning the stage like a floral diadem, each bloom looking as if it had just been picked from a field, now gathered densely together, much like the audience seated so close to the musicians that they seemed to frame them, protect them, will them onward to complete this magnificent concert.

And as hundreds of people in the hall clapped in perfect unison to the Radetzky March, I stood alone in my home, calling out Bravo, Bravo, and once again became one with my youth.

When the last applause dissolved into silence, I found myself once again at Karlsplatz 3. Not in body, but in certainty. I could see the large entrance as it once was and feel the instinctive desire to take those five hundred steps to hear it live. Ten thousand miles now, yet the distance had collapsed into a single hour of sound.

And so the music ended where it began: at the threshold of my childhood home. The door closed softly behind it, but the echo stayed.