Discovering a “New Russia” in the Adirondacks
On June 17, 2023, Evan Drachman, grandson of renowned cellist Gregor Piatigorsky, presented a studio talk and performance entitled “In the Footsteps of Piatigorsky.” The selection that follows, from the book GRISHA by Margaret Bartley, describes the famous musician’s first visit to the Adirondacks.
Elizabethtown, New York • May 1939
Gregor Piatigorsky (Undated). Photo by William Whitaker.
Courtesy Piatigorsky Archives/Colburn School
“You are going to love this place.” Ed Campe negotiated the big Chevrolet through a sharp turn and then sped downhill toward the singlelane bridge. The hood of the vehicle dipped and Gregor grabbed the door handle. Below him the river dropped away as foamy white water cascaded over boulders the size of cars.
“This is very…” The automobile hit a rut in the rough concrete and Gregor felt himself momentarily leave his seat. “A very exciting place.”
I’ve been coming up here every year since 1924.” Campe downshifted and the engine whined. “We bought Ledgewood for next to nothing. It was in rough shape, but I’ve had a lot of work done.”
The road straightened and Gregor gradually released his grip on the door handle. Ahead, both sides of the road were lined with towering pines, creating dark green shadows though it was still early afternoon. “I love mountains,” he said as he looked up at the peaks hugging both sides of the road. “I go many summers to Switzerland with Horowitz and Milstein.” His eyes were drawn to a pond with a mirror-like surface that reflected the mountains behind it. “We take holiday at Lake d’Anncey.”
“You should have brought Jacqueline along. My wife would love to meet her.”
“Yes, but our daughter is a little bit sick. Jacqueline says she must rest before we return to Paris.”
“You’re going back? I would have thought that you’d rather stay here.” The big engine purred as Campe maneuvered the car through the series of sharp turns.
“I must return. I have only one month left on my French work permit.” The car picked up speed as it rolled down a steep incline. “But the newspapers report there is no more fighting in Spain.”
“I hope so. My wife and I would love to see Madrid again.”
Gregor Piatigorsky (ca. 1920). Photograph courtesy of The Piatigorsky Foundation.
Gregor kept his eyes focused on the landscape. He had not seen the likes of such a clear blue sky since last summer’s trip to the Alps. He allowed himself to relax. The grueling schedule of five concerts a week had taken its toll on all of them. Jeptha was coughing and Kate wasn’t feeling well either.
“Go,” Jacqueline had insisted when Mr. Campe invited them to his mountain lodge for a few days’ rest. “I just want to sleep in the same room for the next three nights without packing and unpacking my suitcase.” She kissed him then handed him his hat and coat. “Jeptha is still sick and Kate will keep me company. Have a wonderful time and tell us all about it on Monday.”
Now, two hundred miles north of New York City, in the midst of the Adirondack wilderness, Gregor felt the tension melting away. “Look,” he cried, pointing to the trees that stood like bright sentinels against the dark green of the forest. “We have these trees in Russia. What do you call them?”
“You mean the white ones? Those are birch trees.”
“I remember such trees in Sokolniki forest. My brother and I skied there when the snow was deep.”
“The snow gets plenty deep up here too. See there’s still some there in the woods. Some folks ski at Otis Mountain. There’s even a rope tow to pull you up the hill.”
Campe slowed the car as a cluster of houses came into view. “We’re almost there. This is our post office and general store all rolled into one.”
The American flag fluttered on a slender pole over a small white building. Above the porch, in neat lettering, a sign read DENTON’S GROCERY, New Russia, New York.
“Stop!”
Campe hit the brakes, but before the car came to a complete halt Gregor opened the door and jumped out. “What are you doing?”
“Do you see this?” Gregor stared at the sign. “The name of this place? New Russia? How can this be? Are there Russians here?”
“None that I know of,” Campe said, and laughed. “This village has been called New Russia for over a hundred years, and you, my friend, are probably the first Russian to ever set foot in it.”
***
Windy Cliff, New Russia, NY, purchased by Piatigorsky in August of 1939. Photograph courtesy of Adirondack Architectural Heritage (AARCH).
