Nerves (Ch.13 Pt.4)

Erick Friedman's words haunted me. "Let's imagine a surgeon patting himself on the back after an operation. 'I did everything I could and followed procedure', the surgeon gloats. 'It was a success. Unfortunately, though, the patient died.'"
I had laughed at first. Mr. Friedman had a knack for dramatizing. He occasionally launched into a soliloquy replete with theatrics at our lessons. "The surgeon's attitude might be analogous to a teacher who has taught a student to play but not to perform. What good is it, Margie dear, to play well if, in the end, you can't face the public? If you walk on stage and experience a sudden burst of adrenaline, how do you over-ride this?"
I nodded my head without saying a word. I loved studying the violin and wanted to learn all I could about music. But the pressure for becoming a soloist was mounting with competitions on the horizon. I was beginning to have doubts about a lifelong career. I glanced at my mother, dutifully scribbling notes in the corner, but kept my thoughts to myself. The last thing I wanted was to let her down, for her heart was set on my becoming a concert violinist.

"Do you ever think how many talented artists fall into oblivion because they cannot get over their fear of public performance?" Mr. Friedman picked up his violin. "Learn to balance and guide the bow properly or this could happen—" He drew the bow so that it trembled uncontrollably from frog to tip. I recognized immediately one of the crippling symptoms of stage fright. I had recently viewed a performance of the Beethoven Concerto with violinist, Yehudi Menuhin, whose bow ricocheted along the strings in what was supposed to have been slow sustained passages. The audience granted him a standing ovation nonetheless, as he was a legend. Was Menuhin's disease in late life the result of improper training, undiagnosed childhood trauma, or a medical condition?

I had never really thought about anxiety till that point. As a matter of fact, in all my youth, whatever tremulations I experienced on stage might have been classified as garden variety nerves. In the past, I had weaved the technique known as visualization into performances. I didn't know what I was doing, but I invoked composers and made up libretti to help set the varying moods. I conjured up seasoned performers, such as violinist Joseph Silverstein, alongside of me on stage. They were guides, so to speak, and their imagined presence helped to soothe and calm. I'd then lose myself in the magic of the moment. But at these lessons, I had fallen under Erick Friedman's spell, and absorbed the flow of his words like a sponge soaking up an unstoppable leak. It occurred to me, suddenly, that perhaps I never understood what it was that I was doing in all my years of playing. Whatever confidence I had in myself was beginning to evaporate. I was no longer merely a pupil of Mr. Friedman's, but a stricken patient in dire need of rehabilitation. Perhaps my disease had progressed too far.

I listened to Mr. Friedman with rapt interest, as if in an altered state, hoping to cling to any cure. My eyes never left his when he spoke. I tried to memorize his face, for it was one I loved.
"There is nobody more high-strung than Jascha Heifetz," Mr. Friedman said with conviction. "I can recall when he sometimes played passages for me at lessons that his face would flush; can you imagine? He was obviously grappling with anxiety. But Heifetz always played perfectly because his muscles were so relaxed and controlled that he could surmount any discomfiture. As a matter of fact, when I watched him I was almost afraid to breathe; I thought I might blow the instrument right out of his hands. Nathan Milstein was the same way. Whenever you find a great player, you'll find a relaxed player, and one who understands the instrument."

Looking back, Mr. Friedman's observations were both liberating and crippling. I learned to practice in a state of hyper-awareness with relaxation as a goal. Passage work became effortless as a result. My left hand began to unclench; the fingers moved with precision and ease. I could play faster than ever before. But keeping the inner control to draw the bow slowly and delicately produced terror in my heart. The seed of fear had been planted in my brain, and I couldn't shake it loose. It dawned on me that to have a solo career would be like exposing myself naked to the world; I was hardly an exhibitionist.

I won the Boston Symphony Young Artist Competition performing the Paganini Violin Concerto. The competition was mainly an audition for conductor Harry Ellis Dickson, who had selected me at the age of ten to appear with the Boston Pops at the Esplanade. To perform for Mr. Dickson by this time, at age sixteen, felt as if I were playing for an old friend. I wanted him to hear my progress. The following day Mr. Dickson telephoned the house and, according to my mother, spoke of my audition with keen admiration. He was delighted to learn that I had made a switch from the Galamian factory of violin playing to Erick Friedman, a concert artist whose approach to teaching might prove refreshingly unconventional. Mr. Dickson reminisced about the collaboration between  Friedman and Leinsdorf during the recording sessions of Prokofiev's Violin Concerto with Boston Symphony for RCA in the 60's.

I was engaged to perform at a youth concert at Boston's Symphony Hall as soloist on November 7th, 1975. Mr. Dickson had requested the final movement of the Paganini, which I had barely learned. The young audience, he felt, would grow restless with a lengthier composition. And he assured my mother, who by this time had soared up to the clouds, that he'd offer a glowing recommendation to Boston Symphony's music director, Seiji Ozawa, for future performances.

Meantime, I checked off the days on the calendar as my debut at Symphony Hall drew near. At school, my heart pounded every time I thought about stepping on the venerable stage. My blood ran cold as I imagined performing for an audience of thousands, even if they were mostly screaming school children. I understood what Mr. Friedman was suggesting in terms of conscious relaxation, but wondered if I could put his remedy into effect during the heat of the moment. I felt that everyone would be disappointed if I failed to succeed: my parents, Mr. Dickson and my beloved teacher.

