My lessons with Mr. Galimir always took place in Room IA, better known as the Zimbalist Room. Student groups loved to rehearse there because there was an adjoining bathroom, complete with original porcelain bathtub, basin and toilet. During one lesson, I had forgotten this fact. As I played, looking at the clock, I realized that my situation was not improving and that I would have to excuse myself and visit the third floor men’s room. When I eventually did so and began to leave the room, Mr. Galimir said, “No, no, where are you going? There is a bathroom right here!”
The thought of relieving myself with my nearly 90-year-old teacher sitting in silence a few feet away was not appealing, but I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I agreed and visited the Zimbalist bathroom. I emerged, walked over to the desk where I had placed my violin, picked up my instrument and turned to face Galimir. He was staring at me openmouthed with an expression approaching horror. I froze, then my mind raced: my fly was up, I had washed my hands, I hadn’t made any particularly strange sounds. Then he spoke: “Young man, in this country…we close the door all the way!” I looked at the door, and indeed it wasn’t securely closed. It was an inch ajar. Then he got up from his chair, walked over to the door, and inched it open bit by bit, peering inside the bathroom as he did so. “Unless,” he turned, with a look of wonder on his face, “you want to show me what you did.”