The Sugarless Plum: A Memoir (5 page)

Over the past year I had grown four inches, and all the dancing I was doing had made my legs stronger. I was able to complete more turns and my jumps were higher. At SAB that summer it was clear the combination of my physical growth and the work I'd put in had catapulted me to a new level. Although I still struggled with certain steps, I no longer thought of myself as inferior to the other students. I could feel the changes in my body, and I was dancing with a newfound confidence.

And for the first time the faculty was noticing me; my instructors now knew me by name.

At the end of the summer session, all the students lined up for a meeting with Madame Gleboff, the associate director of SAB and one of the many Russians on the faculty, to receive an evaluation of our work. When it was my turn, I entered her office and nervously offered my name. Madame Gleboff, an administrator who had never been a dancer, was a woman in her fifties with brownish hair and a businesslike manner. Without even glancing
up from the list in front of her, she said, “Zippora, you are an excellent dancer. We have had a hard time coming to a conclusion about you because we don't know how you feel about staying for the fall. We didn't dare ask your mother, either. But if you don't stay next year it will be too late. If you don't stay between fourteen and sixteen years old, it's unprofessional.”

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I was being offered a place in Balanchine's school! Too shocked and intimidated to say what I really thought, which was “I'm flattered, but you are crazy! I'm only fifteen years old,” I muttered something about my parents' wanting me to go to college, thanked her and left the office, walking past the line of girls still waiting, each of them hoping and praying to be told what I'd just been told.

I still wasn't thinking about dancing professionally, and, in any case, I knew that we didn't have the money for my tuition, room and board, so I decided I wouldn't even mention Madam Gleboff's invitation to my mother.

 

I got home the last week in July, in time for the final week of classes before Sheila's studio closed for a month-long summer break. That first day back, I wanted her and my fellow students to see how much I'd improved over the summer, and I showed off a bit, holding my balances as long as I could and lifting my legs as high as possible.

At the end of class, I hung back as each girl did her “reverence,” bowing to the teacher and shaking her hand. When all the
others had left, it was my turn. I couldn't wait to give Sheila my news because I knew how proud she would be.

“How did it go this summer?” she asked.

“They liked me much better this year,” I replied. “They even asked me to stay on for the winter.”

Without a word, Sheila grabbed me by the hand. As she pulled me out the door to where my mother was waiting to drive me home, she uttered one two-word exclamation: “You're going!”

Once Sheila made her announcement, everything happened so fast that I didn't have much time to think about it. The first thing we had to find out was whether I could receive any financial assistance, because Sheila's enthusiasm wasn't going to pay the bills. I knew it was difficult for my mother to make the call to SAB; she didn't like asking for help. But the school's administrator called her back the same day to say that I'd not only been awarded a full scholarship, but that it came with some amazing “extras.” The scholarship, funded by the Atlantic Richfield Company, was given to just one student each year, and in addition to SAB's tuition it also covered tuition for my academic studies at the Professional Children's School, a private school for working child actors, dancers and singers, as well as free lunches in the school cafeteria, $300 per month for living expenses, and two round-trip tickets home during the year.

Even though I'd been on my own in New York for the past two summers, this was different, and I knew it. While Dave was living
with us, all I dreamed of was getting out of the house, but now that he was gone I wasn't sure that's what I really wanted. I even caught myself secretly hoping that something would happen to keep me from going. But nothing did, and I never mentioned my trepidations to my mom. I think she understood that I was having mixed feelings, but, to her credit, she never pressured me either to go or to stay. As it turned out, Deidre, a friend from the summer program who lived in Florida, had also been invited to become a full-time student, so at least I'd have one friend.

 

When the time finally arrived, saying goodbye to my family was even harder than I had imagined it would be. My dad cried as we took our final run on the beach together at the end of our annual summer camping trip. The only other time I'd seen him shed a tear was when his father died. On that last morning, he told me he was crying because he'd never gotten to spend as much time with me as he would have wanted, and now I was leaving.

Romy, with whom I'd become so close, felt totally abandoned and wouldn't even speak to me at times. Even though she was happy for me, the only way she could express her emotions was by shutting me out.