I wanted out. I wanted out of becoming a concert artist. Or at least I wanted a choice. But after all the years of sacrifice, the hard won praise, the family quarrels, the commuting back and forth to New York from Boston, I dared not tell a soul, least of all, my mother.

Diagnosis (Ch.13 Pt. 3)

Heifetz teaching Friedman

"It's just what I thought," Erick Friedman said after I finished the first movement of the Paganini Concerto. He got up from the piano bench. I glanced at my parents huddled on the sofa. They sat stock still, as if awaiting a life or death diagnosis from a prominent surgeon about to wield his knife.
"The gifted ones tend to exhibit tension in their playing and are the most at risk."
"What?" I asked.
"I hear it. The squeezing and over-pressing; symptomatic of improper training. I'm amazed you don't suffer from tendinitis. Set the violin down and let me examine your hands."
I lowered the instrument to its case, feeling self-conscious. Afterward, Mr. Friedman gently took my left hand into his own. The backs of his were covered with thick black hair all the way down to his knuckles. His hands felt strong and protective.
"Let's take a look." He lingered a bit on each finger, then went on to caress the callouses. "Good length. Even the pinky. And there's just enough padding—"
I looked up not knowing how to respond. The mezuzah around Mr. Friedman's thick neck flickered against the lamp light.
"I recognize all the tell-tale signs, though," he stated with perfect conviction.
"Of—of what?" I asked shakily.
Mr. Friedman's face darkened with concern. Was I about to be dealt a fatal prognosis?
"That charlatan."
"Who?"
"Galamian!"
"Oh no. I haven't studied with Galamian but with DeLay." I slid my hand away from his and wiped it on my skirt. Gazing into those smoldering charcoal eyes, I realized that Erick Friedman was the handsomest man I had yet to encounter. I'd have believed anything he said, for it was as if I had fallen under the spell of Svengali.
"DeLay. Galamian. Same defects." Friedman's baritone voice filled the room. His vowels were from New Jersey.
"They teach how to press, how to squeeze, how to tighten and force. Tell me, Marjorie dear. Have you ever heard Dorothy DeLay play?"
I reached back into my memory which was a stockpile of music lessons. I recalled the one time that Miss DeLay offered a couple of notes to demonstrate vibrato. "Not really," I found myself admitting.
"That's right. And you won't."
"Why not?" I asked.
"Because she can't."
"But, but—she could."
"There's a dichotomy between teachers and doers," he said.

"Let me elucidate my reaction to your playing." He stepped nearer to the violins that rested on top of the Steinway. "Given your talent, and remarkable hands, you have the potential for a career. I think we share more similarities than differences."
I looked at him quizzically. Erick Friedman was an enigma, this six-foot-three hunk of a man.
"Like yours, my parents were dedicated to my training. My father played the violin but as an amateur. And he was determined to grant me the finest musical education that money could buy."
"Like me!" My mother interrupted.
Mr. Friedman nodded slowly.
"He'd take copious notes at every lesson. I studied first with a patient of his who happened to be none other than Samuel Applebaum. You know that name?"
"I do." My mother raised her hand as if in a classroom. "I know of Applebaum. I had my Marjorie study all his duet books; we played them together. Wonderful!"
"Take it easy, Frances," my father said. He placed his arm over her lap as a restraint. "Let the man talk. Go ahead, Boychik. Interesting stuff you're telling us."
She thrust her hand up a second time. "Oh, so Mr. Friedman.Your father must be a doctor?"
"Frances, I told you. Enough already," warned my father.

Mr. Friedman laughed softly. "My father's a dentist. I come from a family of medical practitioners, which partially explains, I suppose, my interest in the physiology of violin playing. As a matter of fact, my brother is a  neurosurgeon. When he was younger, though, he was an athlete. I learned through him that the muscles have one active motion: contraction. In fact, there's a strong muscular association between the hands. When the left-hand muscles are squeezed and pressed, the right hand tends to react in the same way, and vice versa."
For some reason I had a flashback of Dr. Ben Casey on TV.
"Let me make myself clear; there's no instrument more unnatural to play than the violin. You have to be like a pretzel!"
Mr. Friedman reached for his "Ludwig" Stradivari and tucked it under his chin. He inclined his left elbow far to the right, and twisted his neck. "See?"
I laughed out loud. Erick Friedman suddenly resembled Quasimodo.
"That's how I used to look when I played."
"No." I shook my head in disbelief.
He laid the Strad gently on the piano.
"I studied with Applebaum until I was ten years old, then alternated between Galamian and DeLay."
"Miss DeLay, really?" I asked.
"Yes. 'Sweetie this and Sugarplum that.' Meantime, so many bad habits set in because, like you, I was talented and worked hard. I was tied up in knots."
 I waited for him to continue, wondering what he might prescribe.
"I don't know if you've ever experienced nervousness. You don't look the type, but—"
I didn't want to respond to this question. I got nervous just thinking about getting nervous, so sometimes it was better not to think. "I—I do."
"Yes? Because I doubt anyone suffers from nerves more than I do," he announced at last.