Gregor followed Campe up the wide steps of the porch and into Ledgewood Lodge. It towered above him, a huge, rustic building perched on the side of a mountain in the midst of an evergreen forest. Inside, the dark wood paneling remined him of the hunting lodges he had visited in Switzerland. Standing by the massive fireplace was a small man with a quick smile.
“Mr. Levitt,” said Campe. “This is Gregor Piatigorsky, the cellist I told you about.”
“I’d like to hear you play,” said Levitt as he extended his hand.
Gregor shook the man’s hand. “I would be happy to play, but I left my cello at the hotel.” He held out his empty hands. “Mr. Campe is very persuasive. Another time. If I return.”
“I hope you do come back,” Campe said. “We’d like to add some culture to our little hamlet. Levitt here knows a lot about land and property in this area.”
“Ahhh,” Gregor said, grinning at the not so subtle ploy. “You have invited me to dinner for a purpose.”
“Let’s have a drink.” Campe opened the liquor cabinet. “Sit outside. Enjoy the sunset until dinner is served.”
Gregor Piatigorsky (1945). Photographer Unknown. Public Domain Photograph.
They retreated to the porch, armed with a tall glass of Scotch for Gregor and bourbon for the Americans.
“You have a beautiful home in a wonderful place.” Gregor stood at the log railing, his eyes following the undulating line of mountaintops across the valley. Below the green peaks, a delicate white spire of a church stood in a nest of tiny houses. He wished Jacqueline had come. “It is Switzerland, only softer.”
“It certainly is a retreat from the city,” said Campe sinking into a wooden chair.
Gregor followed and found the wide arms of the chair a perfect place for holding his glass. “You are fortunate to have such a home and no fear of losing it.”
“Not much of a chance of that up here,” Campe lit a cigarette and offered the gold case to Gregor. “I hate to talk politics, but how are things in France?”
“Not good,” Gregor paused, wondering how he could possibly explain the insanity that had taken over Berlin and now infected Paris.
“Is Hitler as bad as the newspapers say?” asked Levitt. “The Germans seem to think he’s going to get rid of the Communists. Doesn’t sound like half a bad idea to me.”
“Communists and Nazis are not so different.” Gregor swallowed the whiskey. “Either group makes trouble for people without citizenship.”
“Aren’t you a Russian citizen?” said Levitt.
“I am a citizen of the world.”
“But your wife is French?”
“It makes no difference. Every three months, like all other stateless persons, I must go to the Paris police and beg to stay with my family.”
“Have you considered applying for U.S. citizenship?”
“I have. Two years ago I signed papers at immigration office in New York City. But I must wait three years more to become citizen. Many people are leaving Europe. I think American government is not so anxious to give citizenship to strangers.”
Gregor Piatigorsky (ca. 1960). Photograph courtesy of The Piatigorsky Foundation.
“It wouldn’t hurt if you showed Uncle Sam you owned property and paid taxes.” Levitt puffed on a thin cigar. “That would show your good intention.”
“Uncle Sam? Who is this?”
“He means the government of the United States,” said Campe. “But he’s right. Property owners and taxpayers get treated with a lot more respect than your ordinary immigrant.”
“But I spend most of my time on tour and I have a home in Paris.”
“What you need is a summer place.” Campe motioned to the peaks. “You can stay here between tours instead of crossing back and forth across the Atlantic every few months.”
Gregor reached for the liquor bottle, but Campe beat him to it and poured three fingers of Scotch. He settled back in his chair with his drink and stared at the pink and orange clouds just touching the mountaintops to the east. A home in the Adirondacks, Jacqueline would love it. She and Jeptha could stay here instead of following him from hotel to hotel. He could travel to concerts, even take the train to New York City and still come home in less than a day.
In three years, just three short years, he could apply for citizenship. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to walk through customs and present his American passport to the officers.
“Yes, Mr. Piatigorsky, your papers are all in order,” the officer would say. “Welcome home.”
With an American passport no one, not the police, not the army, not even immigration officers could stop him. Welcome home. Those words would be the sweetest music he would ever hear.
Copyright © 2004 by Margaret Bartley.
Reprinted with permission. Margaret Bartley is an editor, a freelance writer, and historian. She has a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from Johns Hopkins University and lives in New York’s Adirondack Mountains. She is a regular contributor to Adirondack Life magazine and an amateur cellist.