Unforgettable Journey (Ch. 11 Pt.1)

Fran Kransberg with my music

It was scary to look at my father before we left for Boston's Greyhound station. The routine of driving us to the city after the clock struck midnight—for Saturday classes at Juilliard—threw him into a rage. "I hope this is all worth it, Furrances, these goddamn music lessons in New York. They're taking years off my life. But you already know that, don't you?" He stared us both down, as if mother and daughter were cohorts in crime, and pointed his finger at me. "You wanna grow up to be a concert violinist, little girl? It's your mother's crazy fantasy. When are you going to wake up and realize that she's robbing you of a normal childhood?" I stood without protest; my sleep deprived father was out of control. The best way to cope, I figured, was to pretend his words had no effect. My mother did her best to cajole. "Do you have your cigarettes, Johnnie?" she asked sweetly. "We don't mind if you smoke in the car, do we Margie?" 

"Enough," he fumed. "Let's get this show on the road."

♪ ♩ ♪

A line of zombie passengers awaited the 2 A.M. Greyhound bound for Manhattan from Boston.  "New York!" shouted the driver, a big-shouldered black man, swinging open the doors. A blast of cold air swept against my face. My mother barged through to the front of the line, and handed the driver our tickets. It would be a five hour trek to Port Authority. I yearned to rest on my mother's shoulder, as I had done through the night every Friday into Saturday, for the past four years of violin lessons.


"Please, Mr. Driver," my mother whispered as she pressed the tickets into his hand. "Do you suppose you could drop us off in front of Lincoln Center? That's where my daughter studies the violin—at Juilliard. It's a big day for her."
The driver shook his head, no.
"But you pass right by the school, on the way to midtown. There's a traffic light; the bus stops anyway. We won't keep you waiting. You say the word go, and we'll scramble off the bus."
He reached past my mother to load suitcases.
Light snowflakes danced in the sky and fell softly, like powdered sugar, onto our coats.
"It would make such a difference. My daughter has an important recital to play. Oh please—"
"Step on up, lady," the driver said with exasperation. "No letting off passengers before 42nd Street terminal. I gotta follow regulations. Besides, we're due for one helluva blizzard. Lucky if we make it."
She gasped. "But the recital!"


My mother linked her arm in mine, and hoisted me up the steps. The combined odors of perspiration and cleaning fluid—Lysol?—overwhelmed me.
"C'mon, my dolly. We'll sit near the front. You never know. Maybe that grouch will change his mind."
She stashed her Mary Poppins carpet bag underneath the seat, and stowed my violin case in the bin above.


"Oy! I'll sleep, that's for sure."
She unzipped her knee-length, brown-leather boots, and kicked them off.
"To think the other mothers will finally hear my dolly perform at Paul Hall. You'll put their children to shame with that unaccompanied Bach Sonata and the Mendelssohn Concerto—a complete program memorized. I can't wait to see Edith Blum's face when you play. She always brags about her two boys, the pianists, what are their names?"
"Michael and Freddie."
"Michael and Freddie. Such nice boys. And your teacher, Dorothy DeLay. Won't she be proud?"
My mother smoothed her shoulder for me to rest. "Come here. I'll tell you a secret."
"What?" I found myself asking. It was during Greyhound commutes that she imparted her keenest observations.
"It used to be a Jewish thing."
"What—what used to be a Jewish thing?"
"Music, especially the violin. No more."
"What do you mean, no more?"
"I mean, the Orientals."
"What about them?"
"They've taken over. Generations ago, the violin was an instrument that Jewish parents would give their little boys—their Jaschas, Mischas, Toschas; you know, as a means to lift the family from poverty. Our people couldn't have survived without music in the Old Country. Life was too difficult; music offered strength. And I always wondered—you know your mother—why just the boys? Why not give the girls an opportunity too? I'd have given my right arm for lessons but my parents were deaf to my desires. Only my brother Morris, because he was the firstborn son, got to have anything he wanted."
My mother spread her fur-lined coat like a blanket and tucked it up to our chins.
"Nowadays, when I wait for you at Juilliard, I see mostly Orientals."
"Asians," I corrected, half-asleep.
"What, I have to be careful how I talk to my daughter? We're so proper, all of a sudden?"
The low hum of the motor and motion began to work its magic. "Oysgemutshet," I thought I heard my mother say, before we both drifted off.