I stared at Erick Friedman in amazement. Those broad shoulders and large biceps. No way could I imagine a  big man like that battling stage fright. I had watched him in every episode of the Heifetz Masterclass on television. He had performed J.S. Bach's Concerto for Two Violins with Heifetz, and seemed totally at ease, unaffected by the cameras which must have loomed close.
"I don't get it," I muttered.
"I'll let you in on a secret, Marjorie. Would you rather be called Margie?"
"Yes. She prefers to be called Margie." My mother stated from across the room.

"Margie, when I was just a bit younger than you are now, in my early teens, I had a series of concert engagements. My mother was good friends with Michael Rabin's mother. Michael was offered management at an early age, so she, a nice lady, got me signed under contract too."
I heard my mother gasp. "How fortunate!"
"No. I wasn't ready. One evening I was to perform Lalo's 'Symphonie Espagnole' here in New York. I underwent such a panic attack that I wound up not on the stage, but in the E.R., gasping for air. It was awful. I still remember my mother screaming at the doctors for help."
My pulse quickened. "What happened?"

His face turned ashen as he retold the tale. "Well, I was diagnosed with asthma. But, you know, it took years for me to finally understand that this condition was brought on by extreme fear, and it reoccurred every time I had to perform. In other words, my asthma was psychosomatic. Not until I studied with Nathan Milstein and later Jascha Heifetz, and analyzed their playing up close, did I begin to realize that I had been improperly trained, which affected my nervous system. If a young performer is not guided properly, it can cause trauma."
"How so?" I asked, somewhat confused but also impressed by his depth of knowledge.
"We're like athletes. If something is fundamentally wrong, we cannot perform well, or sustain a career for a number of years. By observing those great master violinists, so relaxed, devoid of undue tension, I learned economy of motion, and subsequently, the art of relaxation. But I had to practically start over."
"And the asthma?" I asked.
"It went away."

He leveled his gaze at me, and I thought I might melt.
"But the moral of this story—and I know that I talk too much," he said. "You'll need to protect your playing by consciously allowing the muscles to relax. Let's imagine, for an instant, that you have an important performance, or God forbid, a professional career. A nasty critic shows up with an agenda to thwart your success. You, somehow, become aware of this unfortunate circumstance, and you know what? It makes you downright anxious. Scared, even. Michael Rabin was addicted to sedatives; we all know that. And he died not too long ago, a young man in his thirties. The pressure was too much for him."
I nodded. Rabin's untimely death was a loss for the entire music world.
"Margie dear, take my word for it; I know a little something about this business, which is cutthroat. You'll need to be prepared for such an event as a critic or colleague's determination to crush your career. Because in this field, it's not a question of if, but when."

L.A. Blues (Ch.10 Pt.3)

"I'll have a refill," my mother said to the waitress with a red-haired bee-hive at Bob's Big Boy.

"I just filled the cup, ma'am, just a moment ago."

"But, it's cold." My mother looked up from the table in desperation.

"Here you go." The waitress poured the remaining coffee from the carafe until it spilled over into the saucer.  

"My scrambled eggs?"

"Out any minute."

"Thank you. Remember, no butter on the toast. Dry. I'm counting calories. And please. Don't let those eggs get too hard."
"Okey Dokey." She gave my mother a once over.
"Because I like them fluffy."

The waitress cast a sidelong glance at me.

"How 'bout you, honey. Can you hang on a few minutes for that tuna melt?"

I picked up the water glass and sipped slowly.

We had spent the month of July in Los Angeles. After each violin lesson we stopped at Bob's Big Boy Restaurant for the Early Bird Special. Weeks one, two, and three, my mother listened with rapt attention as I recounted my lessons with Claire Hodgkins, the endless scale work and repetitions of countless etudes, including the first study in Dont Opus 35, a real knuckle breaker. Miss Hodgkins had suggested we visit Ben Rosen's Music Store to pick up the Hřimaly Scale Studies. Rosen's shop, Globe Music, was a dilapidated house on Western Avenue filled with sheet music stacked from floor to ceiling. We fawned over the new books during dinner the way normal people do with babies. We had bought the two volume Joachim-Moser edition of J.S. Bach's Six Solo Sonatas and Partitas, Hřimaly Scales, and Leopold Auer's Graded Course Book 7. When my mother complained to Ben Rosen that I had difficulty learning scales in double stops, the octogenarian pointed with his shriveled fingers to the back pages of the Auer. "There," he snapped. His misaligned false teeth added staccato to each word.  "This is what your daughter needs. Like Auer, like Heifetz. Farshteyst?" And the two landsmen, my mother and Mr. Rosen, completed the transaction in Yiddish.

But by week four, my mother lost interest with my studies and had one obsession: my father's whereabouts.  

John and Harry Kransberg

"He doesn't answer the phone," she said dejectedly. "I call the furniture business. I get Uncle Harry. I say, Harry, where's Johnnie? You know what Harry says to me?"

I shook my head. French fries were just around the corner. I sniffed with anticipation.

"He has the nerve to say that your father's making deliveries."

"Maybe Daddy is. It's not implausible." 

