The Tragic Downfall of the Callas Sisters: Opera Glory and Family Rivalry – ht
There is a photograph taken in New York City sometime in the early 1950s. Two women are standing together. One is dressed in clothes that speak of careful spending, quietly stylish, the sort of outfit worn by someone trying very hard to look like they belong. The other is draped in furs. Flashbulbs surround her.
She is unmistakably the center of everything. The first woman is smiling, but if you look closely enough, the smile does not quite reach her eyes. The two women are sisters. One of them will go on to become what many consider the greatest oporatic soprano of the 20th century. Her name will be written in lights across Milan, London, Chicago, and New York.
She will be photographed with Aristotle Onasses. She will be the subject of documentaries, biographies, and films. The other sister will spend decades in her shadow, watching, waiting, nursing a bitterness so deep that she will eventually put it into writing for the entire world to read. This is not simply a story about opera. It is a story about a family that was broken long before fame entered the picture and about what happens when one person gets everything and the other person gets nothing or at least nothing that matters to them. Part eight, a
family built on fault lines. To understand what happened between Maria and Jackie Callus, you have to start at the beginning, not with the voice and not with the fame. You have to start with the parents. George Calogeropoulos and Evangelia Demitriadu married in Greece in 1916. George was a pharmacist.
Evangelia, whom almost everyone would eventually call Litzer, was ambitious in ways the world she was born into did not have much room for. She wanted a life that was bigger than the one available to her, and she was not shy about it. The couple had their first daughter, Yakinthy, in 1917. Yakinthy would later be known simply as Jackie.
Three years later, in 1920, they had a son, Vasili. He died of typhoid fever as a small child, and the loss broke something in Litzer that never quite healed. When Maria was born on December 2nd, 1923 in New York City, the family had immigrated to the United States, Litzer was reportedly devastated. She had wanted another son.
The story repeated in nearly every biography of Maria Callus is that Litzer refused to even look at the newborn for several days. Whether that detail is entirely accurate or slightly sharpened by memory and retelling, what is not in dispute is the emotional texture of what followed. Litzer’s relationship with Maria was complicated from the start, colored by a grief that had nothing to do with Maria herself, and an ambition that Litzer would eventually redirect entirely onto her youngest daughter’s shoulders.
Jackie, meanwhile, was the one Litzer adored openly. She was the pretty one, the easy one, the one who did not require as much explaining. Maria was heavier as a child, less immediately winning, and deeply sensitive. She absorbed the emotional climate of the household like a sponge, and the climate was rarely warm.
George and Litzer’s marriage was not a happy one. George was steadier, quieter, less grand in his ambitions. Litzer was restless. She pushed. George resisted, and the space between them widened over the years. By the time the family moved back to Athens in 1937, a decision driven partly by Litz’s desire to give her daughters formal musical training and partly by the sheer difficulty of the years leading up to World War II, the marriage was already fraying at its edges.
What Litzer had recognized before almost anyone else was that Maria had a voice. Not a nice voice, not a pleasant voice that might be trained into something respectable. An extraordinary voice, one that makes people stop mid conversation and turn around. Maria had begun singing as a child almost involuntarily, the way some children simply cannot help drawing or moving to music.
Litzer heard it, and she decided with the focused intensity of someone who has been waiting for a purpose, that this voice was going to carry everything she had ever wanted. Jackie also had musical talent. She was a genuinely accomplished pianist and had a decent soprano voice of her own.
But Jackie’s gifts, however real, were not Maria’s gifts, and Litzer knew it. So the family’s resources, emotional and financial, began flowing almost entirely in one direction. The arrangement was never spoken aloud. It did not need to be. Jackie understood it the way children understand the unspoken rules of a household, not through explanation, but through the daily experience of watching where the attention went, who got the lessons, whose practice schedule organized the family’s evenings.
She was 12 years old when they moved to Athens, old enough to understand what was happening, young enough that there was nothing she could do about it. George, for his part, did not have much say. He was not an abusive or cruel man. By most accounts he was decent, steady, and genuinely fond of both daughters, but he had long since lost the argument in his own home.
Litzer made the decisions and Litzer had decided. Maria would be trained. Maria would be prepared. Maria would become whatever the voice was capable of becoming. And Jackie would stand to the side, accomplished and unacknowledged, while the whole household reoriented itself around her younger sister’s gift.
