Text: English, German

Edith Anderson left America for Berlin in 1947 to join her German husband - an exile from the Nazis - who had returned to his homeland to build a new country from Hitler's ruins. Max Schroeder had been a surrealist poet/playwright in his bohemian twenties, but when Edith Anderson met him in New York at the height of World War II, he was a seasoned, forty-three-year-old political activist editing an anti-facist periodical in English and German. Edith, a struggling young writer from the East Bronx, worked first at the The Daily Worker, and then as one of the first "American railroad girls."

Index

Anshel Brusilow was born in 1928 and raised in Philadelphia by musical Russian Jewish parents in a neighborhood where practicing your instrument was as normal as hanging out the laundry. By the time he was sixteen he was appearing as soloist with the Philadelphia Orchestra. He also met Pierre Monteux at sixteen, when Monteux accepted him into his summer conducting school. Under George Szell, Brusilow was associate concertmaster at the Cleveland Orchestra until Ormandy snatched him away to make him concertmaster in Philadelphia, where he remained from 1959 to 1966. Ormandy and Brusilow had a father-son relationship, but Brusilow could not resist conducting, to Ormandy's great displeasure. By the time he was forty, Brusilow had sold his violin and formed his own chamber orchestra in Philadelphia with more than a hundred performances per year. For three years he was conductor of the Dallas Symphony, until he went on to shape the orchestral programs at Southern Methodist University and the University of North Texas. Brusilow played with or conducted many top-tier classical musicians, and he has opinions about each and every one. He also made many recordings. Co-written with Robin Underdahl, his memoir is a fascinating and unique view of American classical music during an important era, as well as an inspiring story of a working-class immigrant child making good in a tough arena.

An autobiography of award-winner author Alison Pick.

This is a new release of the original 1933 edition.

Text extracted from opening pages of book: HAROLD BAUER W W NORTON & COMPANY INC New York Qslluslraiions Facing Page Harold Bauer at the age of ten 30 Concert announcement of Nikita's Russian tour with Harold Bauer as pianist . 31 The Paderewski picture 31 Harold Bauer, Fritz Kreisler, and Pablo Casals 62 Harold Bauer and Ossip Gabrilowitsch 62 Paris, 1912 63 Medal of the society La Trompette 63 Harold Bauer 158 Musicians at Moszkowski Benefit, 1922 159 Harold Bauer, from the bust by Brenda Putnam 190 Harold Bauer 191 re j f ace I NEVER INTENDED TO WRITE THE STORY OF MY LIFE, AND I neither know nor care whether I shall be believed when I say that this writing has been the most abominable and tedious chore that I ever undertook What happened is this: my very dear and distinguished friend, the late Carl Engel, president of G. Schirmer, Inc., wished to pay me a compliment on the occasion of my sev entieth birthday. Since he had always been amused by my relation of little incidents in my long career, he got me to write some of them down, then put them together with inimitable skill and charm, and published the result in the Musical Quarterly. This created a great deal of comment, and the next thing was that Warder Norton asked me to write a whole book about myself. I rejected his suggestion with horror, but I went to tea with him and his wife, and, as a consequence of their skillful and delicate flattery, I was undone. Even so, the book would never have been completed without the gentle and incessant nagging of my wife. The time has come for me to express my acknowledg ments to everyone concerned in this perpetration, and I hereby do so, peevishly, with the fervent hope that they will allleave me alone in future. It remains only for me to add, now that I notice the curi ously abrupt fashion in which this book starts, that I was born near London on April 28, 1873. H. B. ne MY EARLIEST REACTION TO MUSIC, AS FAR AS I CAN RECALL, was one of fascinated terror. Even at this far-distant time, it almost makes my flesh creep when I think of the huge faces of adults bending over me, or over one of my sisters, and emitting the strange sound which, I was later to learn, is called singing. The music was not confined to noises coming from human faces, however, for there was also the unfor gettable sound solemn and yet piercing of the shiny brass instruments played in the street by a group of shabby men called the German Band. In addition, there was the Italian barrel-organ grinder, accompanied sometimes oh, bliss by a monkey; an occasional violinist; a man who played a bright yellow clarinet; two men in Highland cos tume, one of whom danced to the playing of the bagpipes ( the most exciting sound in the world, I think) by his com panion. Then the music of the street cries ( Chinaware cheap and Jubilee Coal Blocks provided the themes, later on, 9] for a juvenile sonata), and finally, the god of musicians, a glorious individual who went about with a dozen different instruments distributed over his person, playing them all at the same time. That, to me, was real magic; and I longed unspeakably to grow up and conquer my fear of the sounds, so that I could wield the power he possessed some day I suppose it was this mingled feeling of fear and ambition that made me try to find the notes of a tune which had alarmed me to the extent of wanting to hide under the table. After I had pickedout the notes, I did not mind it so much. It was the opening of Brahms' piano quintet, and I am still a little afraid of it. On my fourth birthday, I decided that the time had come for me to do something important, so I composed a polka which contained exactly eight measures quite enough, I considered, for a beginning, a middle, and an end. How it was that this babyish little thing stuck in my mind I am un able to say, but it came back to me about half a century later, when Ossip and Clara Gabrilowitsch told me almost tear fully that their daughter Nina showed not

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"A fabulous, gripping story, with a nice dose of suspense at the end of each chapter, making you want to turn the page." -Arnold Ismach, journalism dean, University of Oregon "I read Angels in the Forest with great interest and admiration.... a terrific book. The extraordinary and significant details are the reasons. If there is truth to the clich?, a triumph of the human spirit, This book proves that truth." -Ira Berkow, feature writer, New York Times Earl Greif's Angels in the Forest reflects the man and his mission It is a work of simplicity and passion, written with integrity and decency. told in a way faithful to the past and challenging for our future." -Michael Berenbaum, former director, Holocaust Research Institute

Much as he considered himself a philosopher, Morris Raphael Cohen was also immersed in the machinery of social life. From his first years of "engagement" as a volunteer teacher in Thomas Davidson's school for working-class people, to his last as professor of philosophy at New York's City College and at the University of Chicago, he constantly sought to understand the underlying assumptions of human behavior. The studies Cohen gathered together for Reflections of a Wondering Jew are an indication of representative achievements of his life. He was deeply involved in the experience of the American Jewish community, and much of his work here consists of an inquiry into and analysis of specifically Jewish affairs. Some of his most valuable contributions to American thought and maturity are those that were never included in standard philosophical efforts. His work and scholarship provide foundations for the field of human problems and the history of ideas. These lectures illuminated the way forward in so many of our crisis years. There is a certain tragedy to the fact that for many decades Morris Raphael Cohen had hoped to organize and put into systematic form his literary reflections on Jewish problems and American liberalism. Towards the end of his life, he faced the realization that many of his intended writings would never reach fruition. Though this volume may not be quite what Cohen intended, it is a product of a mature giant in American intellectual history.