I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [113]
The Hafenkrankenhaus doctor spoke four languages, and in each ordered, “No moving! Stay on your back for at least a week.” Eschewing the bedpan one night, I stumbled determinedly to the nearby bathroom. A pair of porcine-looking German nurses the size of Volkswagens caught me, and reprimanded me so terrifyingly I regressed to kindergarten.
Carrie sent a message from New York. “Should I come over?” She was at home, caring for Miracle George, close to six years old, and his two-year-old brother, Christopher, and must have been scared to death she would end up a widow. I urged her not to worry and not to come. If I couldn’t get back to dancing, I’d be on my way home.
The company opened. Jonathan Watts replaced me in Raymonda, and Arthur Mitchell in Western Symphony. “Did Balanchine ask about me?” I inquired of Mel, plaintively. He hedged, “Mr. B’s so distraught about the debacle of Liebeslieder, he speaks of nothing else.”
Balanchine had expected Liebeslieder Waltzer would bring all of Germany to its feet, cheering. Instead, the Hamburg premiere caused a scandal. It seemed the singers had angered the audience. “Raus! Get them off!” Hordes of voices bellowed from the audience, “Without singers!” Mel told me Balanchine blamed our conductor, Robert Irving. “You hired them! Bad singers, and no one knows Liebeslieder better than the Germans. They grow up with Liebeslieder like Americans grow up with ‘Jingle Bells’!” Peeved, Balanchine canceled the ballet for the rest of the tour.
Certain cities held special meaning for Balanchine—London, Paris, Monte Carlo, Hamburg, and Berlin. Berlin was the city Balanchine recalled with admiration after leaving chaos-stricken Leningrad. Twenty years old, he had survived the Bolshevik Revolution, civil war, the advent of Leninism, and escaped Russia before the reign of the monstrous yellow-eyed killer, “Uncle Joe” Stalin. Germany’s own monster, Adolf Hitler, had not yet risen to power when Balanchine was in Europe, but was waiting in the wings.
Despite the disappointing reception of Liebeslieder, Germany continued to hold a special place in Balanchine’s heart, as did, in later years, the German ballerina Karin von Aroldingen, whom he nurtured, guided, and adored. Vienna Waltzes and Liebeslieder Waltzer were among the many ballets Balanchine left Karin when he died. Of Vienna Waltzes, Karin recalls, “He used to stand in the wings and mumble to anyone within earshot, ‘Oh, it’s so romantic. The man in the woods with the lady.’ ” I was originally that man in the woods with Karin—in spring 1977, Balanchine started shaping his choreography for us in Washington, D.C., but my knee went kaputt, so I returned to New York. The beautiful dancer Sean Lavery replaced me and eventually premiered the work.
A bevy of ballerinas from NYCB and the Hamburg Ballet streamed in and out of my hospital room over the next days. Two teenage stunners from the Hamburg Ballet, Gaby Holtz and Dörte Rüter (think Miss Teen Universe, only better), informed me, with giggles, “On our way to class every morning, we walk by the spot where it happened. The blood’s still there!”
On leaving my bedside on September 5, Mel, the instigator, said he wanted Vicky and me to file a lawsuit against the city of Hamburg and the streetcar company, for assault.
Ten days after impact (September 9), the doctors let me out for a short walk. Instead I cabbed to the spot and back. Gaby and Dörte were right: almost a yard in diameter, a thick, Rorschach-like stain flourished, blackening the sidewalk. I fled back to my hospital bed.
About two weeks after Vicky had her teeth knocked out, September 14, she got new ones, and had healed enough to rejoin the company, then performing in Zurich.
On October 6, the company was scheduled to leave from Vienna for Moscow. Would I be healed enough to make the plane to Russia?? It was either be on that plane or go home. An old German friend, Max Niehaus, visited my bedside every day, and arranged