That imbalance, quiet at first, easy to rationalize as simply practical, would take decades to fully detonate. Part seven, Athens, the war and the weight of becoming Athens. In 1937 was a city with a serious musical culture and Litzer moved quickly. She enrolled Maria with a local teacher.
But Maria made real progress only when she came under the attention of the soprano Elvira de Hidalgo, a Spaniard who had been one of the great koraturura voices of the early 20th century and who was then teaching at the Athens conservatory. Dehidalgo saw immediately what Litzer had seen and more. She understood not just the power of the voice but its extraordinary range and the intelligence behind it.
She became Maria’s primary teacher, mentor and in many ways the most stable adult presence in Maria’s young life. Maria worked with a ferocity that startled people around her. She was not a natural the way some singers are. Everything came through effort through hours of practice stretching late into the evening.
She had pitch, power, and an instinctive musicality. But what set her apart was the commitment. She practiced until she could not practice anymore, and then she practiced some more. Dehidalgo later said that Maria practically lived at the conservatory. During the years of the Second World War and the German occupation of Greece, which began in 1941, life in Athens became desperately difficult. Food was scarce.
People were hungry in a real immediate way. The callous household, like almost everyone else in the city, struggled. It was during this period that Litzer made decisions that Maria would later find deeply difficult to forgive. Accounts vary. Some come from Maria’s own later statements, others from biographers working with sources that cannot always be fully verified.
But the recurring suggestion is that Litzer cultivated relationships with Italian officers during the occupation in ways that compromised the family’s moral standing and placed her daughters in deeply uncomfortable situations. Maria, who was a teenager at the time, later spoke about this period with a bitterness she never fully set aside.
Whether every detail she recalled was accurate or sharpened by years of accumulated resentment is impossible to settle with certainty now. Jackie, for her own part, also wrote about encounters during the occupation in her 1989 memoir, accounts she framed in guarded terms and which have been disputed or questioned by other sources.
One episode she described left a lasting impression on both sisters, though the two women told it differently, and neither version can be fully corroborated. What is consistent is that Maria carried the memory of those years not simply as wartime hardship but as something more personal, a feeling that she had been exposed in ways she had not consented to by people who should have protected her.
These years shaped Maria in ways that her later fame both obscured and deepened. She came out of Athens in 1945 already carrying the emotional weight of a person who had survived something, not just poverty or war, but a particular kind of exposure that comes from being a young woman in a household where survival sometimes came at a cost she had not agreed to pay.
And yet she had sung through all of it. During the occupation years, Maria actually performed publicly. She sang roles at the Athens Opera between 1941 and 1944, including parts in Cavaleria, Rusticana, and Teland, gaining real stage experience at a time when the city around her was starving. It was a strange and uncomfortable truth about those years.
The voice kept developing, kept being heard, even as everything else fell apart. Through the hunger, the instability, the fractures in the household, she had kept singing because the voice was the one thing that was entirely hers. Part six, the ascent. When Maria left Athens for New York in 1945, she was 21 years old and almost entirely unknown.
Her father, George, met her at the port. Their reunion was quiet and warm. George was the parent Maria felt she could actually breathe around. But New York did not immediately open its arms. The auditions she gave were not the triumphs she had hoped for. The Metropolitan Opera passed on her at first. They were offers, but they were not the right ones.
Smaller, less prestigious, not what she had been building toward. The real breakthrough came in Italy. In 1947, Maria arrived in Verona, having been contracted to sing in the opening production of the Verona Arena Festival. She sang the role of Lajio, and the conductor who heard her was Tulio Saraphene, one of the most respected oporatic conductors of the era.
Saraphene was immediately struck by what he heard. He recognized in Maria interpretive depth beyond technical achievement, an ability to inhabit a character through the voice that was extraordinarily rare. He began working with her seriously, and the relationship transformed her career. It was also in Italy that Maria met Giovanni Batista Menagini.
He was a wealthy industrialist from Verona, considerably older than Maria, and he fell in love with her with a completeness that she initially did not entirely return. But he offered something she had almost never had: stability, devotion, and total commitment to her career. He attended every rehearsal, managed every contract negotiation, and shielded her from the administrative burdens that had previously consumed enormous amounts of her time.