I awakened to frantic rustling underneath my seat, and glanced down. My mother was on all fours.
"Mom, what are you doing?" I could taste Greyhound deodorizer on my tongue, an indication that I had slept with my mouth open.
"Margie, it's the darnedest thing. My boots are missing!" She raised herself from the floor in a panic. "Look outside. The streets are covered with snow, and we're in midtown already."
She snapped open her bag from under the seat and took inventory. "Everything is in its place, the wallet and essentials. I checked your violin up here." She pointed to the bin. "But my boots. Pardon me," she spun around to the passenger across the aisle. "Did you happen to take my boots—they're brown leather—by accident?"
The passenger, a pony-tailed young man in a stupor of contentment shook his head, no.
"Hello?" she asked another passenger, a few rows behind. "Could you check under the seat? My boots may have rolled backwards?"
The woman stared blankly. "I don't see no boots under no seat."


With stockinged feet, she went from passenger to passenger, then visited the WC, in case someone had played a practical joke. No boots. Finally, my mother inched forward to the driver, and brushed her hand against his broad back. At close range, I saw her blondish wig lower to his eye level.
"Lady? What's the problem?" He growled.
"Can you make an announcement over the loudspeaker? I can't seem to find my brown leather boots. They've got to be somewhere in this bus, for boots don't just fly away and disappear!"
He lifted the handset slowly and brought it to his face. "Attention, Greyhound passengers. See this nice lady here?"
Then he whispered. "Lady, what did you say your name is?"
"Fran."
He bellowed over the speaker. "Fran here lost her boots. What color did you say they are?"
"Brown leather with zippers."
"You heard the lady. Take a look under your seats, and search your belongings. Help Fran solve the case of the missing boots."
Passengers chortled.
"And welcome, Greyhound passengers, to the Big Apple."
A final lurch, and we were parked in Bus Zone.


The boots were nowhere to be found. My mother sifted through her bag, only to find a mismatched pair of extra mittens.
"What are you doing?"
"I have no choice," she said, tugging the mittens, one blue, the other brown, over each foot.
"You're going to walk around like that?"
"This is New Yock! Nobody cares. Woolworth's inside the terminal sells shoes—don't they?"


We tumbled out of the bus. I followed my mother as she glided through the corridor. Throngs of harried passengers with briefcases, newspapers, and bags dodged past us.
"Marjorie Jill—" She turned and paused.
I took a deep breath to keep from laughing.
"Stay close to me. Eccentrics, those New Yorkers."


At Woolworth's, there was only one pair of plain pumps in my mother's size.
"No boots?" she asked the stout sales lady.
"Sorry honey. We're sold out. You want those pumps or not?"
My mother unclasped her purse, and begrudgingly paid for the shoes. "They'll have to do for now."
She glanced at her wristwatch. "Oh my goodness, dolly, we're running late. Your lesson starts in less than thirty minutes."
I shrugged. "Miss DeLay's never on time, Mom."
"We'll hail a taxi."
Was I hallucinating? We had never taken a cab in all my years of music lessons. "You have enough money?"
"When it comes to being at Juilliard on time, in the snow yet, I have money. Besides, these shoes will never do in this weather. They're horrible."


Yellow Cabs lined the curb at Port Authority. My mother waved and caught a driver's attention. He sprang to his feet, to help carry my violin case.
"Don't touch that!" my mother snapped.
"No problem." He threw up his hands. "Where are you ladies heading on this  snowy morning?"
"Lincoln Center. Juilliard."
He glanced at the oblong violin case.
"What's that, a trumpet, horn or somethin'?"
"Violin," I replied.
He squinted.
"Mr. Driver, we're in a rush. My daughter has a violin lesson at eight o'clock sharp."
"OK." He nodded for us to get into the car. The meter clicked a presto.
"Oy, so expensive." My mother shook her head.
The taxi belched as we gathered speed. Snow had piled up the streets and sidewalks, causing mild pandemonium. Horns blared, and red-cheeked passengers leaped off curbs. A woman slipped and landed on top of her shopping cart. Bagels rolled to the middle of the street.
"Ha! I almost got her," boasted the cabbie. He careened around a corner.
"You're a wonderful driver," said my mother, gripping the hand rest.


