Ravel Drove a Lorry in WWI

(and other stories we didn’t learn at school.)

Classical music as a niche sector of historical fiction has required roughly the same amount of research as the pre-concert talks our Assistant Conductor and I give before each mainstage program.

Which is to say, a lot more than expected, and possibly the most compelling rabbit-holes I’ve been down in a while.

It always starts with something tossed out like a bon-bon. Take Ravel. Any good program note should tell you that he wrote his Tombeau de Couperin in honor of loved ones lost in World War I. Childhood friends like brothers Pierre and Pascal Gaudin or Jean Dreyfus were immortalized alongside composer Jacques Louis Albert Charlot, painter Gabriel Deluc and musicologist Joseph de Marliave.

Those program notes, however, sometimes neglect to mention that Ravel, pushing forty, insisted on enlisting himself. He held the practical theory that his stature would make him ideal for aircraft. Instead, his age and a slight heart problem led him to the only job they would trust him with: driving a lorry. In the dark.

At times, under bombardment.

Ravel survived the war. Starting Pas de Deux in 1946, it was far too late for me to write about Ravel himself. Still, he made it easy to understand a few key things: in a world with a draft, men like Ravel and his compatriots would be examples of valor when they usually relied on the pen, the brush, or the written word for expression. The art world is a small one; musicians would have heard about Ravel driving his lorry despite the threat of getting shelled by the Germans.

They would have understood what each of those names meant on the original piano version of Le Tombeau de Couperin.

In 2026, composers like Ravel seem like they existed in a separate universe. In 1946, though, for men like my character Theo Miller, Ravel’s example would allow him to be brave. A very mortal human, enlisting when he could have - as Stravinsky noted - sat back and done nothing.

About a third into Pas de Deux, we meet conductor Erich Leinsdorf. Not only did Leinsdorf serve the USA in World War II, he lost his music directorship in Cleveland for it. No matter that Leinsdorf is the reason Cleveland began broadcasting overseas; American and Canadian troops could count on Cleveland broadcasts each Sunday night.

… going down the Erich Leinsdorf rabbit-hole led me to Arthur Loesser, and the Brahms D Minor he performed before his own deployment.

Leinsdorf’s words during his scene in Pas de Deux are mine; it’s difficult to know just how open a conductor who was disinclined to vulnerability would be, even surrounded by fellow veterans of the War. And without Loesser himself being in Pittsburgh (even fictitiously), I decided to imagine what that would feel like for two men who had to compartmentalize imminent departure for what could be their deaths, and focus instead on a concerto that functions like an emotional hammer to the face. I’m still not sure what would be preferable: a lighter concerto - something that could be filled with joy - and therefore the complete opposite of the emotional spectrum… or what actually happened, which was a 45 to 50 minute monstrosity that demands everything you have in your capacity to give. Here’s what I came up with:

   "Indeed." Leinsdorf took in a slow breath; his eyes came up to Frederik's as he finally released O'Brien. Despite the ambush, there was a steadiness there. "As were we. The… the courage, Arthur had, to play - to give himself so beautifully to that piece, and then step out of the hall, immediately into a taxi… I… well. Do you know the story?" 

   Frederik nodded. The horn player sidled up to listen; their cello sub was shaking his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Frederik saw Dawson edge out of his office. 

   "His number came up," Leinsdorf said. "And so he resigned himself to giving an exquisite performance of the Brahms First with us before he reported for duty. It might have been his last. We both knew it. During our first meeting - just the two of us at the hall - we didn't touch the piano." Leinsdorf gave a short, bitter chuckle. "Instead, I asked our - our Dawson, if you will - what do we have to drink in this damned place? And there was no champagne, of course, but we found a beer and it was just so. We shared it and we sat on stage and considered it all. He could have cancelled. Or screamed. Or tore his hair." A smile flitted in and out, as if Leinsdorf's mouth was unused to the gesture. "He didn't. Not in front of us, in any case. It was a teary night for the whole place, and yet he found the strength to walk on stage, and the greater strength to walk off, with his head held high. I am grateful that we might perhaps play Brahms together again in better circumstances, now that we are both home." His gaze raked over them all.

*

To leave you with a lighter note: a bit further into the book, we meet Serge Koussevitzky. And you will find out that he has an unhealthy obsession with black licorice jellybeans.

This is true.

To the point that his doctors attempted to get him to stop, or at least cut down.

… he did not.

You can deep-dive that particular rabbit-hole here, and I also hope that you’ll listen to the full set of recordings. Someday I’ll have to talk about his first rehearsal back with the BSO after the death of his wife. Brahms’ Four was on the stand. He wasn’t sure if he had it within him to move forward, yet, to quote one of their bassists… “It was an incredible performance, and no one heard it but us.”

The things you learn when you go looking. <3 Happy reading.