He became her manager, her fixer, her public defender, and eventually her husband. They married in 1949. Menagini later said that he gave Maria everything. And he was not entirely wrong, though the marriage would eventually fracture in a way he did not see coming. Throughout the late 1940s and into the 1950s, Maria’s career accelerated with a momentum that even her most ambitious imaginings had not quite prepared her for.
She sang in Venice, in Rome, in Naples, in Milan. Luscala, the most storied opera house in the world, came calling and she answered. Her performances of roles like Norma, Violeta in Latraviata, Luchia in Lutia Dammore and Meda in Cherubini’s opera of the same name were not merely praised. They were spoken of in terms that opera critics reserve for very few singers in any generation.
Luscala, in particular, became the stage most associated with her greatness. The Milan audience was famously demanding. They had been going to the opera for generations. They knew what they were hearing, and they were not inclined to be polite about mediocrity. When Maria sang Norma there for the first time in 1950, conducted by Tulio Saraphene, the response was unlike anything Lascala had witnessed in years.
There were accounts of grown men weeping in the galleries. Critics who had been covering opera for three decades wrote that they were not certain they had heard anything quite like it before. The repertoire she took on during these years was also remarkable in its breadth and difficulty.
She moved between the heavy dramatic roles, the Verdian heroins, the Wagnerian characters, and the lighter, more ornate Belcanto operas of the early 19th century, roles that required an entirely different kind of vocal agility. Most singers specialized in one or the other. Maria did both, sometimes in the same season, which was considered nearly impossible, and which her colleagues and rivals watched with a mixture of admiration and barely concealed disbelief.
What made Maria different was not just the voice, though the voice was genuinely extraordinary. It had a lower register of unusual darkness and warmth, a middle range of great expression, and a top that could blaze with intensity. What made her different was what she did with all of it.
She did not simply sing the notes. She became the character. She made opera theatrical in ways it had not been in decades. She understood that drama and music were inseparable and she performed accordingly. The weight loss that began around 1953 and continued until she had shed somewhere in the range of 30 kg became one of the most discussed transformations in opera history.
The photographs from before and after look like two different people. Theories about how she achieved it have circulated for decades, including one persistent but medically unverified claim involving a tapeworm, which Maria herself did nothing to decisively dispel. More likely, it was a sustained and disciplined change in diet.
Whatever the mechanism, the transformation completed the public image. Maria Callus became one of the most photographed women in the world. Back in New York, back in Athens, back in the world Maria had left behind, her family was watching all of this from a very different vantage point. And while Maria was ascending, the distance between her and them was growing into something that could no longer be measured in miles.
Part five, Litz’s letters and Jackie’s resentment. While Maria was becoming Maria Callus, her mother and sister remained in a world that was much smaller, much more constrained, and increasingly defined by their relationship to her. Litzer had returned to the United States after the war. She had separated from George. The marriage finally dissolved around 1950.
She settled in New York and found herself in the uncomfortable position of being the mother of one of the most celebrated women in the world without any of the access, comfort, or financial security that might suggest. She wrote to Maria repeatedly. The letters asked for money, for support, for acknowledgement.
Maria sent money occasionally, but she kept her mother at a distance that Litzer found both painful and infuriating. The rupture between them became public knowledge when Litzer began giving interviews to newspapers and magazines. Not interviews celebrating her daughter’s success, but interviews that painted Maria as cold, ungrateful, and indifferent to the family that had shaped her.
The American press, which already found Maria’s temperament newsworthy, received it eagerly. Litzer was quoted in papers across the country describing Maria as someone who had abandoned the very people who had sacrificed for her. She was specific. She was consistent, and she was clearly not finished. Maria’s response in her own interviews was measured, but pointed.
She did not deny sending money. She disputed the portrayal of herself as a neglectful daughter. She suggested with the careful restraint of someone who knows where the real damage lies, that her mother had pushed and driven her without much tenderness, and that the financial support she provided had been considerable and ongoing.
The truth was probably somewhere between the two accounts. What is not in dispute is that Litzer eventually went further than interviews. In 1960, she published a memoir that was nothing less than an extended public settling of scores, written in the language of a wounded mother, but filled with accusations and grievances that Maria never forgot and never entirely forgave.
Jackie, meanwhile, had married a wealthy Greek man named Milton Emiricos in 1947. The marriage gave her financial security and a degree of social standing, but it did not remove her from the emotional pull of her famous sister. Jackie had genuine musical talent of her own, a capable soprano voice and years of piano study.