"Margie. That's what your father hires movers for—for deliveries. I hear Uncle Harry's nervous giggle whenever I phone. He's protecting his youngest brother. 'You're worrying for nothing, Frances,' says Harry. He's a character, your Uncle Harry. Something's off. Those two can't be trusted. You know, the Kransberg men are vilde khayim."
"They're what?"
"Like wild animals. I never told you this before because you were too young, but now that you're fourteen, I'm going to tell you. I found your father's eldest brother Sam one night after business hours—"

She buried her face in her hands and let out a painful, "Oy!"

"OK, Ladies! Here you go."

The waitress plunked our dishes on the table. The mound of fries on my plate was staggering. 

 "More coffee?" asked my mother, anxiously tapping her cup.

The waitress spun on her heels and left. 

My mother continued. "Marjorie. I call the house. The phone rings and rings. Nobody picks up. Where can your father be? All hours of the night, yet."

"I dunno, Mom." I wasn't concerned about my father at that moment. I squirted ketchup all over my fries. Culinary Heaven. The crisp sourdough of my sandwich oozed with a buttery blend of melted albacore tuna and layers of sharp, cheddar cheese on a bed of Iceberg lettuce, tomato, and dill pickle. I alternated between sandwich and fry, sandwich and fry, in a Tempo agitato.  

My mother joylessly nibbled on her egg. She surrendered her fork to the plate, and drained the coffee cup in slow, steady gulps, as if fighting back tears.
"Do you really like it here in Los Angeles?"
I shrugged.
"Don't you miss our beautiful home on Lord's Hill and life with father? I know he's kvetchy at times but that's him."

I missed the Meadowmount School of Music in New York. It was my first summer away, after three years of having been a camper there. It dawned on me, though my stomach was now about to burst with tuna and fries, that a year ago, I had been placed in solitary confinement for sneaking into the boys' dorms with my friends, Jackie and Felicia, in the middle of the night. The three of us had gotten caught by some whistle blower at Main House—the house mother? Anyway, old man Galamian lost an entire night's sleep on account of us. Punishment meted out was severe: one week of solitary confinement in our rooms except for meals accompanied by kitchen staff, and a threat of dismissal if we broke any more rules. But, heck, it was our claim to fame at Meadowmount. I had won the admiration of the cutest boys and star players:  Chin Kim, Lynn Chang, YoYo Ma, Robert Portney, Daniel Phillips, and Gil Morgenstern. Gosh, Meadowmount was the Land of Plenty, I thought.

My mother leaned closer from across the table and whispered. "When that waitress hands us the bill, follow me closely and walk out quickly."

"Why, Mom?" I could barely raise myself from the booth after stuffing myself, let alone a brisk walk.

"Firstly, I'm not tipping, and secondly, I need to reach your father. We're not staying; no way. Maybe when you're old enough for college, but that'll be another story."

First Audition for Heifetz (Ch9 Pt.1)

My mother had viewed several episodes of The Heifetz Masterclass on national public television in the 60's. The legendary violinist was filmed live in session with his pupils at the Clark House on the premises of University of Southern California. Before the documentaries were aired, little was known about Jascha Heifetz, the pedagogue. How did he relate to students? What teaching methods, if any, did he use? Heifetz, the performing artist, was sometimes perceived by the public as being cold and aloof. What was he like as a mentor?

"A masterclass is such a useful idea," my mother said, as we walked towards Clark House, located off West Adams in Los Angeles. Her heels clicked against the pavement with every determined step. "Students learn not only from the master, but from one another—clever."

I felt a twinge of anxiety, but not the dread of stage fright, as I often did before playing concerts.

"When you audition for Jascha Heifetz, give it your all."

"I will."

"Don't be shy."

"I won't."

"Show him how appreciative—"

"I get it, Mom."

"Thirteen year olds," my mother said, exasperated. "You think you know everything. But if the professor corrects you, say thank you. Always be grateful for constructive criticism. That's how you better yourself." 

Inside Clark House, a spacious Victorian mansion, we were greeted by Mrs. Reynolds, Heifetz's secretary. She led us upstairs to the famous studio, and explained to my mother that Jascha Heifetz forbid parents to attend classes and auditions. He had been barraged with requests through the years by pushy parents to promote their offspring, and he adamantly refused to have anything to do with them. My mother appeared to understand, as she nodded in compliance, but I could read the disappointment on her face.

  

I stepped into the commodious room, lined with chairs against the wall. I slowly unpacked my violin and rosined my bow. After a few moments of warming up, Mrs. Reynolds opened the door.

In she walked with Jascha Heifetz. He looked older than I had imagined, but the artist was, after all, in his seventies.
"This is Marjorie Kransberg, Mr. Heifetz. She's thirteen years old."
"Hello," said Heifetz, as he strode to his desk in the center of the room.
"The essay?"
"It is here," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to the lined notebook paper on top of a neat pile.
"Thank you."
And she left.
  

"What brings you here?"asked Mr. Heifetz.
I stared at him, in awe. I had studied his face on record jackets and books, right down to the bags under his eyes.
"What can I do for you?"
 "Well—I'd like to—to play for you."