The taxi spun in circles through a traffic light. I felt dizzy. My lips pursed the letter M for Mommy. The next thing I remember is being in front of Lincoln Center. My mother paid the exact amount, down to the penny. The driver grunted something, and raised his hands, palm side up. Reluctantly, she unzipped her coin purse. "Here," my mother said, counting change. She dropped three nickels and two pennies into his hand for a tip.
The cabbie shifted a toxic gaze from my mother to me.
"Come on, Marjorie," she urged, opening the door.
I bolted from the taxi with my violin.
"We made it," she sang, our arms interlaced. Soon I'd have my lesson and perform my first complete program at Paul Recital Hall.
A car screeched to a halt and blared the horn. "Hey Blondie!"
We turned around.
Our cab driver thrust his head out from the window, unlocked his fist, and hurled my mother's tip onto the middle of the street. "Keep the change!" he yelled, and floored the gas pedal.

A Bus Ride (Ch.7)

Saturdays were busy, busy, busy at the Juilliard School Pre-College Division. Private one-hour lessons with Sally Thomas were followed by concert orchestra with Isaiah Jackson, chamber music, solfege, recitals, string ensemble with Wesley Sontag, and music theory with the cantankerous, chain-smoking Frances Goldstein.  

At  five o'clock sharp, I met my mother in the lobby for the long commute back to Boston. She waited by the elevators, eager to hear a report about my classes.

"Tell me about your day," she said, as we left Lincoln Center to walk down to Port Authority.
"It was fine."
"Fine? That's all you have to tell me?"
I didn't want my mother to know that I flunked Goldstein's music theory exam; Sally Thomas had again made me reach out for Kleenex; and my sight-reading skills in orchestra were so deficient that I was placed in the back of the second violins.

"Hungry?" She asked, as we passed a Sabrett Hot Dog stand in Times Square. The aroma of fresh pretzels wafted into my nostrils. "Fresh salted pretzels, plump, juicy hot-dogs," yelled the vendor. A hot dog dropped onto the pavement. He stooped to pick it up with his fat fingers, and tossed the flying wiener back into the cart.

"Ugh. Gross me out," I said.  

"New Yorkers," said my mother.

At Port Authority, my mother pointed to a sign at the Terminal Deli. Whole Broasted Chicken for $2.99. 

"Now that's a deal," she said. "Let's get that for our supper on the bus. It'll be like a picnic."

After buying chicken and beverages at the Terminal Deli we stopped at a magazine stall. 

"Nothing beats The New York Times," she said, reaching into her coin purse. "How about you, my dolly? What would you like to read on the bus?"
The front page of The National Enquirer featured: Baby born with two heads and a tail.
"Mummy, can I have that?"
"I suppose, but what an odd headline. You think it's true?"

We rushed to Gate 14 with bags, violin case, and broasted chicken. My mother gave the bus driver the tickets. She plopped our belongings onto two seats behind the driver.  

The aroma of  chicken had all ready begun to permeate the bus. A woman across the aisle plugged her nose, and the man seated behind us pulled his coat over his face.

My mother sat down and slowly released the chicken from the paper bag. The aroma intensified. "Here, precious." She split the bird with her fingers. "Your half."

Noisily, greedily, like a woman half-starved in the wild, she ripped the drumstick from the thigh, gnawed voraciously, cracked into the bone, and sucked the marrow.
"This chicken is out-of-this world," she said, waving the remains of drumstick. "I was so busy comparing notes with the other Juilliard mothers that I forgot to eat anything all day. You better dig in, before there's nothing left."
I bit into a tender, succulent thigh and then moved on to a wing. By the time we hit Yonkers Stadium, there was nothing left but a pile of bones.

"Now, what to do with this mess?"  

"Dunno." I wiped my hands on a Towelette and unfolded The National Enquirer.

"Feh," she said. "Let's get rid of it. I'll put it by the toilet. Good idea?"

I popped open a can of Diet 7 Up and read the tabloid with complete absorption. How could a baby with two heads and a tail survive? What about the real-life mermaid?  I flipped to the next  page. 

Twelve year old violinist hailed as Paganini Incarnate! 

It can't be, I thought. I read with wide-eyed amazement about Dylana Jenson, a girl from Los Angeles who displayed such technical prowess that the renowned conductor of Seattle Symphony, Milton Katims, believed her to be the reincarnation of Niccolo Paganini.

