REFLECTION: An exemplary life that touched many (01/02/00)

REFLECTION: An exemplary life that touched many

The Leader of the Band is tired
And his eyes are growing old,
But his blood runs through my instrument
And his song is in my soul.

- "Leader of the Band" by Dan Fogelberg

by Bohdanna Wolanska

"I'm taking this harder than I expected," I thought as I raced towards the hospital. I, the consummate virtuoso of driving (in my humble opinion), was drifting out of my lane, now to the right, now to the left. The phone call had come just minutes before that: our much beloved and seemingly ageless "Pani Dartsia" wasn't going to make it. Unaware of the tape playing in the car, I was just trying to focus on the driving. Then Dan Fogelberg began to sing, and the dam broke. I almost turned on the wipers absentmindedly - no, eyes don't come with wipers.

Thank you for the music
And your stories of the road ...

So many mornings and evenings spent at that kitchen table, so many stories over tea, rolls and borsch. Stories of concerts in Lviv and Vienna, stories of the Ukrainian Nationalist underground with fellow piano student Roman Shukhevych (later known as the Ukrainian Insurgent Army's Gen. Taras Chuprynka), stories of early flirtations and romances.

Having known each other for decades professionally in the Ukrainian Music Institute, Daria Hordynska Karanowycz and I thought each other polite and pleasant, but a bit distant and proper. She was "Pani Karanowycz" to me then, and I was "Panna Bohdanna." In the past few years, having grown closer, she became "Pani Darka," and I became "Bohdanka." And now that we were really comfortably familial, one level of affectionate diminutive wasn't enough. I had become "Danya," and she "Pani Dartsia."

A gentle man of music
Denied a simpler fate,
He tried to be a soldier once,
But his music wouldn't wait ...

Prize-winning piano student of composer genius Vasyl Barvinsky, possessed of both prodigious technique and innate artistry, Daria Hordynska Karanowycz concertized and taught in Europe and America, propagating her beloved teacher's artistic legacy to excellent reviews and audience acclaim. Her artistic journey has been chronicled in more detail (see musicologist Roman Sawycky's biography, in The Weekly, January 17, 1982).

As a teacher in the Ukrainian Music Institute (of which she served as the elegant and well-spoken president for much of the last two decades), she excelled at instilling her own deeply felt connection to the music into even the youngest pupil. She herself still practiced every day. But the music was more than an occupation or even a passion. It was a way of life. So when a mutual friend brought over a young soprano newly arrived from Lviv, one aria was enough to determine what kind of person this Lesia Hrabova was.

Pani Dartsia: "Where are you staying?"
Lesia: "With a very kindly couple."
- "Are they involved in music?"
- "No."
- "Do they have a piano?"
- "No."
- "Well, I have two. Why don't you move in with me?"

The very next day Pani Dartsia took in Lesia and her suitcases, despite reprimands from well-meaning friends and family about consorting with total strangers. The music had spoken. And never were two souls more compatible. Lesia became the daughter Pani Dartsia never had, a companion and fellow conspirator. Pani Dartsia at 87 years young was rejuvenated. There ensued all-night music sessions, where one couldn't stop playing and the other couldn't stop singing, with one song ("This will be the last one") leading to the next. A fanatical opera addict, I couldn't resist their company.

There were concerts and operas to attend, where one or the other, or both, were performing. There were friends' parties and restaurants, culminating in the infamous 1999 New Year's outing to the opera restaurant Caffé Taci, where Lesia sang and Pani Dartsia played while I, as designated driver, tried desperately to stay sober and coax them to go home. ("The sun will be up in another hour - no point in leaving NOW!")

There was a palpable joy and radiant innocence that spurred the two of them to play like children, sneaking up on each other and dissolving in debilitating gales of laughter when one was successful at scaring the other. There was that irrepressible and wacky sense of humor indigenous to the Hordynsky clan. There were endless musical puns, jokes and language games (try putting "ku" after every syllable or giving a raspberry on every letter "p" in your conversation), to general hilarity. There was Lesia coaching, while Pani Dartsia tried to sing throttled coloratura in her husky baritone. I never laughed so much in my life. Pani Dartsia looked forward to being taken for a ride as much as she did executing pranks of her own. It was highly apropos that St. Daria's feastday is April 1. And I'm not even going to tell you the story of the whoopee cushion. ...

Your gentle means of sculpting souls
Took me years to understand ...