Jascha Heifetz glanced over my essay, a requirement for an audition with him. I felt pangs of guilt for having copied my mother's words in my own hand. But with her incessant demand for perfection, she had left me little choice. I was supposed to have written about my previous history, and my musical goals.
"You played a concert recently—it says here."
"Yes." I flicked my long brown hair away from my face. The room felt increasingly warm.
"Well, how did it go?" He looked up. His icy blue eyes cast a penetrating gaze.

"Um. Fine, I guess." In spite of a burst of adrenalin, and frustration with Mr. Müller's beat, the Tri-State Music Festival concert had been declared a success. More solo engagements and invitations were to follow. "The audience liked my playing," I said.

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

 "How do you know?"
"Well, they stood up."
 Heifetz narrowed his eyes, and studied my face.

"Were they in a hurry to leave?"
His voice remained calm, though his words stung.

"What?"

"Did you ever think, perhaps, your audience was just plain relieved that your performance had ended?"

I giggled uncomfortably. A silence ensued.

"Maybe they were grateful it was over—your playing, that is."

 "I hadn't thought of that," I muttered.

"Or perhaps, the listeners needed to stretch their legs. That can happen, too. You didn't think about that, did you?"
"N-no."

I was taken aback. But then, even though I was young, I recognized that Heifetz's comments were meant to plummet me back to earth; a child performer could easily suffer from a swelled head after receiving adulation from both public and press. I was to learn years later, that Heifetz had a keen sense for people. He could sniff conceit and insincerity, and put those who suffered from such maladies in their proper places, at once, with words as weapons.

Mr. Heifetz lifted my essay again from his desk, and put on his reading glasses. "Do you recognize this hand-writing?"
I nodded. He pursued the interrogation.
"This paper belonged to you?"
"Yes."

"You write something about a bow—grip." And he repeated the word grip with obvious displeasure. "What's the problem? Are you confused?"

"I don't know. I mean, I guess."
Awkward silence.
"I'm not sure if I hold the bow correctly," I blurted, finally.

I felt like an idiot. My mother included a query about right hand technique. The violinist's supple bow arm is to a violinist as breath control to a singer. And she recognized that, though the Galamian approach had its own aesthetic appeal, the disciples of Leopold Auer from the Russian school of violin playing, such as Jascha Heifetz and Mischa Elman, had a vastly superior sound, style and virtuosity. Mother and daughter were both confused on this subject.

"What have you been doing all these years?"

I paused. "What do you mean?"

"Do you hold the bow or not?"

"I do, yes, of course."

"With your fingers?"

I nodded.

"Because you could attempt holding it with your toes. Have you tried that?"
I fumbled for an answer.

"So. What would you like to play? Assuming, of course, that you can figure out how to hold onto your bow."

"I—I would like to play the 'Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso' by Camille Saint-Saëns."

He drummed his fingers on the desk with an expression of boredom.
"I'd like to hear the Mendelssohn Concerto in E Minor, final movement."

 I wiped my hands on my tight-waisted, navy blue skirt, and took a deep breath. I hadn't yet learned the Mendelssohn. I loved the piece, though, especially the Heifetz rendition. I had practically worn out the LP by playing it over and over again on the Hi-Fi. And I had viewed the film, "They Shall Have Music" with my parents. Heifetz had made a rare cameo appearance in that movie, performing both the Saint-Saëns and the Mendelssohn with a youth orchestra. I shed tears as I followed the plight of a little boy who had run away from home, and ended up at a music school for poor children. When the school suffered hard times, and faced possible closure, the boy enlisted the aid of Heifetz. The violinist performed a benefit concert, saved the school, and was a hero.

"Hello?" Heifetz leaned forward at his desk. "Anybody there?"
"I'm sorry. I haven't learned the Mendelssohn," I said. "My teacher at Juilliard says it's too difficult."

"Well, have you heard it?"

"Y-Yes. Many times."
 I'd never admit that when I listened to Jascha Heifetz on any recording, I pretended it was me playing. Now, in front of the legendary violinist, I was suddenly at a loss, not only for words and confidence, but the most important ingredient of all—the notes.  

"It's settled," Heifetz said. "Mendelssohn Concerto—Finale."
He picked up a metal stick—was it a TV antennae?— and tapped it against the desk.
"I'll try to play it," I said.
"Don't try, just do it."

Sunday Open Concert (Ch.5 Pt.4)

Sharan opened the door, and Mr. Galamian stood in front of her. He snapped his fingers. "You must practice," he growled. I fled from Sharan's room, hoping Mr. G. hadn't recognized me, and returned to my cubicle. I knew that if I didn't practice, I would never be accepted as Mr. G's pupil. And if I didn't get to be his pupil, I would never become a concert violinist. And if I didn't become a violinist, my mother would be sorely disappointed. Frantic, perhaps.

There were consequences to our having broken the practice rules. Fannie and Miss Thomas held a meeting for all the Main House girls, and warned that if we were caught not practicing again, all privileges would be taken from us, and our parents called.  Ceo, pronounced say-oh, one of the cafeteria cooks, was assigned an additional role as practice monitor, in other words, a spy. I was sent off to Lilacs Cottage to take additional weekly lessons with Ani Kavafian, an accomplished pupil of Ivan Galamian's. Ani's task was to do damage control, as my practicing left much to be desired.