But by the time she was settled in Athens society, it was simply not possible to present yourself as a serious singer and also be Maria Callus’s sister without the comparison following you everywhere. Every room she entered, her identity arrived before her, and it was always defined in relation to someone else. That kind of displacement does something to a person over time.
It does not announce itself all at once. It accumulates quietly in the small daily reminders that you are adjacent to greatness rather than great yourself. For Jackie, those reminders lasted decades. And then eventually she picked up a pen. Part four, Menagini, Onases, and the unraveling. To understand the final decade of Maria’s public life, you have to understand what happened in the summer of 1959.
Aristotle Onases was already one of the most famous men in the world. A Greek shipping magnate of vast wealth, enormous appetites, and a gift for positioning himself at the center of whatever was most glamorous in any given moment. He and Maria had met briefly before, but it was in the summer of 1959 aboard his yacht, the Christina, during a cruise around the Mediterranean that included, among others, Winston Churchill.
That the dynamic between them changed. Maria was still married to Menagini. Onasses was still married to his first wife, Tina Levanos. The cruise changed both of those facts, though not immediately and not cleanly. By the end of the summer, the relationship between Maria and Onasses was an open secret in European social circles. Menagini, who had devoted more than a decade to Maria’s career, and who clearly had not seen this coming, was devastated.
The couple separated that autumn. Their marriage was formally dissolved in 1959. What followed was one of the most discussed romances of the 20th century. She and Onasis were photographed everywhere on the Christina, in Paris, in Monte Carlo, in cities all over the world. The attention was relentless, and for someone who had built a career on the stage and valued her own dignity deeply, often uncomfortable.
Maria began stepping back from certain engagements. Her voice, which had already been showing signs of strain since the mid 1950s, became more unpredictable. Critics who had once woripped her began to notice the inconsistencies. There was something about the relationship with Onasses that seemed to cost Maria more than it gave her, at least in terms of the thing she had built her whole life around.
Onasis was not a man who organized his life around someone else’s art. He moved through the world on his own terms, and those terms were not always compatible with the requirements of a performing career at the highest level. Maria, who had never really had someone she felt she could simply trust, seems to have found in Onasses an attachment that was difficult to walk away from, even when the signs were not encouraging.
The cancellations and missed performances that began appearing in Maria’s schedule during the late 1950s and into the 1960s were reported in the press with a gleeful attention that her earlier triumphs had never quite matched. a canceled performance at the Rome Opera in January 1958 when Maria left after the first act of Norma citing illness with President Giovani Granchi in attendance became front page news across Europe and the United States.
She was accused of temperament of unprofessionalism of putting her personal life ahead of her obligations. The Roman press was particularly savage. Maria maintained that she was genuinely ill. Some of those who were with her that evening said the same. The story, as it tends to do, took on a life independent of the facts. What the cancellations and the press coverage together created was a narrative about Maria Callus that was increasingly difficult to separate from the actual Maria Callus.
She was the diva who walked out. She was the woman who had abandoned her husband for a shipping magnate. She was the voice that was fading. None of these portraits was entirely accurate. None of them was entirely wrong. They circled around something real. The visible cost of a life lived at maximum intensity in every direction at once.
But they reduced it to something much smaller than it actually was. In 1966, Maria became pregnant. The pregnancy ended before it could become a life, and the loss was kept out of public knowledge for years. It was a grief she carried privately, in the way she carried most of her deepest griefs, inward, without display, in the manner of someone who learned very young that showing pain only gave other people something to use against you.
Then in October 1968, Onasis married Jacqueline Kennedy. The news was sudden, at least in its public announcement. Whatever Onasis had told Maria privately, the announcement landed on the world without warning, and its impact on Maria was visible even to people who barely knew her. She had been with him for almost a decade.
She had reorganized her life around his and he chose someone else. Not just someone else, but perhaps the most recognized woman in the world at that particular moment. Maria continued to see Onasses after his marriage to Jacqueline Kennedy. The relationship did not end simply, but its character had changed entirely. She was no longer its center.
And for a woman who had spent her whole life being the center of every stage she stood on, of every room she walked into, that displacement cut differently than any review or cancellation ever had. Part three, the voice, the silence, and the final years. Maria Callas gave her last public performances in a series of concert recital she undertook with the tenner Josephe Dphano in 1973 and 1974.
