LoveUbecause … You were a Saint, Martin

LoveUbecause …  You were a saint, Martin

re·qui·em:  Pronunciation: \ˈre-kwē-əm also ˈrā- or ˈrē-\
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin (first word of the introit of the requiem mass), accusative of requies rest, from re- + quies quiet, rest — more at while
Date: 14th century
1: a mass for the dead
2 a: a solemn chant (as a dirge) for the repose of the dead b: something that resembles such a solemn chant
3 a: a musical setting of the mass for the dead b: a musical composition in honor of the dead
(http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/requiem)

I always think it is interesting how seemingly, unrelated events occasionally, unexpectedly, fall into place and culminate in creating personal meaning out of their randomness. The pieces of the puzzle often are created over a long period of time, but whether by serendipity, or some kind of cosmic will, eventually tumble into place, creating a picture of better understanding and appreciation of those around us and those who have come before -  sometimes even in single day, or two.

My wife and I , also “A”, spent this past weekend in a small, historic, eastern Ontario town with friend’s, “B” and “S”, both of whom we have known for many years - “B”, my wife’s friend from high school days and my former university flat-mate  - “S”, his wife of almost 25 years, with whom both “A” and I share a firm friendship and I, in particular, an affinity for the same kind of British humour, as we both hail originally from “the land of Bess”,  and love of all things equine, as we both own and ride horses.

“B” is quite a remarkable man. A small town music teacher, choirmaster and church organist for some 30 years, he has brought joy and music to the communities he has worked and lived in with the unwavering generosity of the gifts of his time and very considerable musical and organizational talents.  He has  directed  and worn enough different hats while participating in, and organizing countless school and community musicals, concerts, recitals and band trips to make the Mad Hatter appear like a slouch! “S” has stood by his side, offering her moral support, skills as a hostess for an untold number of “after parties,” her home, sense of humour and culinary skills  as refuge and comfort to sundry visiting musicians, artists and actors and lent her alto voice as a participant in many of “B”’s projects – she is the veritable “Queen of Patience” - both are to be celebrated  and  admired. Most of all, I am proud to count them as my friends!

“B”’s latest project was to combine two choirs  from two local churches to form a 45 voice ensemble to  perform what is known to some as the “Brahms Requiem” and to others as  “A German Requiem” (Ein Deutsches Requiem).  Anyone in the know will tell you that this is no small musical undertaking for a professional choir, never mind a small town ensemble comprised of  members who possess a wide range of musical skill sets, yet who can never be underestimated, as any possible deficiencies can quite readily be discounted with their obvious enthusiasm, trust in “B”’s leadership and most of all, willingness to learn and perform to the very best of their ability!

The requiem is a very beautiful piece of music and both “A” and I were pleased to participate as musicians in the accompanying orchestra that “B” had assembled from a variety of resources – old friends, students, retired pros and the odd working musician sprinkled in for good measure!

For me, this piece of music has particular sentiments and memories attached as “B” and I both had the good fortune to perform it as choristers with our University choral ensemble some 33 years ago. This was the first time I had the opportunity to once again participate in its performance since - albeit in the orchestra this time, with “B” as the conductor.

What anyone unfamiliar with this piece of music should know is that as a performer the reaction one receives to the performance can potentially be a little disquieting. As a requiem it was written to honour the dead and in Brahms’ case comfort the living, so as a part of a church service, performed in its truest form as a requiem, one would not expect to receive any applause after the final note quietly trails off into an introspective silence.  But perhaps, for some a little selfishly, or more likely for the want of knowing that you communicated with your listeners, as a performer, who has put his or her heart and soul into months of preparation and the performance itself, no outward reaction to your efforts can be a little disturbing – was the audience touched, were they indeed comforted, did they appreciate the beauty, was it a worthwhile experience for them?

As performers those three decades ago, “B” and I, along with another 100 and some singers, were  honoured to perform this glorious piece of music, at a real service and memorial to the former principal of the university, who had passed away, about the time we were originally scheduled to perform it in concert.  It was indeed an emotional experience for many and I can only hope comforting for the man’s family – I think, in retrospect, that the silence that followed the ending of that last chord, cried out more volume, by its very absence of sound, than the sound of any amount of applause that the hundreds of people in attendance in that great hall could have ever provided. It was amongst the  most formidable of  “non-sounds” that I can say I have ever experienced and a testament to my former composition professor’s claim,  that silence can be one of music’s most powerful accents – in this case, even if it did occur, after the composition in question had “officially” ended!

In contrast, we were fortunate enough to perform portions of the requiem in concert, while on tour to another city and university. The reaction and applause we received, both for our ensemble and soloists,  more than provided us with the reassurance that we had not done Brahms any disservice. Both were experiences I shall never forget!

