Severin Turel

            Grants Pass Oregon, population of 9,500 souls, situated on the banks of the famed Rogue River – it hardly seemed like the stopping place for a Four Star Concert. Therefore, it came as a surprise when members of St. Anne’s Catholic Church learned that a group of artists had agreed to fill their otherwise open date, April 29, 1956, in our small town.

            Included in this troupe were four well-known Catholic artists: Joan Walker, internationally recognized soprano from Dublin, Ireland; Matthew Reilly, the Yankee tenor from New England; and concert violinist Frances Flanagan, a leading exponent of the music of Fritz Kreisler. Topping the bill was the spectacular Polish-born pianist-composer, Severin Turel, who had concretized all over Europe prior to the Nazi invasion.

            Hastily, a church committee formed to make the usual arrangements. The Veterans of Foreign Wars offered its hall, small but in good taste. The committee secured the use of a grand piano. They planned a reception and sold tickets, while local newspapers and radio stations publicized the event.

            All appeared to be in readiness. Then, at the last minute, to the grievous embarrassment of the entire congregation, they learned that the grand piano was not available after all. They would have to substitute an ordinary upright. What an insult to a great musician such as Severin Turel! Had I been in his place, I would have refused to appear.

            At first I decided not to attend the concert in order to spare myself the humiliation. Still, this hardly seemed the right thing to do. I would be one more body to occupy a seat in the already small crowd. Yes, I had to attend.

            I chose a seat in a back row and waited for curtain time.

            Miss Joan Walker, the beautiful mistress of ceremonies, walked onto the stage to make her introductory remarks. The audience became tense  and hushed. What would be Mr. Turel’s reaction when he saw the tattered old piano? Would he show the proverbial artistic temperament? Even refuse to appear?

            At that moment my fears were allayed. Making his entrance, he smiled and bowed politely in response to applause, then seated himself at the piano with as much calm and self-possession as if he were again appearing at Carnegie Hall. If he was disappointed in the occasion, his actions had successfully concealed the fact.

            Spellbound, I sat and listened to the dynamic “Warsaw Concerto” as Mr. Turel displayed his rare and masterful touch. He followed with one of his own compositions, “Prelude”, then Chopin’s “Fantasie Impromptu”, a Bach-Gounow Turel arrangement of “Ave Maria”, and the “Second Hungarian Rhapsody” by Franz Liszt. The old tired piano shook, and the small hall nearly burst with the vibrations of his vigorous exposition. It was easy to understand why he had been compared to one of the all-time greats, Franz Liszt. Nor was it beneath his dignity to honor us with two encore numbers. Already, my admiration for Mr. Turel had reached the top.

            A star in his own right, Mr. Turel then took a background seat for the remainder of the evening to accompany the other artists on the program.

            Before beginning his numbers, tenor Matthew Reilly came forth with a bit of wit and humor which further tended to pacify an apologetic audience.

            “I’m used to having a Baby Grand,” he admitted good-naturedly. The audience agreed with applause. Then he continued: “It’s not that my singing requires it – I’m not that much of a musician – it’s just that I like to lean into the curve.”

            The audience laughed. Capriciously peeking around the end of the piano, as if looking for the pianist, Mr. Reilly remarked, “Next time we come, I hope we either have a shorter piano or a taller pianist!”

            This time the audience roared! You see, Mr. Turel was only five-foot-five, and his slight frame was dwarfed by the oversized upright.

            The concert finished, this small but appreciative audience realized they had witnessed the superb performance of leading artists of the world. Imagine it! Carnegie Hall brought right to our doorstep! These musicians had displayed behavior fit for royalty, as if our small town were as important as New York or Vienna.

            For me the highlight of the evening was my attendance at the reception in the church hall following the performance, where I was privileged to personally meet Mr. Turel.

            “I want you to know how much I enjoyed your performance tonight,” I told him.

            Taking my hand, he replied politely, “I was glad to play for you, Madam.”

            Returning home, I felt I had experienced one of the most fruitful evenings of my life. Though the hour was late, my interest had been thoroughly stimulated, and I sat down to read the press sheets which had been loaned to me by one of the committee members. From these I learned the truth about Mr. Turel.

            He was a member of the Polish Division of the French Army during World War II. He was captured by the Germans and marked for execution because of his Polish heritage. Because of this, Mr. Turel’s bunkmate risked his own safety to contact the Swiss Red Cross representative to tell him that in his dormitory was a piano virtuoso who, if given the opportunity, could help the morale of the prisoners, as well as their German guards. This bunkmate, a carpenter by trade, had fashioned a dummy keyboard on which the young Turel “practiced” whenever he could evade the watchful eyes of his captors. In this way, Severin, who had been assigned to hard labor on the coal trucks, was able to keep his work-worn fingers agile.

            The Swiss mercy delegation interceded with the prison commander for the life of Mr. Turel. Doubting that the prisoner was a pianist, the commander ordered him to play. Someone found a battered old piano in a nearby peasant’s house.

            Turel sat down and played everything he could think of, stalling for time, fearing that at any moment his execution might be fulfilled. Miraculously, the German commander was convinced that the young Pole could be useful, and placed him in charge of the camp’s “musical activities”.

            “Never again,” said Mr. Turel, “have I complained about a piano. That battered old wreck was my salvation.”

            After reading this account, I fully understood how this outstanding artist had been able to extend such graciousness in our behalf. That evening I learned a magnificent truth: while success can be measured by fame and fortune, true greatness can only be measured by humility in, and gratitude for, success.

            I knew I had shaken the hand of a truly great man, the brilliant virtuoso, Severin Turel.