The tour took them through Europe, Japan, South Korea and the United States. It was not by almost any critical account the Maria callus of the great recordings. The voice had thinned. The upper register was fragile. There were moments in individual concerts that recalled something of what had been, and those moments were enough to bring audiences to tears, not because they were hearing the voice at its height, but because they were hearing its echo, and the echo alone was more beautiful than most things in opera. D Stephano
who had been one of the great teners of the 1950s and who was himself past his best vocal years had been a friend and colleague of Maras since their early careers. The concerts were partly a professional venture and partly something more an attempt by two people who had both known extraordinary heights to recapture together something that time had taken from them.
The tour was not a triumph, but it was in its way a testament. After the tour ended in late 1974, Maria withdrew almost entirely from public life. She spent her remaining years in her apartment on Avenue Gor Mandel in Paris. She was 50 years old when the tour concluded and she had spent virtually her entire life in front of people on stages at pianos in rehearsal rooms in front of cameras and journalists and admirers.
The solitude of those final years was depending on who is describing it either a kind of peace or a kind of emptiness. The people in her small circle during this period described a woman who was not entirely without contentment, but who was living at a significant distance from the person she had been. She listened to music.
She took her dogs for walks in the bulong. She spoke with friends by telephone. She occasionally received visitors. There were reports that she was considering a return, a new recording project, a possible production. But nothing came of them. The plans, if they were real, remained plans. Friends from those years have described a particular kind of sadness in her.
Not despair, not bitterness exactly, but the specific melancholy of someone who has done the most important thing they will ever do and knows it. The voice had been the organizing principle of her entire existence since childhood. Without it at full power, without the stage and the rehearsals and the demands of a performing life, there was a quietness around her that felt less like rest and more like absence.
Onasis died in March 1975 of respiratory failure. And whatever she felt for him had not simplified with time. His death added another absence to a life that had accumulated many. Those who saw Maria in the weeks after his death said she spoke of it sparingly with the controlled composure of someone who had long ago learned not to perform grief in public.
But the composure and the grief were both real and neither canceled the other out. Maria Callas died on September 16th, 1977 in her Paris apartment. She was 53 years old. The cause of death was given as a heart attack. She was alone when it happened. Her housekeeper found her. The news traveled around the world with the speed that major deaths always do.
And the reactions were uniformly those of people who had believed without necessarily saying so that someone like her simply would not stop existing. She had been so fully present, so completely herself, so irrefutably alive in every recording and photograph. The idea that she was gone seemed almost impossible to absorb. Her ashes at her request were eventually scattered in the Aian Sea. Part two.
Jackie’s book, Litz’s Silence, and what the rivalry cost. After Maria died, the two women who had been closest to her in the years before fame, her mother and her sister, found themselves holding a story that the world very much wanted to hear. And they told it each in her own way, on her own terms.
Litzer, who had been conducting her grievances publicly since the 1950s, did not outlive her famous daughter. She died in Athens in 1971, 6 years before Maria, without the reconciliation she had always publicly claimed to want. The arangement between them had never fully healed. The memoir Litzer published in 1960, which Maria never forgave her for, stood as the permanent public record of the distance between them.
Whatever Litzer felt in private and those who knew her said she felt a grief she could not put into words, the record she left behind was one of accusation and grievance. Jackie’s memoir arrived 18 years after Maria’s death. Published in 1989, it carried the simple unadorned title sister. A word that in this context carried the full weight of everything that word can mean when two people have grown up sharing the same small spaces and the same complicated parents.
Jackie wrote about growing up alongside a sister who seemed to consume all the light in any room she entered. She described Litzer’s obvious preference for Maria’s talent with a bitterness that had clearly not faded with time. She wrote about opportunities she felt she had been denied, about the years of being the secondary one, about watching Maria ascend while she remained behind.
She wrote about the war years in Athens with the specificity of someone who had been there and had not forgotten. and she wrote about an incident during the German occupation that she framed in a way that cast a shadow over Maria’s memory, vague enough to resist direct reputation, but specific enough to leave a lasting impression.
Maria was not alive to respond, and so Jackie’s account became a version of events that existed without a rebuttal, a portrait drawn by someone who had loved her sister in the complicated way that only a sibling can. with intimacy, with envy, and with the particular pain of never quite being chosen. Whether Jackie’s account was entirely fair is a question that biographers and scholars continue to consider.