Meadowmount presented students in recital three or four times a week in the concert hall. Most of the events were closed to the public, but Sunday matinees were open to friends and family members. Attendance was mandatory for students. The faculty would sit on a long wooden bench, off to the side. Students would carefully observe Mr. Galamian and his assistants, assessing their reactions to student performances. A nod from Mr. Galamian could mean the start of an international career, or concert management. My parents had planned to visit after my initial two weeks of music camp, and alas, they showed up on a Sunday eager to hear one of Meadowmount's rising stars.

♪ ♩ ♪

Twelve-year-old violinist Stephanie Chase stepped lightly and briskly onto the stage, and acknowledged her audience with a warm smile. The hall, small enough for intimacy, was bustling with family members and friends. I sat near the last row with my father. His head drooped from heat and exhaustion. He had driven from Wenham, Massachusetts to Westport, New York through the night, and would drive directly home after the concert for work the next day; a round trip of eleven hours. From the corner of my eye, through the mass of audience, I saw my mother fifth row center. She was determined to sit as close to the stage as possible. Her bewigged head was cocked slightly, a pose she maintained whenever listening intensely. Stephanie tossed her long, chestnut brown hair away from her face, and smiled politely at the enthusiastic audience. She then unfolded a white handkerchief and calmly placed it under her chin. Stephanie, at age twelve, maintained the aura of a seasoned professional. A quick glance at the piano accompanist, David Garvey, after readying her violin, and Stephanie dug into a display of Wieniawski's pyrotechnics. From start to finish, her performance was flawless. With eyes closed, Stephanie exhibited an intense level of concentration, and mercurial technique. She practiced six hours daily, and resided during the year with her teacher, Sally Thomas. During Stephanie's polished performance, I wondered if she ever made mistakes. It was difficult enough for me to pronounce Wieniawski but this girl—this twelve-year-old girl—rendered a flawless performance of the work in its entirety with unrivaled poise.

The audience erupted into a feverish applause before Stephanie had even finished the last chord. She greeted the reception with a look of humility, bowing and lip-syncing "thank you" to the audience. Her chest heaved like a gymnast from a perilous work out. With her handkerchief, Stephanie wiped the perspiration from her neck and chin. My mother bolted up from her chair. "Bravissima! Encore!" I heard my mother's voice rise above the chorus of cheers, and she clapped her hands high in the air. The audience rose to their feet, and Ivan Galamian, seated along the side wall with the rest of the faculty, Sally Thomas, Margaret Pardee, David Cerone, Paul Makanowitzky, Josef Gingold and Dorothy DeLay, beamed with delight. He cupped his hands and whispered something into Miss Thomas's ear, for Stephanie was her prize pupil. And to this day I remember a thought that struck me: It was my mother's misfortune that she had me for a daughter rather than Stephanie Chase. 

First Lesson with Sally Thomas (Ch.5 Pt.3)

At Meadowmount, I began studies with Sally Thomas, Ivan Galamian's first associate, as she preferred to be known. She was reputed to be "tough as nails" by Meadowmount campers, and with her cropped hair and reserved nature, Miss Thomas could be intimidating, especially to an eleven-year-old. Rumor had it that she kept a pet crow and unleashed it on lazy students. The crow struck terror in me; I knew that due to homesickness, my first week of practicing had been a half-hearted attempt.

Our first lesson began with a pencil in place of a bow. I was to learn the right-hand technique, as taught by Ivan Galamian and his disciples, which was based on the Franco-Belgian school of violin playing. Slowly, I became aware of the right hand and thumb mechanism. Miss Thomas took the pencil away and slipped the bow into my hand.

"Bend the thumb, release the thumb. Round the fingers, lengthen the fingers." We worked on open strings with slow strokes, paying close attention to every detail, then a one-octave scale. Finally, a two octave scale was introduced with an assortment of bowing patterns, and then three octaves. 

"Square the bow in the middle, angle at the frog. Draw the bow out at the tip. Out, in, down, up, bend, release," Miss Thomas reminded. 

I missed my former teacher, Sarah Scriven. Before summer, we were about to step into the late Classical and early Romantic repertoire. Knowing Mrs. Scriven, she would have shrieked, sighed, and groaned at my mistakes, but her eyes would have shined with luminosity for the music and me.
I took a deep breath and looked longingly at my watch. The hour had seemed like an eternity.
"Are you late for something?" Miss Thomas asked, with narrowed eyes.
I felt like crying, and glanced at the box of Kleenex on the piano. Miss Thomas strode to the studio door and gestured for me to pack up. Our first lesson had ended.

I walked along the pebbled parking lot back to the Main House, dragging each step. Everyone was busy at work during morning practice hours. Shuffling past Sharan's room, on the way to my lonely room, I heard whispers and stifled giggles, but also the violin. I knocked softly on Sharan's door. I detected rapid footsteps, someone whispering "shush" and the sounds of tuning. Sharan opened her door with the violin propped under her chin and bow by her side. Her frizzy hair cascaded down to her waist. Sharan heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness. It's only Smudgie. Janna, you can come out now." 

Janna, a thirteen-year-old Main House violinist, tumbled out of the closet.
"What's going on?" I scanned the room. It was palatial compared to mine, with a bay window over-looking the gardens.
"Shhh. Be quiet. We thought you were Fannie, the house mother," whispered Janna, smoothing her sleek, black hair into a long ponytail. "Gosh, the way she sneaks around spying on us with that whistle around her neck, gives me the creeps. We wouldn't want to get in trouble around here for not practicing—but we don't want to practice, either, right Sharan?" 

