Love that dare not speak its name

Love that dare not speak its name

Somtow Sucharitkul's daring opera is a moving story of devotion in a time of genocide

ARTS & ENTERTAINMENT
Love that dare not speak its name
(Photos Courtesy of Somtow Sucharitkul)

Last month, Opera Siam presented the world premiere of Helena Citronova, a bold new opera written and directed by celebrated Thai composer Somtow Sucharitkul at Thailand Cultural Centre.

Marking the 75th anniversary of the Liberation of Auschwitz, the most notorious of the Nazi death camps during World War II, this important work can be seen as the pinnacle of Maestro Somtow's efforts to raise awareness among local audiences of one of the darkest periods in human history, following his earlier productions of Grigori Frid's The Diary Of Anne Frank and the children's opera Brundibar by Hans Krasa.

The opera is inspired by the true story of Slovak Jewish prisoner Helena Citronova, who had a complicated and unlikely relationship with an Austrian Nazi guard, SS-Rottenführer (lance corporal) Franz Wunsch. As with all Nazis, he was conditioned to be a brutal killing machine with no moral anchor. The opera's depiction of such a character makes it as much a study of human nature as a chilling piece of history. Nobody knows what actually transpired between the two main characters, but Somtow, the master raconteur and librettist, weaves a plausible story of intense and conflicting emotions, subterfuge and struggle, and even bravery and spiritual redemption, set against a backdrop of horrific cruelty, brutality and daily exterminations.

Accompanying this compelling story is an avant-garde score. From the first few bars, we hear the deliberately challenging, unmistakable clanging, raucous, metallic shriek and screeching sound of the death train, hurtling inexorably towards its terrifying destination. Yet there is an undercurrent of lyrical moments and a recurring, almost joyful melody that is sustained throughout the opera. There is even humour in the score and libretto. The women sing of "Canada", the preferred part of the camps where belongings ripped from the prisoners on arrival are sorted and classified. "Canada" is the "Land without chimneys/ Belching forth memories/ Where ovens bring bread/ Not death, not death". The music is crisp and clear to give us enough hope, and appropriately menacing when confronted with the immediate reality of the camps.

The versatile soprano Cassandra Black, from Skylight Music Theater in Milwaukee, was captivating as Helena, alternatively hitting the very demanding high notes, and then achieving lyrical calm as the score requires, her sonorous voice melodious and haunting. It is this voice that captures Wunsch's attention, but it is her refusal to undertake a simple personal task for him (a manicure), that commands Wunsch's respect and possibly genuine affection beyond an initial infatuation. Her act of defiance allows her to hang on to at least a tiny ounce of dignity.

"You'd choose death over a manicure?" he asks.

"At least the choice would be my own," she says, defiantly. This response holds the key to her survival, and in a way, probably saves her captor as well.

German baritone Falko Hönisch from Theater an der Wien cut a convincing figure as Franz Wunsch, with his uncanny physical resemblance to the sadistic SS guard and his believable portrayal of a love-struck man, who would later say at his 1972 trial for war crimes that he had been transformed by Helena. His soliloquy-cum-duet with her was beautifully contemplative and movingly conveys the impossibility of professing their love.

The Nuremberg Laws banning relationships between Aryans and Jews were drafted as soon as the Nazi regime took control of Germany in 1933. The penalties were severe, and could even result in death. In the concentration camps, the penalties were likewise harsh, and any fraternising would most certainly have meant death if discovered. So it was extremely dangerous for Wunsch to harbour romantic feelings for Helena. Yet historical accounts and Helena's own words years later show that he did show her kindnesses whenever he could, apparently without demanding any quid pro quo. Rape and sexual abuse were rampant in the camps, but there was no evidence of abuse against Helena.

A crucial character in this narrative is Zdenka, as played by Thailand's own lyric soprano Nadlada Thamtanakom (of the National Opera of Flanders in Belgium). As Zdenka, Helena's friend and confidante, Nadlada sang her part with gusto and aplomb. She is a pivotal character in that she provides Helena with "reality checks" when needed, sustaining herself and Helena with hate, in the midst of the grisly violence.

"Hate should be your guide. Your protection. Your god," she insists. In fact, on learning of Wunsch's attention, Helena pronounces that she "would rather die than be with somebody from the SS".

Zdenka's role is important because her own relationship with a guard contrasts sharply with Helena's, in a manner that was probably the norm rather than the exception in the camps. Cynics might accuse the opera of being a romanticised version of reality, and that survival must have been Helena's sole motivation. That may have been true, but she did say in her BBC interview that: "As time went by, there came a moment when I truly loved him. He risked his life [for me] more than once." She testified on his behalf at his war crimes trial years later. A case of Stockholm syndrome? Perhaps it is a bit more complicated.

Stella Grigorian from Vienna State Opera and Damian Whiteley of Opera Australia both sang their parts admirably. The 70-piece Siam Sinfonietta, chorus and separate onstage ensemble, conducted by Trisdee Na Patalung, were superb. A powerful, memorable production fit for a memorable occasion.

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