So it was with interest and perhaps a little trepidation, that I wondered what would transpire once the  final notes trailed into silence and this latest performance came to an end - especially after the woman who introduced the concert indicated that the performance would be dedicated to several members of the churches’ congregation who had passed away this past year. I momentarily wondered if the concert would be taken as just that, still a concert, or perhaps that this announcement had, in the minds of the audience, become more of a memorial to those who had passed on. Whatever was to transpire, I didn’t want “B”, or his singers to be disappointed after the months of work they had put into preparing for this one night and whether out of reflective silence, or appreciative applause, I hoped they would come to know that their efforts were worthwhile.

Happily, perhaps with a collective mind of their own, as apparently this audience was indeed comprised of clever, sensitive people, after the singers and orchestra sighed to an end, inspired by the music and performance, a required commemorative, respectful silence was intuitively observed, serving as a punctuation mark before the audience, which jammed the church to standing-room-only capacity, broke into applause, accompanied by a standing ovation. Brahms, “B”, his singers and musicians had worked the musical magic that the audience had hoped for and the evening was an all round success!

The concert ended around nine and it was just after ten o’clock when “A” and I got in the car and began our trip home -  about a two and a half hour drive.  We chatted about a variety of things - fuelled by several cups of coffee and  the warnings of many to watch for the deer that often have a bad habit of bounding Kamikaze-style in front of oncoming traffic on this particular section of highway,  I was careful to keep attentive and prompted “A” to stay awake and help keep me alert with that in mind.

“It was a little odd today,” I said about halfway through our journey.  “Do you ever think that when things repeat themselves, kind of out of the blue, that they have some kind of significance?”

“Maybe … sometimes”, “A” responded.

“Does the name ‘Martin’ mean anything to you?” I asked.

“Not really,” she said.

“Well, I thought it a bit funny. It isn’t an uncommon name, but on the other hand it isn’t that common of one either.  It came to me three times today, in a bit of a strange way.” I went on. “Remember when we went into that antique shop in town this afternoon? Do you remember what the guy said to the other man behind the counter?”

It was a small shop and I hadn’t really paid too much attention to the two men when we walked in, one of whom sat on a chair in front of the counter and one behind.

“Well I guess it’s time you kicked me out, Martin,” said the one man in front of the counter in a jovial tone, or at least very similar words to that effect. It was the name “Martin” that for some reason caught my attention, not his exact words,  as I assumed one man was in for an afternoon chat and was about to get on his way. That was all I heard of the conversation.

It was only a few moments later that I began leafing through a box of old, faded photographs that lay on a stand in the corner of the shop. Old and young faces looked back at me in sepia and black and white tones, probably captured, few with any hint of a smile, many quite glum, at the end of the nineteenth century, perhaps some at the turn of the next. There was a bride and groom, some very matronly, stern women in hats, a baby, all making me wonder who they were, what their lives had been like and how their photographs, once precious to others, ended up with a random assortment of strangers in a small town in Ontario. But it was not the mysterious faces that caught my attention so much as one particular photograph that had a brown cardboard frame glued to it. “Martin Photography” was engraved in gold letters along the edge – significant at the time, catching my attention, only because I had heard that name spoken only moments before.

“I don’t really know why that all came to mind,” I said to “A” as we continued our journey, “but this afternoon when we were at “B” and “S”’s. I was sitting in front of the fire and picked up a British newspaper that was laying there – the Weekly Telegraph, I think it was called. “S” told me she likes to pick it up occasionally.”

The newspaper contained an interesting article about an Italian woman who was looking for the family of a British soldier. The story went like this. During the war, the woman’s mother, who was about to give birth to her and her twin sister, ran into some medical difficulties. The British soldier risked his life, eluding sniper fire and braving mined roads and horrendous, winter weather conditions to bring the woman’s mother to safety and a hospital which could provide appropriate medical attention and aid with the birth of her children. A few days after the babies were born, the soldier left the woman a photograph of his two young children to remember him by. Unfortunately, shortly afterwards he was killed in action. The older woman had always wanted to track down his family to tell them what he had done for her and her daughters and to return the photograph. She died recently and now the daughter was hoping to find the family of the fallen soldier by publishing the picture and reunite them with the photograph, on her mother’s behalf. 

“The only thing she, or her mother knew about the soldier was that his name was ‘Martin’!  Kind of odd, eh?  Martin – three times in a day.”

“I guess,” said “A”

I suppose I was tired and getting a little “punchy”  from all the coffee and was starting to convince myself rather irrationally that the name “Martin” had some significance. Three times in one day – the rule of threes – things happen in threes and all that nonsense.  