"I could have sworn you were Mr. G. Sometimes, when he's not teaching, he stands behind the door and listens. It's spooky. I can see his shadow." Sharan blew a wisp of hair out of her face. "I swear, Galamian looks like Count Dracula."
"What are you guys up to? I heard actual playing."  

"We've recorded ourselves practicing, and let it playback during the hour," admitted Janna. "Sharan's idea."

 "Smudgie, don't you have a cassette player?" Sharan's dark, brown eyes gleamed with mischief.

I returned to my cell above Galamian's studio and lifted the Sony from a drawer. I pressed record, and got down 50 minutes worth of scales and etudes, replete with the bowing patterns suggested by Miss Thomas.

During the playback, I tiptoed back to Sharan and Janna's room. They sat on the bed cross-legged while reading Seventeen and Cosmopolitan Magazines. Kreutzer number two played   in the background with glaring mistakes and obvious self-corrections. They sipped Coke and dug their musical fingers into a box of Entenmann's chocolate-chip cookies.

"Are those good?" I licked my lips.

"Don't tell me," said Janna, gliding her tongue over her braces, and holding up a tiny, chocolate-chip laden cookie. "You never tasted an Entenmann? Oh my gosh. Where have you been kiddo?"

And just as I was about to experience the pleasures of an Entenmann, there was a loud rap at the door, and a dark shadow.

in photo: Sally Thomas with me in 1970

The Phone Call (Ch.5 Pt.2)

Josef Gingold, formerly concertmaster under George Szell with Cleveland Orchestra, was chamber music professor par excellence at Meadowmount. His studio on the first floor of the Main House was directly opposite Galamian's room. Gingold, having been a protégé of the legendary Belgian violinist Eugene Ysaye, was a much sought after teacher and chamber music coach. Charming and forever patient, his students adored him. Gingold invited everyone to his studio for a warm welcome. "Come children," he said, his voice deep and gruff, "vee'll play chamber music!"

He opened a cupboard filled with sheet music. "Look vot I found. Bach's beloved Brandenburgs!"

Gingold's excitement was infectious. 

"Let's begin with number three."

The students cheered.

 
The newcomers sat on the floor and watched as the older campers, many in college, grouped into a semi-circle—three violinists, three violists, and three cellists.

Lynn Chang sat first chair. I remembered how he tore into the Tchaikovsky Concerto at Boston's Symphony Hall and was curious to hear him play chamber music.

Lynn brimmed with confidence. The house mother's daughter, Stephanie, sat next to him. "Ready?" He darted a sly look around the room.

"Ready!" shouted the students, their bows held in mid air.

The Brandenburg Concerto pulsated with vitality.  

As swirls of rhythm filled Mr. Gingold's studio, a teaching assistant barged into the room, and gestured for the playing to cease. "Is Marjorie Kransberg here? Has anyone seen Marjorie Kransberg?" Mr. Gingold glanced up. His broad smile faded. Lynn Chang stared blankly. The room fell silent.

I couldn't imagine why I was being summoned, and slowly raised my hand. 

"There you are," said the assistant hurriedly. "Marjorie, your father is on the phone. There's been an emergency and he needs to speak with you right away. The pay phone is open in the booth. It's just by the entrance way. Here, I'll show you."

I could feel the blood rush to my head. My mother had died. I just knew it. Why else would my father call? I began to whimper.

My legs, now made of rubber, followed the assistant to the phone booth. Her face darkened as she handed me the phone. She turned around and left me alone in the cubicle.

I held my breath.

"Hu-Hullo?"

"Margie, precious darling—it's Mummy and Daddy. (They were on the phone together). We had to say it was an emergency or else they wouldn't let us speak with you."

Perspiration soaked my shirt. I could hear my father inhale from his cigarette.

"Tell your mother you're ok. She didn't sleep all night worrying that you're homesick, and I'll tell you, your mother is driving me crazy. You are Frances. You're making me—"

"My sweetheart, precious darling, are you alright? Do you miss Mummy and Daddy?"

"No," I said, feigning calm.

"That's funny. Last night, your first night at camp, I sensed that you missed us. I was sick with worry, my dolly. I miss you, I miss you terribly. Do they serve vegetables at Meadowmount? Enough milk? Are you kept warm at night?"

"Yeah," I replied, secretly grateful to know that my mother was worried sick but had not died. "I'm listening to Lynn Chang play the Brandenburg Concerto in Mr. Gingold's studio." 

"The wha?" asked my father, taking another puff of cigarette.  

"Oh, how phenomenal. John, did you hear that?" My mother's voice leaped. "She's with Lynn Chang! I always wanted the two of them to play duets together."

 "Mum, I've gotta go."

"Don't forget to eat your fruits and vegetables. They'll make you strong."

"Frances. This call's costing money. Marjorie, if you should need to reach us, call collect. Say to the operator, I'd like to place a person-to-person call to John Kransberg. Ok, little pisher?"

Mother was about to say something. "Marj—"

"She's fine Furr," I heard my father gasp, and then a click followed by a dial tone.