And then there was Gent, who had been not only my best friend but my responsibility. Even though I knew I couldn't pass up the opportunity I'd been given, I felt terribly guilty about leaving him.

Strangely, however, saying goodbye to Dave was the saddest of all. He still came around from time to time to finish up some
yard work he'd never completed, and one afternoon, when my mother and I got home from a shopping expedition to buy me a winter coat, he was out there. As Mom went inside, he called me over and handed me a package containing a big, coffee-table-type book. I don't remember the title, but I do still remember the inscription. It read, “Guys like me only dream of doing in life what you're doing. I'm so proud of you. Love, Dave.”

As it turned out, that was the last time I ever saw him. He died of cancer a few years later, and even though he'd caused me so much pain, it saddened me to think of him dying so young, troubled and alone.

On the plane, I sat in a window seat staring out at the clouds. For the first time in weeks, I had a chance to really reflect on how my life was going to change, and what that would mean. I couldn't help thinking of Julie Andrews in
The Sound of Music
, my favorite movie when I was a little girl. I remembered the scene in which Maria is sent out of the convent to start a new life she knows nothing about. To keep up her courage, she sings “I have confidence in me.” As the plane approached New York, I sang the line to myself. I felt corny even then, but, like Maria, I, too, was embarking on a new life, and beneath the brave face I was showing the world, I was also terrified. Things had turned out pretty well for Maria in the movie, and I was hoping they would for me, too.

I soon discovered that there was little about SAB's summer program to prepare me for this new experience. In the summer, groups of little girls with flowers in their chignons and dreams of sugar plums in their heads had lined the hallways, stretching their
legs while they talked and whispered between classes. All the summer students were new to the school, and we'd wander the hallways not knowing which studio we were supposed to be in.

Now I felt like I was the only new kid. Everyone but me seemed to know exactly where they were supposed to be. They knew all the teachers and they knew one another. They were busy greeting one another and catching up after the summer vacation while I stood there feeling totally lost. They were serious and they looked serious, too. Unlike the summer students, who had dressed in brightly colored leotards hoping to attract attention, the winter students were required to wear the basic ballet uniform of black leotards for morning class and white for afternoon pointe class.

Leg warmers and sweatshirts were allowed only during the first thirty minutes or so when we were at the barre. Another important rule at SAB in the winter was that all students wear pointe shoes for every class, even at the barre and even when we weren't dancing on pointe, because Balanchine wanted our toes so developed that we would have as much control over them as we had over our fingers. Wearing pointe shoes every day, morning and afternoon, helped us achieve that strength because the shoe itself offered a degree of resistance you don't feel when you're wearing practice slippers.

At Sheila's and in San Francisco, we wore pointe shoes only every other day and never at the barre. Beyond that, New York was a lot colder than California, even in the fall, and my toes were always freezing. Even as a child I had a circulation
problem, and my toes were colder than anyone else's. Now I had to get to class as early as possible to warm up my toes before putting on my pointe shoes. Even with warm toes, however, dancing on pointe at every single class took an immediate toll on my calves and I developed shin splints, which was a common injury for first-time winter students at SAB. So, in addition to warming my toes before class, I was icing my shins afterward.

All this newness was intimidating, and I really missed home. My mother and Romy were calling me every night. While all the people around me seemed so certain of what they wanted—to dance with City Ballet—I didn't yet know whether or not that was what I wanted for myself.

The biggest change besides dancing during the day and into early evening was having my academic studies scheduled around dance. I'd wake up in the morning and go to my first period class at the Professional Children's School, where the majority of high school students were SAB dancers. After first period we would get together and walk the six blocks to the ballet studio in the Juilliard building. There, we'd change into our practice clothes, warm up our bodies and take our first class, which ran from ten-thirty to twelve. Then we'd change back into street clothes and disperse for lunch. After lunch, I'd go to fifth-and sixth-period classes at PCS, then back to SAB for a second ballet class, and on some evenings we would take our third ballet class of the day.

I was expected to do the remainder of my academic work on my own, meeting with the teacher just once a week to go over
assignments. That was also new for me, and I found that I missed the direction and the opportunity to ask questions that I'd been used to in regular classes. Altogether, it was a big adjustment.

