MAY 27, 2019 – I come from a family of violinists. Grandpa Nilsson (1891 – 1973) started it all. In Minneapolis in the early 1900s, he played in the pit for silent movies. Later, he established a music school, and at its zenith, he had over 60 weekly violin students. Later still, along came my sisters to carry on the tradition. All three went off to conservatory and became highly accomplished professionals.
My parents were serious musicians too, and between them and my sisters, our house was filled with music. Often someone would put a record on and make the others guess not only the composer but the identify of the soloist.
Among the many featured violinists of our household—Kreisler, Francescatti, Menhuin, Oistrakh, Szeryng, Heifetz—it was the Russian-born Jascha Heifetz who was the gold standard, the demigod. My family worshipped him.
Given all the record jackets bearing a photograph of Heifetz, I was very familiar with his appearance. He exuded unshakable confidence and detachment from the rest of humanity. After all, he resided on some musical Olympus. His countenance was as familiar to me as was a portrait of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln or Harmon Killebrew, every Minnesota kid’s favorite Twin.
Years passed. We grew up. My sisters became well-established in their rarified musical careers. While they were performing, I was practicing as a not-so-rarified commercial real estate workout (troubled loans) lawyer. Heifetz turned out to be a mortal after all and died on December 10, 1987 at the age of 86.
One day at work I was called into a meeting with a prospective investor group interested in a property that was in bankruptcy. A gaggle of attorneys and bankers accompanied members of the investor group for a meeting in a large conference room at our offices. I was one of the lawyers. Just before the meeting commenced, we mingled about the room introducing ourselves.
After shaking hands with half a dozen people I’d never met before, I encountered . . . Jascha Heifetz! I kid you not. Right there in front of my eyes was none other than the greatest violinist the world has ever seen or, more precisely, heard. Jascha Heifetz was immortal, after all! Wearing an expensive dark blue suit, starched white shirt, and red silk tie, the guy stood ramrod-straight, and every detail of his face made him appear exactly like the images of Heifetz that had been well-etched into my memory. Only his violin case was missing.
“My gosh!” I said. “You look just like Jascha Heifetz!”
“Who?” the man said, in a tone as detached as Heifetz’s appearance.
“Jascha Heifetz, the famous violinist.”
During the meeting, whenever I glanced at the guy my astonishment returned. He had to be Heifetz reincarnate . . . albeit as shark investor.
Just as the meeting ended, I repeated aloud to the group my amazement. “I can’t get over the fact that you look exactly like Jascha Heifetz,” I said.
To which an uneven chorus responded, “Who?”
© 2019 Eric Nilsson
