Singing the Defiant Requiem

The Verdi “Requiem” concluded, while the principal clarinet continued a solitary note (more poignant for me, because of my beloved clarinet, which I miss), then began to play the Jewish song of the dead (I believe that’s what it’s called, but can’t be sure entirely, as I’m not familiar with it until now). The chorus began humming it very quietly, while the orchestra members filed off stage silently.

Maestro Sidlin stood facing the chorus, waiting. Finally, the concertmaster took the line from the clarinetist and the chorus now had space to file off stage. After we had all made it off, we stood crowded together at the doors of the stage, humming the tune, until the concertmaster came off stage herself. Sidlin was still onstage, alone, and we waited for his instructions. Finally someone heard him say “goodnight” and we knew we were free to go.

As I waited patiently for everyone to file along the curving hall backstage, I glanced back in at the stage. The entire hall was pitch black, including everything on stage, save for one thing.

Murry Sidlin stood next to the podium, still looking toward the stage doors, and a single light shone on the figure of him. His silver hair gleamed, as though a halo were surrounding his head and his shoulders. I paused, to take in the scene, and memorized that moment. I wondered what he might be thinking. I felt that light shining on him, his solitary form in the dark hall, was symbolic.

It was as if he could have been Raphael Schachter at that moment. I can still see him standing there with precise clarity.