On September 12th, 2001, I went with my mother to a concert given by Mstislav Rostropovich, the brave, wondrous cellist, who actively stood for freedom in the Soviet Union, eventually accepting exile until the fall of communism. He walked to the stage, alone, and sat down in a chair with his cello, a small round man, with an infinitely expressive face, here solemn and still. An announcer said that Maestro Rostropovich, in memory of the victims of the attacks in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania would play Bach’s Requiem, and that he requested that there be no applause out of respect for the victims.
He played such sadness and loss, the notes of the cello pouring like bronze tears. The piece ended and he stood, silently, facing us, cello and bow in hand. Perhaps a minute passed, he unmoving, and then the front row of the audience stood, and then the next and the next and the next, as if a wave of grief and outrage flowed from his heart and picked us up, row by row, until all of us were standing, thrown not to the ground, but up to our feet, where we belonged.