At one time when we were kids my best friend had another friend called Martin, my father has a cousin called Martin, I thought.

“Our neighbours used to be called Martin. My first martial arts instructor was called Martin,” I offered. “… can’t quite think why this would be anything about them.”

We continued a few more kilometres. “I seem to remember something about Saint Martin’s Day, when I was kid in England. I think maybe we used to celebrate it at school or something.  Or maybe there was a story from my mother and how they celebrated it when she was a child in Germany,”  I finally said, “I just don’t quite remember. Does it have something to do with Easter? Wouldn’t it be funny if today was Saint Martin’s Day! ”

“I really don’t know,” my wife concluded patiently, now more interested in getting a few minutes of sleep before we arrived home. “but I am sure you will get on the Internet as soon as we get home and look it up, won’t you?”

And so I did, sometime around one o’clock in the morning,  finding out why for me, and perhaps for those who read this, the name “Martin” was by chance, or design, of significance.

It turns out that Saint Martin of Tours was a  reluctant, Roman soldier, who later became a monk. He was noted for his kindness to a needy beggar who he came upon freezing in the snow. Ripping his cloak in half and giving one portion to the beggar, the poor man was saved by Martin from certain death.

Just by coincidence, Saint Martin’s day falls on November 11th, also known as Remembrance Day, Armistice Day, or Veteran’s Day, when people from many countries around the world commemorate the ending of hostilities at the end of World War I, as well as those servicemen and women who served and died in subsequent wars.

I couldn’t help but think back to the rehearsal for the Requiem a couple of days before.  As an instrumentalist, there were two movements in which I didn’t play, so I went to the back of the church to listen to the choir and orchestra. As I lent against a wall, I noticed a memorial plaque to several  soldiers who had  been killed in the First World War. Vimy, the Somme, Ypres were all listed as battles in which these young men had fought and perished. Vimy, a place I visited a number of years ago, I am familiar with. I toured the battlefield, visited the imposing memorial, the small Canadian and British cemeteries that dot the surrounding countryside, as well as the massive German cemetery, which provides a resting place for over 44,000. I even wrote an article for the Toronto Star about the experience. 

I find that memorial plaques, war memorials and war cemeteries often give me a similar feeling to viewing old photographs, just like the ones I leafed through in the antique shop. I can’t help but read the names, or look into the faces and wonder who these people really were.

Did they live good lives, especially the young men, before being thrown into the quagmire of the war and meeting premature deaths? Who were they as human beings, before becoming soldiers? What might have become of them? What might their contribution have been, had they not died?  How many would have become men, like my good friend “B”, and made similar remarkable contributions to their communities?

There is obviously a sadness to such places, but moreover, I often feel a great loneliness, a sense that though memorialised by  plaques and grave stones, that perhaps some of these men would  still feel forgotten, were they able. And so it was,  as I lent on that church wall, reading their names and wondering about their lives, both lived and lost, that I couldn’t think of a more appropriate time to be listening the Brahms Requiem - this beautiful piece of music, written to honour the dead and comfort the living –   a remembrance to them and a brief salvation from that loneliness.

Just by chance, I suppose, that I happened to hear the name, “Martin” three times in a day, think about Saint Martin and find out a little bit more about him. Just by coincidence, Saint Martin’s Day falls on Remembrance Day.  But these last few days - the weekend – has been for me, in its own right,  a kind of  Remembrance Day - the performance of the Brahms Requiem significant,  the reading of the article about the soldier, Martin,  who had in his own right saved another, just like Saint Martin, by providing his own form of a “cloak” to save the woman and her unborn twin daughters. There was  the link from the old photos in the antique shop, to similar ones printed in the newspaper of Martin’s children. It all served as a reminder to me, and hopefully to you, as you read my story, that we should spend a little more than one day a year thinking about those who lost their lives in war and the untold human cost in terms of human relationships and lost contributions.

I hate the notion of war, or stories that sanitize it and strip it of its real ugliness.  As civilized people, we should be beyond all that and be able to recognize it for what it is. But the story of the British soldier, Martin and that of Saint Martin, are really both about acts of humanity, not about soldiers and the “glory” of the cause – right, or wrong, if there ever is really such a thing.

I hope one day Martin’s children will get their photograph back and learn of the heroics of their father - that is the very least they deserve. But whether we choose to remember Martin, and others like him, with a requiem, silence, a prayer, applause, or by passing on the stories of those who chose to “divide and share their cloak”,  the most important thing is to do just that - remember. I am guessing there is probably one Italian woman, looking for the family of a British soldier, who couldn’t agree more …

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in About Love and Life, Music, Politics, Uncategorized
Tags: Brahms, community, life, love, Music, people, Politics, remembrance, requiem, sacrifice, war