 

After the first two weeks, I was told that Madame Gleboff wanted to see me. Walking down the hall, I was sure she was going to say that giving me such a generous scholarship had been a big mistake. I didn't think I was any worse than the other girls in my class, but I also didn't think I was outstanding, so it seemed reasonable to me that SAB would have reached the same conclusion. When I got to her office, however, she told me that Deidre and I would be moving up to the next level.

Deidre was a long-legged redhead who danced like a gazelle and, for her age, was one of the most sensual dancers I'd ever seen. We were the only two in our class to be moved up, and we would now be in the second-highest level, which was one of the main classes from which Balanchine chose new dancers for his company. I was just getting used to my original class and was beginning to make friends. I wasn't ready to be thrust into a class where most of the other girls were sixteen to eighteen, looked their age and were ready to become professional dancers. I was fifteen, but I looked two or three years younger. When I walked into my new class for the first time, I could feel the cold stares of the older girls, who were clearly wondering who I was and what I was doing there. Truthfully, I couldn't blame them, because I didn't really know what I was doing there, either.

I found a place at the barre and set down my dance bag, which was filled with the usual dancer's paraphernalia: practice slippers, leg warmers and pointe shoes. As I started to warm up, stretching my legs and sliding into a split, one of the older girls loomed above me and announced, “That's my place.” The way she said it made me feel that I should just pick up my bag and leave, but I quickly apologized and found another spot. Still, my legs shook so much during the entire class that I could hardly hold a balance. I wanted to justify why I was there by dancing well, but I was an anxious mess.

Another terrifying experience was my first partnering class, in which we were taught how to perform a pas de deux, a dance for two people, usually a man and a woman. The class was taught by the Russian-born Andrei Kramarevsky, who spoke little English and gave us very difficult combinations to perform, as all the Russian teachers would. When someone did something well, he would say, “Expensive!” meaning the dancing was good and worth a lot of money.

It was frightening for several reasons. First of all, I was afraid no one would want to partner me. The girls who were easiest to partner—the ones the advanced boys liked to dance with—turned easily and jumped effortlessly. That wasn't me. Besides that, except for playing Truth or Dare in sixth grade a few times, I'd never really been touched by a boy before. And, to make matters worse, the boys were the best male dancers at SAB, and intimidating because they were so cool. When I walked into the studio that first day, some of the guys broke into laughter. One
of them had probably just told a joke, but I was convinced they were laughing at me.

What had I gotten myself into? A month ago I was about to enter my junior year of high school, and the most important decision I thought I'd have to make was where I wanted to attend college in two years. Now I was surrounded by incredibly ambitious, competitive and talented people who seemed like they would stop at nothing to get what every one of them wanted—a career as a professional dancer. I loved dancing, and by now I was getting the sense that I was good at it, but at that point I didn't have that drive or ambition, and I still wasn't sure that this was the career I wanted for myself.

 

After the first day in my new class, I talked to Romy, as I did every night, and cried as I told her what a hard time I was having and that I just wanted to use one of the free tickets I'd been given and book a flight home. Although she was only twelve years old, I chose to talk to her about what was going on instead of burdening my mother with my problems. I didn't want my mom to worry about me, and if I told her how unhappy I was, there was no way she wouldn't worry. I felt like a fish out of water and didn't know if I wanted to put myself through this.

 

Thankfully, I didn't go home, because, within weeks, everything changed for me. The level I'd been placed in gave me the opportunity to study with the greatest teachers in the world. My main teachers were Suki Schorer, Alexandra Danilova, Antonina
Tumkovsky, Muriel Stuart, Helene Dudin and Stanley Williams, who had been Peter Martins's boyhood teacher and Sheila's favorite when she observed classes at SAB. Each one of them had been personally chosen by George Balanchine, and each of them was unique. They had different backgrounds, different training and different styles, but they were all at the highest level of their art form, each working in his or her own way to help us achieve Balanchine's vision. As I watched them and learned from them, it was as if the entire history of dance had come alive for me in the classroom.