Niccolo Paganini, the greatest violinist who ever lived! 
My mother returned to her seat after depositing the chicken bones by the toilet.

"Mummy, read this," I said. "This girl concertizes all over the world. She's appeared on the Tonight Show and soloed with New York Philharmonic under Maestro Andre Kostelanetz."
My mother skimmed the article.
"Well, how about that," she said. "There's so much competition out there. It's a good thing that we have Mr. Muller. He'll see to it that you get concerts, too. And you know, at age eleven, it's not a day too soon."

My mother, Frances Kransberg, loved bus rides. The motion and monotony soothed and comforted her. She'd fall asleep with a faint smile on her lips, awaken for brief spells, babble in hushed tones, and drift back to sleep with her head slumped forward. It was on Greyhound bus trips that my mother shared her innermost thoughts. During an awakening, she had words for my three older sisters, Judy, Susan and Karen, who were now busy with children of their own. 

"I sense that deep down your sisters are envious of you. But if they'd think back, they'd realize I wanted the same opportunities for them. I gave them all music lessons, plus ballet and drama classes, but they didn't take the studies seriously. All in all, I think they might have been spoiled. I wanted Judy, Sue, and Karen to have everything. But through trial and error, I realized that it's not how much you do, but what you do, and how well you do it, that counts. The more energy you pour into one thing, the more you get out of it. Farshteyst?"

To prod my mother on, I'd bate her with questions. I adored being the favored daughter.
"Mummy, what sort of pianist was Judy?"
My mother shook her head. "Your eldest sister Judy was musical, no question about it. That girl had talent. But whatever she played, I couldn't recognize the piece. Counting mystified her, and every composer came out sounding—well, like Judith Ellen. Funny, but true."
"How about in school? Was she a good student?"
My mother tilted her head back and closed her eyes. "A scholar my Judith Ellen was not—but everyone loved her. What a sense of humor she has—such a character. My parents, may they rest in peace, were crazy about her. When Judy was born, she looked just like my Bubbe Chashe. The resemblance was uncanny. Your grandmother took one look at Judy as an infant, broke down and cried. She was convinced that her mother had been reborn. Jewish people are crazy that way. We believe in such things as reincarnation."

"How about Susan?" I unwrapped a piece of Dentyne. A bus ride without gum was unthinkable.
My mother emitted a long, painful sigh. It was the sort of sigh that echoed throughout the entire bus.

"Susan was, what's the word? Combative. Maybe because she was the middle child. I don't know. She wasn't pliable, like you."
"What do you mean?"
"When Susie took violin lessons, she battled not only with me, but with her teachers. She's always had such a temper. I remember she'd get angry out of the blue. One time, when your sisters were rehearsing piano trios, she took her violin bow and thwacked it over poor Judy's head causing it to split into pieces."

"Judy's head?"

"No! The bow, silly."
"What did Daddy do?"
"Your father? You know what a short fuse he has. He threatened, 'I'm not buying another goddamn violin bow! That's the end of the music lessons.'"

"Tell me about Karen, Mummy."
Eleven years my senior, Karen was closest in age to me, and I felt the most tenderness for her.
My mother gazed longingly out the window at the rolling hills and meadows.

"Karen could have become a professional cellist, I think. Beautiful tone and vibrato came naturally to her. But I couldn't get that girl to practice or study for anything. Karen was obsessed with boys. Such a waste of talent and intellect. When God gives you a gift, you should use it."
"Oh yes, Mummy. You're right." I reached out for her warm hand. I took delight in knowing that I pleased my mother more than any of my sisters.
"Oh look, my wonderful daughter, we're just outside Boston. The ride went so quickly—"

The bus driver tapped the microphone and cleared his throat. His deep voice boomed over a loud hiss.
"Sss-Someone's left a pile o' chicken bones by the toilet in the WC. Would whoever left them bag o' bones in the bathroom, kindly refrain from doin' that next time? Please, folks. No more food scraps or bones in the bathroom. Thank you. And remember, go Greyhound."

in photo left to right: Karen, Susan and Judith Kransberg in 1950s

Looking For A Teacher (Ch.1 Pt.2)

My father, a husky man with balding gray hair owned a furniture store, Kransberg's on Cabot Street in Beverly, with his elder brothers Sam and Harry, and nephew Eddy.

