The Woman on the Train Read Free Page B

the wall next to a baker’s. ‘You’re fast,’ he said, breathlessly as his colleagues caught up, ‘but not fast enough.’ He thrust his revolver into my back. ‘Up against the wall. Legs apart.’
    A second German began frisking me, his fat hands inside my jacket, against my shirt, checking every pocket. Grabbing me by the shoulder, he turned me around. ‘Open your bag.’ There were three of them, their revolvers drawn.
    ‘Is this code?’ he asked, holding up the score.
    ‘No, it’s sheet music – Wagner. He’s German.’
    ‘Mm. You’ve got nothing on you,’ said the second once he’d turned my bag inside out. ‘So why are you running away, eh? What are you hiding?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Nothing? You run away for nothing?’
    ‘I’m in a hurry.’
    ‘Don’t try to be funny. Right, you’re coming with us.’
    ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong.’
    ‘We’ll soon see about that.’
    Passers-by stopped to stare as I was marched back to the station, my hands still above my head, my three Germans behind me. Those coming towards me stepped off the pavement to let me pass, concerned looks upon their faces. An older woman in black winked. Perhaps she thought I was some sort of a hero.
    We were almost back at the station when I heard what was now a familiar voice shouting in German. ‘Halt,’ said one of the soldiers.
    And there she was – the woman from the train, berating the Germans while showing them her ID. They passed it from one to the other as she launched into a long tale, speaking quickly in that authoritative tone.
    One responded in a quiet voice. The exchange continued in German while I watched them daring to hope that I’d get away from this.
    The Germans answered as one, sounding apologetic. Turning to me, the woman said, ‘I’ve explained to the gentlemen and they realise they’ve made a mistake. You’re free to go.’
    I opened my mouth not sure what to say or how to thank her.
    ‘Accept our apologies, Monsieur,’ said one of the soldiers.
    ‘Oh, yes. Easy mistake to make,’ I said with a confidence I didn’t feel.
    I bowed to the woman and even clicked my heels. ‘Thank you, Madame.’
    I quickly returned back to the station. Stuff my piano teacher, I thought; I was heading back home.

Paris, November 1966
    A conductor bears a huge weight of responsibility – a poor conductor can render a magnificent work mediocre, reduce an esteemed orchestra to that of a confused rabble, and can flaw even the greatest of singers. The composer, who has spent possibly years writing and perfecting his work is then entirely in the hands of the conductor who brings it to life. They say that even Beethoven, blighted by his deafness, ruined his own work as a conductor. The orchestra is as dependent upon their conductor as a newly-born child is dependent upon its mother.
    Conducting an eighty-piece orchestra in the confines of a recording studio is a very different prospect to a live venue. One feels restrained; it is not a natural setting. In a live situation, the conductor and musicians feed off the audience and the environment; there is a natural energy that spurs us on to higher deeds, to a greater performance. Not so in a studio, with its muted, artificial air. All spontaneity is destroyed. As a conductor one must spur one’s charges to produce a music that is beyond mere workmanship. Theoretically, a studio recording allows one to stop and re-record as much or as little as necessary; it provides one with the opportunity to attain perfection. Yet, in reality, it does exactly the opposite – it acts as a stop on creativity, it renders both the musicians and the conductor too self-conscious. We follow the music, not our hearts. Therefore, one has to work ten times harder to try to produce a work that is worthy of one’s name and the composer’s expectations.
    Then, from the recording studio to the editing suite, where technology plays its part, where one can lift a performance to