One of my favorite teachers was the former NYCB principal dancer Suki Schorer, a petite fireball of energy with short blond hair who always came to class in a basic leotard with a colored skirt. Balanchine had recognized her talent for teaching when she was still a dancer in his company, and had asked her take new company members aside and instruct them privately. Then, when she retired, she became a full-time teacher at SAB. Suki had a lot of inspirational words of wisdom, one of which was the line Balanchine frequently used with his dancers: “What are you waiting for? The time to rest is in the grave!” Another, which she used to motivate us when we were holding an arabesque, with one leg high in the air behind us and the opposite arm reaching to the front, was: “What do you like, diamonds? Ice cream? Reach for it!”

Because I was still having trouble doing multiple turns and high jumps, I loved the fact that she focused on transitions—getting into the jump or landing from it—rather than just on how many turns we could do or how high we leaped. Suki helped me
to stop obsessing about my weak turns and jumps and start giving equal attention to the dance as a whole.

The ultimate teacher for the Zen of dancing, however, was Stanley Williams. In his mid-fifties, slender, with thinning gray hair, Stanley taught class like a pipe-smoking Buddhist monk meditating. He always directed the pianist to play just a few notes, slowly and quietly, like a soft drumbeat, even when we moved fast. He didn't say much, but what he did say was profound.

One of his brief pronouncements that really affected me was “technique is timing.” I took this to mean that instead of attempting to dance steps, as I had been doing, by using brute strength, it was more effective, though in some ways more difficult, to let the music be the force that carried me. Stanley's approach to teaching was very different from Suki's, but it was sublime and it worked. I was turning and jumping better than I ever had.

Stanley was also known throughout the world as the paramount teacher of male dancers. In addition to Peter Martins, the great Erik Bruhn had studied with him, and Rudolf Nureyev credited Stanley's classes with lengthening his compact muscles and called him “a true genius.” I remember watching Nureyev in Stanley's class, working at the barre between Mikhail Baryshnikov and Peter Martins. As a fifteen-year-old, I knew I was witnessing something great, but looking back today I recognize the extraordinary moment I was present for—watching as potentially the three greatest male dancers of all time took a class together.

Like groupies at a rock concert, the girls at SAB crowded
around the two doors of the studio to watch all the gorgeous men in black tights taking the advanced class. Baryshnikov and Peter Martins would be joking with each other one minute and trying to outdo each other with multiple turns the next. I was especially thrilled that when Peter was in class he'd sometimes give me a wink to let me know he remembered me.

But it wasn't just the men who were gorgeous. All the City Ballet dancers looked to me like the most beautiful people in the world. When they walked they glided, and when they danced their bodies sang. I didn't really believe that I would ever be as beautiful as they were, but I knew that I could learn to move as they moved and to express myself with my body as eloquently as they did. Seeing them, and knowing that I was actually a part of this magical, creative kingdom had a profound impact on me. It seemed that, almost in an instant, I was literally swept up in a world I had never known existed, and I suddenly felt as if I were being reborn. No longer did I doubt that I belonged here. Sheila's vision for me had been to dance for Balanchine, and now that was my vision, too. This had become the only place I wanted to be.

Before class, I still sometimes felt like the little sister who had somehow crashed the big kids' party, but once the teacher entered the room and the music began, we all wanted the same thing. We knew that each teacher had some wisdom to impart that would help us develop into the dancers we longed to be. Every student in that room wanted to be a great dancer, and, specifically, to dance with the New York City Ballet.

 

The creator of this entire magical kingdom was George Balanchine, or Mr. B, as he was called. When I first arrived at SAB, I thought that Mr. B was the six-four, grim-faced man I saw every day in the hallways, the one with the slow, deliberate gait who always wore a black suit and a frown. But that was actually Lincoln Kirstein, a daunting and distant authority figure who had been responsible for bringing Balanchine to America. The real Balanchine, as it turned out, was nothing like that. Nor was he what I imagined a genius would be. In fact, there was something extremely approachable about him, and he wasn't at all intimidating. The first time I passed him in the hallway, I wasn't sure if I should look away or look down. As he walked by, I ended up looking right at him, and he looked directly into my eyes and smiled. I was immediately struck by how nonthreatening he seemed.