Last week cellist Mstislav Rostropovich died. Rostropovich was the conductor of the National Symphony when I worked there about 25 years ago (and long after I left). I was the Data Processing Manager for the National Symphony, hired to set up an IBM System/34 minicomputer donated to the Symphony. My office was a former broom closet — albeit a very large one — on the edge of the suite of Symphony offices deep backstage and upstairs in the Kennedy Center. The glamor and grandeur of the Kennedy Center largely stopped at the backstage elevator.

The interview for that job was the most grueling of my life. My soon-to-be boss, John Berg, was — probably, still is — a mild-mannered, good-natured gentle man. For the interview, he was joined by Mr X, whose name I suppress. X worked for the donor and took it upon himself to test me during the interview. So, as John asked the usual questions, X kept interjecting rapid-fire questions and comments, often interrupting me mid-sentence, seeming not to care at all about my actual response. After the interview, I walked numbly along the huge exterior balcony with its magnificent view of Memorial Bridge. I’d been through the ringer. Later, John confided that after I left, X said, “there’s your man,” believing I was even-keeled and unflappable. While no one who knows me would call me unflappable, I am mostly steady, a trait that has served me repeatedly in the classroom. I know for a fact I flapped more than once at the Symphony.

Conductors have longer lifespans than any other profession. It helps to be rich and pampered, but there is no question that the physical and mental exertion — and the adulation — keep one strong.

Though I saw Rostropovich conduct the Symphony many times and play cello a few times, I only met him once. I don’t recall the occasion, but staffers gathered in an office with him. We each downed a shot of vodka and greeted Rostropovich one at a time. I can imagine he kissed everyone on both cheeks. mjh