She remembers the exact day she decided to become an opera singer. Born in Romania and raised in the communist state’s “cosmos of oppression,” Maria-Cristina Necula found one bright light during that time: attending opera performances with her mother.
An Aspiration Is Ignited
“The 15th of May 1985,” she writes in her memoir, “The Voice Beneath the Quince Tree,” “We were going to the opera.” Her mother, a professor herself and an opera fan, took 10-year-old Necula to see “The Marriage of Figaro” at the Bucharest National Opera House. She recalls the arrival at the light-gray building, its architecture, the marble floor, the arches and carpeted staircase. Three years earlier she’d watched opera on the family TV and ran from the room laughing from sounds that to her were like “screaming beyond the edge of screaming.” Now she was enraptured by this new world. She felt like a grown-up in an audience of adults. As the opera played on, Necula “sat on the edge of [her] seat, mouth open, and shaping the sounds [she] heard from the stage.” On the trolley bus home, she exclaimed, “I’m gonna be an opera singer.”What had been a relatively quiet but restricted life under the rule of dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, theirs had still been a comfortable existence. That was until Necula’s father Nicolae defected. He had made regular trips to the West, accompanied by government agents to meet with other educators and experts in an exchange of information and collaboration. But this time, while in London and with government agents in the next room, he slipped out, walked to a quiet location, and set his plan in motion: to get to Austria and get his family out of Romania.
Grim Life Under Communist Rule
Maria-Cristina Necula’s story is rich in observations of everyday life in a communist state, working diligently in grade school to avoid “cruel punishments for failing grades,” and finding beauty and melodies in operas like “La Traviata” and “Cyrano de Bergerac.” It’s an inspiring story of faith and endurance, a window into a historic time, and a suspense-filled tale of finding freedom.During Necula’s life in Romania, she had access to limited books, movies, and TV. Their main channel, she wrote, “showed only a few hours of programming every night, mostly filled with communist propaganda.”
In one chilling experience, she remembers standing on a parade route for three hours to celebrate May Day, the anniversary of the founding of the Romanian communist party. Just a few days before, the Chernobyl plant had exploded, sending radioactive particles over her country. It wasn’t until days later that the local newspaper reported “radiation levels significantly surpassed normal limits,” and advised that children avoid being outside for too long.
Readers will sense the author’s positivity despite the chaos around her. With her father’s defection came regular interrogations endured by her mother, confiscations of their home furniture, and invasions of their privacy. On one occasion, she heard the clang of metallic garbage cans as government agents sifted through their trash.
Permission to Leave
After much red tape, pressure from a U.S. Congressman, and bribing a Romanian doctor with “several coffee bags and cigarette cartons acquired on the black market,” the two women were given clearance to leave Romania. Just as Necula described life in her home country, she was similarly observant of her trip to New York.Readers will feel her excitement and cheer as the two arrive at JFK Airport, ride through Manhattan, and enjoy a family reunion before settling in Westchester, New York. Her previous interest in tennis—popular in her Romanian neighborhood—was rekindled, but it took a few years before she pursued serious opera studies.
The quince tree isn’t only featured as part of the book’s title but also has significance throughout her story. We learn of its importance early on when Necula talks about the family garden and the tree that stands tall. She was its appointed guardian, spending time beneath it, and referred to it as a “wizard” because of its fruit her mother turned into a sweet nectar. Later, as she recreated opera moments, it was the tree she sang to. As she prepared to leave her home and garden, it was the quince tree she visited. “I sang a few random phrases from La Traviata into a tiny hole in its bark,” she wrote and imagined the rustling of its leaves as applause.