"Frances," he said, eying the dining table after work. "When's supper? It's been a long day."

"After practicing," she said. Half a year had passed since the Suzuki Masterclass, and my mother was determined to leap ahead with my studies. My father grew agitated at the sound of the violin first thing after setting foot inside the house. Music seemed to take priority over all else. He darted me a look. I stood with violin and bow tucked under my arm, waiting for my mother's directive. The aroma of pot roast smothered in onions and garlic wafted from the oven. 

 "Do a good job with the music," he growled. "Make your mother happy or our lives are gonna be hell."

"We're working on Bartok Duets. They're fun. Do you want to listen, Johnnie? You might get a kick out of us playing together; the Bartok Duets are like a musical jigsaw puzzle."

 "Naw," he said, hugging the TV Guide and making a mad dash to the bedroom. "Call me when supper's on the table and the scratch box is put away. There's a new episode of "Gunsmoke" that I don't wanna miss." 

My mother and I played "Counting Song" several times. Like a scientist, my mother dissected the piece for hidden clues, relentlessly unearthing details.

"Do I have to play it again, Mummy?"

"One more time," she said.

"But you always say one more time," I said, lifting the violin to my chin.

"Counting Song" derailed. The syncopated off beats confounded me. My mother lowered her violin and rested it on her lap.

"That's a dotted quarter note," she said, pointing at the note with her violin bow. "You turned it into a half note."

"Eeew," I said. "We cawnt have that."

Every now and then I mimicked my mother's New England accent, just to spite her. When I felt frustrated, she looked to me like a creature from "Lost in Space" with a long thin neck and spindly fingers.

"Marjorie Jill. Don't have an attitude—"

"Don't you have an attitude."

"Ok, smarty pants. I'm calling your father!"

"No! Don't," I begged, my legs turning to rubber. "I'll try again."

My father, when hungry, resembled a wild beast. When he stomped through the house the walls shook.

We played "Counting Song" from beginning to end, flawlessly.

"Good," said my mother, closing the book of duets and raising herself from the piano bench. She placed our violins in their cases. "Tomorrow we'll prepare for an audition. It's time for you to have a teacher more equipped than your mother, and I have just the person in mind."

 

♪ ♩ ♪

"Marjorie's ready for a professional teacher," my mother intoned at breakfast. "I'll drive her to Boston for weekly lessons with Linwood Scriven. He's the best. Remember, Johnnie. I studied with Mr. Scriven several years ago. I asked him to teach me the Brahms Concerto but he told me that I didn't have the technical facility, and that I'd never be capable of playing such a demanding work because I started the violin too late. That won't happen to this one here." She winked in my direction.

My father was rushed for work. A shipment of La-Z-Boys were due, and an order of recliners needed to be returned to the factory. The topic of violin lessons irked him. Our suburban home on Lord's Hill in Wenham was thirty miles north of the city. My mother wasn't known for reliable driving skills. She drove below the speed limit until the police pulled her off to the side.

"I can't let you drive into Boston every week, Furrances," said my father, stressing the first syllable of her name. He polished off an onion bagel in three mouthfuls. "Find someone local. She's just a kid. Lessons in Boston are expensive. What—Frances—you think I'm made out of money?"

"John. There's nobody adequate for our little Marjorie in the North Shore," she said, stirring a cup of Sanka and nibbling on a Saltine.

"You're nuts," my father said, throwing up his hands and leaving the table.  

Their voices escalated. I sat in the kitchen listening to my parents argue. "Margie," hollered my father, as he stood up to gather his hat and coat. "Tell your mother you don't need to be schlepped back and forth to the city for music lessons—"

"Margie," my mother lamented. "Explain to your father the difference a good teacher makes. Tell him you want to get better, not stay on the same level. Boston has the finest teachers and schools."

I was in the middle of a battle zone, and for what? I always sided with my mother. Hadn't my father insisted I mind her, and do as I was told? 

"I want the violin lessons, Daddy," I said finally.  

"More expenses," my father fumed. "That's just what we need. Your three sisters had to have music lessons, too, but they quit. This teacher, that teacher. She fired them all. That's her style."

The door slammed behind him.

My mother gasped, and threw her arms around me. "He'll come round, you'll see."

My parents, John and Frances Kransberg, in Wenham