Is that what it's all about, Pani Dartsia? Sculpting souls?

At the funeral home Melasia Doll, a young piano pupil, tells of discovering more abilities under that gentle guiding hand than she ever thought she possessed. Robert Durso, a former pupil and now a teacher in his own right, thanks her for helping him believe in himself.

Lada Hapij-Bidiak, grand-niece and spokesperson for the flock of grand-nieces and nephews Pani Dartsia affectionately called her grandchildren, tells of growing up with a shining example of lifegiving optimism. Roman Sawycky thanks her for the honor of calling her a friend. Pan Oles and Pani Iryna, the landlords and upstairs neighbors, confide that they won't be able to sleep at night. It will be too quiet without the laughter and the impromptu midnight concerts. Lesia struggles with waves of tears and says Pani Dartsia wouldn't want us to grieve so.

Taissa Bohdanska, perennial second-in-command to Pani Dartsia's presidency of the Ukrainian Music Institute, sits alone contemplating the floor. "What am I going to do without our Dartsia?" she repeats.

And he gare to me a gift
I know I never can repay ...

At the funeral the Rev. Bohdan Lukie reminds us of Pani Dartsia's habit of unobtrusively slipping a few bills into a needy pocket, despite her own frugal circumstances. Lesia reminds me of a Ukrainian bag lady who was taken in for a few weeks in the dead of winter. I remember a new immigrant father who slept in the living room for months as he worked and got settled enough to bring his family over. And the musicians who needed help with immigration papers. And the abused wife with an alcoholic husband. And the wretched soul that couldn't find peace. And the lonely elderly lady who just needed someone to talk to. Even the mugger ("he must need it more than I do") ...

The list goes on and on. The poor, the abused, the young, the old, the unhappy, the lonely, the homeless, the misguided - each received the kindness and compassion of this elegant patrician of the spirit, with no hint of condescension, with no expectation of reward or even gratitude. Yet, wonder of wonders, the recipients of her spiritual largesse responded in kind. Pupils and parents brought gifts, wine or bouquets of flowers. Handimen came to fix things, friends and relatives brought a tasty dinner, ran errands or helped clean up. The giving and the laughter were her secrets to a long and satisfying life. Each soul had been lovingly imprinted, each life enhanced by the consummate artistry and consummate humanity of one extraordinary woman.

A true lady and incurable optimist by nature and by choice ("I brought myself up to be that way," she said, when asked how she saw so much good in everything), she never complained, never spoke a cross word, never lost her temper or her charming smile. She never raised her voice, never criticized or condemned. And if advice, correction or reprimand was in order to a pupil or a protégé, she delivered it with such constructive enthusiasm, genuine respect and encouragement, that the corrected party felt himself uplifted. One of the last things she said was: "Death, too, can be beautiful ..."

My life has been a poor attempt
To imitate the man -
I am the living legacy
Of the Leader of the Band.

I enter the house so full of her accepting, nurturing spirit. It is so comforting, so warm, so familiar. As always, a bouquet of fresh flowers cheerily nods on the dining room table. She delighted in those flowers so, especially roses. That table witnessed countless impromptu parties as Pani Dartsia wined and dined Ukrainian musicians.

But it is too quiet - I sit at my spot by the kitchen table. Details I never really noticed are jumping out at me: there on the counter is her favorite coffee mug. I could swear it is lit up by a halo of light. It says October in earthtones. Of course. Her birthday month. She had turned 91. I expect any moment to hear her footsteps coming down the hall, the particular shush-shush of her slippers. (Yesterday I couldn't have told you what they sound like. Today I hear them so clearly.) Lesia and I sit long over tea, crying and reminiscing about the stories, the singing, the adventures, the mishaps, the laughter. We can't help smiling.

What are we going to do without Pani Dartsia? No one can really take her place. But if each person touched by her exemplary life will try to follow that kindly example in just one way, her spirit will stay here among us. And the world will be a better place.

Meanwhile, Pani Dartsia will be making heaven a better place. So many cherubs playing the harp - it's time for them to start learning piano ...

* * *

Many mourners sent flowers, knowing how she loved them. But she loved her students and her music even more. Those wishing to honor her memory may send a check to the Ukrainian Music Institute, c/o Taissa Bohdanska, 138 Eastern Parkway, Newark, N.J. 07106. Donations will be divided between the UMI in the U.S. and needy musicians in Ukraine.

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