Conflict

In his chilly Wiesbaden home last week, Walter Gieseking, one of the five greatest living pianists,* huddled close to a small iron stove. He wrote a statement for the German press: "The German people may not understand what has happened in New York . . . They might think all America was demonstrating." But, in his opinion, "the demonstrators were only a small minority, just excited people . . ."

Pianist Gieseking was one of the last men in the world who could speak with certainty on U.S. attitudes. Where politics and art conflicted, the U.S. had not always been sure itself. During World War I, Manhattan's Metropolitan Opera (and scores of other U.S. concert halls) had stopped presenting the music of Wagner--only to feel shamefaced about it afterward. In World War II, the Met kept right on with Wagner, but did not present Madame Butterfly, because of the opera's cozy attitude toward the Japanese; it was quietly restored to the repertory five months after V-J day. Since war's end, Norwegian Soprano Kirsten Flagstad had been allowed to return to U.S. concert halls (despite protests and picket lines), but German Conductor Wilhelm Furtwaengler (TIME, Jan 17) had been told by some of the most outstanding of concert soloists that he'd better not try. Gieseking's own case had raised the biggest postwar row of all.

Picket Parade. Pianist Gieseking had asked for a U.S. visa in Paris, and got it. He was cleared by the U.S. Military Government two years ago. Since then he has played for U.S. troops in Germany, been acclaimed for his music in Britain, France, Holland, Denmark, Italy. He arrived at New York City's International Airport, smiling and confident. Asked his U.S. managers: "Walter, is everything all set? Are you free to go wherever you want?" Burly (6 ft. 3 in., 210 lbs.), cherub-faced Pianist Gieseking beamed: "Everything is set, so far as I know."

Pianist Gieseking didn't know far enough, as he soon found out. First, he learned that he was only on parole to his manager. Then, while he was resting in his Manhattan hotel room four hours before concert time, the phone rang. He would have to go to the immigration office. There, by his account, he was confronted with "five newspaper articles . . . criticizing me . . . I could not answer immediately, since much of the material I needed was in Europe. I was told that a decision on my case would take four to six weeks. I didn't want to spend that time at Ellis Island, so I asked to be permitted to take the next plane out." The Justice Department said yes.

As 200 members of the Jewish War Veterans of the U.S., plus pickets from the American Veterans Committee and other organizations, paraded in front of Carnegie Hall with placards (GIESEKING PLAYS TONIGHT--WILL ILSE KOCH PLAY SATURDAY? GIESEKING PLAYS TO THE TUNE OF 6,OOO,OOO MURDERED JEWS, etc.), the concert was canceled. A sellout crowd of 2,760 was turned away. Gieseking flew off for Paris.

The Question. Many a music lover--especially if he was a ticketholder--could not decide which angered him more: Pianist Gieseking's political record, or the way the U.S. Government had handled him. If Gieseking had been a Nazi sympathizer--and the evidence seemed to show that he once was--why had he been given a visa in the first place? In the second place, why had the Justice Department given him the bum's rush after the State Department had cleared him? The Washington Post asked an even bigger question: "How long are Americans going to deny the artistry of former enemies because, in effect, they did not openly oppose their own governments?"

* The others (alphabetically): Wilhelm Backhaus, Vladimir Horowitz, Artur Rubinstein, Artur Schnabel.

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