Budapest 1939. A young man and an older man on the tram to the West Bahnhof, father and son. They alight enter the station look anxiously at the indicator board and make their way to the platform for the train to Zurich. The young man a talented< pianist and conductor, the father an unsuccessful businessman who like so many fellow Hungarians had waved between solvency and bankruptcy as a result of the Trianon agreements made in 1919 which decimated much of Hungary and changed the future of many of her population from hope to hopelessness. But this father and his wife and daughter had hope through the talented son. He would have a future.
At this moment of departure, the father despaired, suddenly realising on that late summer day that his son would have to make a future outside Hungary. It was as if a light in his life was about to be extinguished. As the train arrives the elder man tears streaming down his face clutches his son to him, who embarrassed pushes his father away saying 'Don’t be foolish Papa I'll be back in a week' Taking the small suitcase out of his father’s hand he kisses him and climbs aboard the train excited by the prospect of going to Switzerland to ask his hero Toscanini for a letter of reference in order to apply for an American visa. He neither looks back nor waves but his father still crying stands waving until the train disappears round the bend in the tracks. They were never to see each other again.
Despite my RADA training in punctuality I arrived at the Savoy Hotel in London with very little time in hand. I spun through the revolving door on the river side of the building where all the balls weddings dinners took place. I found my film crew in a small ante room. They were all set up, camera, microphone, two chairs angled for an interview. Rather than being calm they were unusually anxious. Film crews in my experience were usually very laid back and always helpful but this time, they were in fact jittery.. There was no sign of my interviewee nor of the Press representative from the Royal Opera House. 'Where are they? I asked indicating the empty chairs.
We were going to ask you that' they replied the crew. The interview had been set up the day before by Shiela Porter, a friend in the Press Office at the Royal Opera. It had been an emergency as the item I had planned for the arts listing programme I presented every Monday evening as part of the news, suddenly been cancelled. I telephoned Shiela in a panic and she suggested she would try to get hold of Georg Solti, unlikely but she would try. Miracles she succeeded. Her final words to me were 'See you at the Savoy 10.30 tomorrow. But neither she nor the interviewee were there. Where were they? ‘You know we have to leave in less than half an hour we have to cover the kick off of the first match of the Season at Arsenal’ said the leader of the crew. There was no negotiation on this.
I was on my own. If I wanted the interview I would have to find Mr Solti or that would be the end of my career as a television reporter. I went back to the Lobby and picked up the phone, no mobiles in those days, only house phones or pennies in a phone box. The house phone was white Bakelite, in keeping with the Art Deco architecture of the Savoy. I asked to be put through to the Press Office. 'Hello I'm from the BBC I have an appointment to interview Mr Solti. We are in a room on the River Side but he doesn’t seem to be here do you know where he is? 'Oh Yes replied a very plummy English voice, 'Dr Solti (emphasis on the Doctor' is waiting for you in his room No 345 third floor.
I decided in the absence of Ms Porter and impending mutiny from the film crew I had better go in search of DR Solti..
I leapt up the Art Deco staircase, much more suited to languorous ladies of the 30s in slinky satin dresses than a young women puffing and panting hair on end charging up it two steps at a time. I almost threw myself along the corridor smelling of wax polish the buzz of a Hoover in the background the maple veneered doors of the private dining rooms standing open to reveal shirt sleeved waiters laying the tables for lunch. Every room named after a Gilbert and Sullivan opera Rudigore, the Pirates of Penzance, HMS Pinafore, the Mikado and on the other side of this corridor a red lacquer Pagoda - the lift. I was in such a panic and rush that even pressing the button and the seconds waiting for the doors to open raised my blood pressure a few more notches.
I shot out of the Pagoda now just an ordinary standard elevator. Should I turn to the left or to the right? No indication of which way the numbers went.
At last Room 343 I knocked on the door. There was no reply, no sign of life at all. Nothing. Maybe in my panic I had mixed up the room number. There was no means of checking, no chambermaid not even a house phone. The carpet I was standing on had a luxurious deep pile. It was pale blue I just longed for it to engulf me and get me out of this situation. I had really overreached myself this time. The interview was going to be about the first English Ring at the Royal Opera House. I knew little about opera or indeed classical music and all I knew about the Ring was that it was composed by Richard Wagner, was in German and very very long. I had decided I would ask a first question 'Why a totally English cast?' with the hope that Mr now Dr Solti would give me long interesting answers so my ignorance of the subject matter would not be revealed.
I knocked again Silence, then a shuffling sound, I knocked once more. A gutteral voice from behind the door growled 'What you want?
'I'm from the BBC'
More shufflings then silence.
I thought what is this man with this weird voice. Maybe he doesn’t want to do the interview, maybe he won't open the door My heart sank. End of my career, everything. What do I do about the film crew who probably at this moment are packing up.
Suddenly the door flew open.
There stood a figure covered from head to toe in white steaming towels. The only sign of human form was a pair of small straight bare feet poking out at the bottom and a brown nose at the top.
'I'm from the BBC I've come to interview you'
'Oh I'm so sorry I forgot - one moment please' The door closed again.
A minute later a bald headed figure wearing a bath robe and clutching a bundle of clothes flung open the door and with a welcoming smile and twinkling brown eyes which looked straight into mine said 'Please come in my dear and in I went.
I was in a tiny lobby, bedroom on one side a very grand bedroom which in modern parlance would be known as a junior suite and a steam filled old fashioned bathroom on the other. I was waved into the bedroom and Solti still clutching the clothes backed into the bathroom. 'I am so sorry my dear I had forgotten', he said in his very non English voice, not Hungarian accent , nor Italian, or German definitely not British Another big twinkling irresistible smile 'May I ask you an impertinent question do you think you could find my socks? The bathroom door closed.
Help I thought what next?
I looked round the room, there was an unmade single bed, an armchair and a small table in front of a window overlooking the Thames. On the top of the table was some music which was full of markings asterisk exclamation marks and comments. There was also a pencil case some pencils, a pencil sharpener a metronome a crumpled handkerchief and a plate of half eaten grapes and apple cores and some plum stones. I couldn’t see any socks. My final thought was under the bed. I dived under the bed and there they were. At that moment there was knock at the door Solti appeared out of the bathroom dressed but barefoot, opened the door and in walked Bill Beresford the Press Officer from the Royal Opera House to witness a non shaved Maestro and the BBC girl backing out from under the bed clutching the missing black socks.
'My dear ' said Bill 'What on earth are you doing there?
There was no time for explanations we rushed down to the film crew I busked the interview which thank goodness everyone was pleased with, the crew left in time for the soccer match and Bill, Solti and I went off to find some coffee
As we sat and talked I felt I should apologise for my limited knowledge of opera explaining that I had never enjoyed opera because as a schoolgirl I attended a performance of Elektra in Frankfurt which I had hated as it was so badly directed and the music was horrid. . There was a long pause the brown eyes twinkled again 'Which year was that? '1955 I think ' 'Thank you very much I was the conductor'.
That was where it all began. I had no idea at the time that this meeting would turn out to be a cataclysmic moment in my life from that moment onwards everything would change. The gentle easy life I had lived until then was about to be swept away. This was at the end of August 1964 almost 25 years to the day since the father and son had said goodbye to each other at the Budapest station.