Park Avenue
14 January 1970

The Bernsteins' fundraiser for the Black Panthers remains the most highly-publicized small event I have ever attended. With 90 people crammed into their apartment, it seemed much larger.

Beyond those in attendance at the party, my presence remains virtually unknown. The real Panthers got all the attention, of course, but somebody made sure no one mentioned "Marcus X." Not in Charlotte Curtis' New York Times article, and certainly not in Thomas Wolfe's "time bomb" for the New Yorker that June.

As far as the general public is concerned, Feldmarschall Cox's discussion of the Panthers' strategy with Mr. Bernstein and several others is the best-known aspect of the fundraiser. Completely expunged from all accounts, however, was the more low-key conversation the maestro himself had with "Marcus X" as the evening wound down.

By the time I had a chance to meet with him, Bernstein had sunk even lower into his armchair than before. Extending my hand to him, I introduced myself with my alias.

Giving me a haggard expression, he gripped my hand. "Pleased," he grumbled wearily, before taking a drag on his cigarette.

"Tough night?"

After a heavy, almost theatrical, sigh, he started speaking to me with his erudite, smoke-hued voice. "Well, I had just come out of rehearsing an opera, and I walk into this." After a pause, he attempted to sound less gruff. "Look. I'm sorry. Nothing personal. It's just been a long day. When you reach the mid-century point, and have adulation upon adulation, obligation after obligation, heaped upon you, it can get wearing."

"What opera were you doing? Cav?"

"Fidelio," he replied, his voice starting to sound relaxed.

"It's a shame Beethoven didn't write any other operas," I said.

Bernstein nodded. "It's a damn shame. But, Fidelio is all we have, as far as his operatic output is concerned."

"I guess it's like saying Wagner should have written more symphonies."

Bernstein smiled. "That's a good one, Mr... What should I call you? Mr. X?"

"Marcus."

"Yes. Marcus."

That may not have been as legendary as Bernstein's I dig absolutely moment with Cox, but I noticed that Mr. Wolfe started scribbling every word (or some semblance thereof) onto his notepad.

"Tell me, Marcus. I'm assuming that you enjoy classical music and opera."

"Yes, I do."

"What kinds?"

"Beethoven and Wagner, among others. My tastes are more in the German tradition. Especially in opera."

Bernstein kept nodding, absolutely digging my words.

So did Mr. Wolfe.

"Tell me," he started again, "how do Beethoven and Wagner fit into your weltanschuang? Your worldview, as a Black Panther."

I should have expected such a question from "Mr. Let's Find Out," as Mr. Wolfe would dub Bernstein. Despite my shock, the words just poured out. "Well, Beethoven and Wagner were both political revolutionaries in their times. I'm sure if they were both around today, they would have attended this party."

Resting his chin on his left hand, the right one still holding his cigarette, Bernstein's eyes flashed newly-found energy. "I'm sure they would have. But, would an unrepentant racist like Wagner have attended this event?"

A tricky question, but the impending damage to Mr. Bernstein's reputation had already been done earlier in the evening. Why would a metaphorical tiger let a poor wounded creature suffer? "Wagner believed in the superiority of the German race, yes. But his main targets are the same as those of the Panthers. The Zionists who are in league with those who hold all the wealth. In that context, I think he would have chosen our side, because Zionists support an unequal balance of power that benefits them."

Bernstein puffed pensively on his cigarette. Taking it out of his mouth, he said, "But that's the thing. Many of the people who came here tonight, donating money to support your cause, are Jewish. Can't you see the irony of the whole thing?"

"I'm talking about Zionists. Not about individual Jews like yourself, Mr. Bernstein."

"But would Wagner want to be surrounded by a bunch of Jews? And blacks?"

"That I cannot determine."

Shaking his head, Bernstein sighed again. "I guess that's too abstract an issue to get into. But what of Wagner? I don't understand his pull on me, as a Jew." Moving closer, he said, "You know, Marcus, one of my main dreams in life is to conduct a complete recording of Tristan und Isolde. To be preserved for posterity. I want it to be part of my legacy. Something I want to be remembered for. Oh, sure, I wrote West Side Story. But that was just the music."

"Just the music?" How could he downplay his contribution to one of the most renowned musicals ever written?

"What I mean is, compared with the ambition of Wagner with Tristan. I wrote 90 minutes of music. He wrote four hours of music and words. Maybe not the greatest words in the world. But, the music, along with the opera's profound philosophical and psychological impetus, redeems them. Just as the opera can redeem Wagner the man." Lifting his arms suddenly from the arms of the chair, Bernstein started flailing them and his cigarette in the air. "That's what Tristan's all about. The very universal nature of his music..." Grasping my arm, he added, "Maybe that's it! With you. With me. With anyone who gets seduced by Wagner's music. Jew or Panther. Jew or Fascist." Letting go, he added, "His music speaks about the brotherhood of man, even if the anti-Semitic tracts he wrote contradicted all that."

More or less following Bernstein's ruminations, I gave him a few token nods.

Nose still in his notepad, Wolfe started looking non-plussed.

"Tristan is a sacred work, Marcus. No less sacred than Parsifal, but with a less ambivalent affirmation of earthly pleasures." Contemplating his cigarette, Bernstein added, "I can only hope that my health will hold out long enough for me to record Tristan when I feel ready. I've been told more than once that I'd be dead from emphysema within a few years."

"Why not record Tristan now? I would be interested in hearing your interpretation."

"I'm not ready yet. It is the crux of all opera, from Monteverdi to today, and perhaps into the future. That is, unless the habits of the Babbits take hold."

"Do you plan on recording any other operas soon. Maybe Fidelio? It would be appropriate this year."

"Der Rosenkavalier," Bernstein replied. "The Viennese love me for it, despite themselves. Despite their initial hostility towards Mahler, whom they seem to have forgotten was one of their own, regardless of whether he was a Jew or not." Leaning towards me as if I had become some kind of confidant, he added, "They let me into their lair, you know. A quarter-century ago, they probably couldn't have cared less that my people, maybe even some of my relatives, were being shipped off to die."

"Why Rosenkavalier?" I asked.

"Why not?"

"What about Mohammed?"

"Who?"

"Der kleine Neger, who almost walks in on the Marschallin and Octavian in bed near the beginning. The one who scampers in after the end of the trio to fetch the handkerchief."

"What are you driving at?" Bernstein asked, his voice becoming agitated again, though not as weary as when I first met him.

"How could you record an opera with a stereotype of a black person, and yet participate in a fundraising event for the Black Panthers?"

A smile started forming behind Wolfe's notepad, but he harnessed it into more furious jotting.

After taking a long puff from his cigarette, he rambled some possibilities. "I don't know. It was written in the context of the times. But the beauty of the music. The waltzes. The trio!" He abruptly stopped. After a pause, he added, "Look. I appreciate our conversation, don't get me wrong."

Mission accomplished, I guess, though the conversation went a direction I had not intended.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bernstein. I'm just curious..."

Rising from his armchair, Bernstein said, "I'm not looking for an easy way out. But it's late, and I'm exhausted. As you might be able to tell." Gesturing towards the door, he added, "Please."

I nodded, then turned around and walked to the door.

Wolfe wrapped up his lapping up of our conversation.