Jackie had her own wounds, her own perspective, her own version of the shared story. Some of what she wrote align with other sources. Some of it has been contested. The full picture assembled from all available accounts is not a simple one. It is the portrait of a family that produced something extraordinary at a very high price and that never fully came to terms with what that price had been.
Jackie Callus died in Athens in 1995. She was 77 years old. Part one, what the voice left behind. There is a recording made at Lascala in Milan on the evening of April 9th, 1955 of Maria Callas singing the role of Lucia in Donizetti’s Lucia D Lammore, the mad scene, which is one of the most demanding passages in the soprano repertoire requires a singer to sustain an extended sequence of extreme emotional expression while navigating technical challenges that would be formidable under any circumstances.
In this particular recording, the audience barely breathes. When it is over, the applause lasts for several minutes. People who were present that night have tried in the decades since to describe what the experience was like. The descriptions tend to arrive at the same place, that it was not like anything else, that the voice and the performance together exceeded what you expect from a singer, less like entertainment, more like an event.
This is the legacy that outlasted everything else. The family battles, the failed marriage, the affair with Onasses, the years of quiet at the end. The recordings remain. They are among the most listened to oporatic recordings ever made. New listeners discover them every year. People who stumble across a clip online and find themselves stopped by what they hear.
Scholars continue to write about them. They have not aged into irrelevance. The discoraphy she left is remarkable not just in size but in range. There are studio recordings of complete operas. Norma, Tusca, Lucia, Damon, Latraviata, Rialletto, Iltravator among many others made with some of the greatest conductors of the post-war era, primarily for EMY under the supervision of Walter Leger.
There are also live recordings, many from Lascala, some from the Met, others from houses in Rome, Venice, and Athens, captured in the imperfect audio of their time, but carrying a presence that studio recordings sometimes cannot replicate. The live recordings, in particular, are ones people return to across a lifetime. The vocal imperfections are there alongside passages of almost frightening beauty, and neither cancels the other out.
A 1952 recording of Norma from Katania, a 1953 Lucia from Florence, the 1955 Lascala sonula. These are not collectors curiosities. They are documents of a performer at the height of her powers caught in real time in front of audiences who understood exactly what they were hearing. But the story of how they came to exist. The story of Litzer’s relentless ambition, of Jackie’s sidelined talent, of a childhood organized around a gift that one woman had and another did not.
Of a family broken and driven and ultimately consumed by the very thing it produced, is part of the recordings, too, even if you cannot hear it directly. Everything Maria experienced went into what she did on stage and in the studio. The grief went into the sound. The survival went into the sound.
All of it went into the voice. And the voice in the end is what remains. There are stories that seem like they should resolve into lessons. Family rivalries usually do the way they tend to get told. The one who worked hardest succeeded. The parents played favorites and left damage. Ambition has a cost, but the callous family does not quite resolve into anything that simple, and the more closely you look at it, the more the easy readings fall away.
Maria was genuinely extraordinary. But she was also the product of a system of pressure and emotional scarcity that left marks no amount of applause could fully cover. Litzer was genuinely harmful in some of her choices, but she was also a woman who had lost a son and found something in her youngest daughter’s voice that she could not help pressing relentlessly forward. Jackie was genuinely sidelined.
But she also had a long life, a stable marriage, a memoir, and decades in which to speak. George, the quiet father who met Maria at the ship, drove her to rehearsals, and mostly stayed out of the grand drama of it all, outlived his famous daughter, too. He died in 1972, 5 years before Maria. What is perhaps most striking about the whole story, when you step back and look at it from a distance, is how much of it was set in motion before any of them had a real choice in the matter.
Maria did not choose to be born with that voice. Jackie did not choose to be born without it. Litzer did not choose to lose a son and redirect her grief into ambition. The machinery of the family was running before any of them were old enough to understand it. And by the time they were, it was too late to simply step out of the way.
None of them got exactly what they wanted. Maria got the voice and the fame and the recordings and the long silences at the end. Jackie got the ordinary life, the accumulated resentment, and the memoir that would carry her version of events into history. Litzer got the satisfaction of having been right about the voice and the pain of never being forgiven for what she had done to produce it.
And somewhere on a turntable or a laptop or a phone pressed to someone’s ear on a late night they will not forget. The voice is still singing Norma. If you enjoyed this video, please like and subscribe to our channel so you never miss out on more fascinating stories.