Starting Meadowmount (Ch.5 Pt.1)

It was summer of 1970. High school and college students at the Meadowmount School of Music were jittery after the Kent State massacre. They huddled around the one television set in the Recreation Room of the Main House, and listened intently for news updates as President Richard M. Nixon launched a Cambodian invasion. Endless debates ensued regarding the anti-war movement. Being eleven years of age, not only was I oblivious to political events and the world stage, but I was home-sick. I had never in my life been away from my parents, not even for a one night sleep-over. At Meadowmount, a world renown summer school for string players nestled in rural Westport, New York, I felt conspicuously out of place. I didn't know any of the campers or faculty members, and was at the time, the youngest student. I was in awe of the distinguished individuals in Meadowmount's history: Joseph Gingold, Gregor Piatigorsky, Leonard Rose, Itzhak Perlman, Pinchas Zukerman, Michael Rabin, Paul Makanowitzky, and David Nadien, among a long list of others. Ivan Galamian had loosely modeled his Meadowmount after the Stolyarski School in Odessa, which produced a whole galaxy of formidable violinists. In my eleven-year-old mind, I understood that to study at prestigious Meadowmount was a privilege. But, in my eleven-year-old heart, I missed my parents and wished only to return home.

My room was a tiny cubicle directly above Ivan Galamian's teaching studio in the living quarters of the Main House. If I put my ear to the floor, as my mother had insisted before she left, I could hear Mr. Galamian transmit secrets of violin playing to his students. The strains of violin and Mr. Galamian's mutterings wafted up through the vents into my room. "That's the best way to get ahead, my dolly. Get down on the floor and listen, listen, listen. Those are precious secrets to guard for life."

The morning practice regimen began at eight o'clock sharp, and continued until noon. Ten minute breaks were allotted between each hour to rest fingers and ears. They were also a preventative for the harmful habit of mindless practice. I had never studied without my mother's supervision, and as a result, was at a loss for how to begin. Reluctantly, I propped the Galamian scale book on the wire-rimmed music stand. The scales, along with Kreutzer Etudes were mandatory for all first time students. Like many other violinists at Meadowmount, I had been assigned J.S.Bach's Concerto in A Minor, a staple in the repertoire.

The scales perplexed me. The notes rose and fell without stems or bar lines. I let the book drop off the music stand, sat down on my cot, and wept. I missed my mother and father. They may have been nuts, but they were still my parents. During the ten minute breaks, excited chatter crescendo-ed  in the hallway. The Main House students, all girls ages 12 to 15, laughed as they became acquainted with one another. They compared notes about lessons and repertoire, and exchanged anecdotes in an array of dialects. Hesitant to emerge from my cubicle above Mr. Galamian's studio during the breaks, even to use the bathroom, I stifled sobs and waited for the ten minute interval to end. The house mother blew a whistle and hollered, "Back to work, girls!" I gripped my old teddy bear, rather than the violin, and buried my nose in its fur for the scent of home. Before long the stuffed animal was drenched with tears.

After four tedious hours passed, hours which felt like weeks, a blaring alarm rang. "Lunch!" yelled the Main House girls and stampeded down the stairs. I busted out of my cell and raced down the broad, winding staircase to get to the front of the dining hall line. Many hours had passed since breakfast and my stomach growled. Although fearful that I'd have to sit alone again, as I had done at breakfast, or speak with strangers, the aroma of fresh bread and spaghetti with marinara proved a distraction. My mouth watered. I imagined a heaping platter of pasta drowned in rich, chunky tomato sauce with huge, savory meatballs, like my mother's recipe. Just before the dining hall doors opened, I felt a tap on the shoulder. I turned around. A girl that resembled Botticelli's Venus, but dressed in worn-out, bell-bottomed Levis, introduced herself to me.

"I'm Sharan. What's your name?"

I stared back at her. My parents would never have allowed me to wear jeans.

"Certainly you have a name, right?"

"It's Margie."

She blinked. "Smudgie?"

"Margie," I repeated.

"Oh, it's—Mahgie," she seemed to sing. "Are you from Boston? You have a Boston accent."

My face felt flushed.

"Oh, c'mon, don't be shy. At least you don't have an embarrassing hickey on your neck like I do."

"A what?" 

"See?" She pointed under her chin to a bruise.

"Pretty gross, huh. It's from practicing. I know, it looks as if my boyfriend bit me, but trust me, he didn't. I mean, he tried. Do you have a boyfriend?"

My mind reeled. I was too young for boys, and even if I were older, my parents wouldn't have allowed dating. I had a fleeting image of Elliott Markow, though, and how we played duets together in a darkened room at Boston Music School.
"Elliott," I said softly, hoping not to sound like a geek, and for Sharan to like me.
The dining hall doors opened. Everyone cheered and clapped.
"Sit with me at lunch," Sharan said. "There's other stuff besides the violin to learn around here—"

Mom and I at Meadowmount in 1970 

Saying Good-Byes (Ch.4 Pt.3)

It was a hot, sticky afternoon in early June. Mrs. Scriven's studio, on the second floor of Boston Music School, sweltered from the heat. Mrs. Scriven met us in the foyer for a lesson in the small recital room downstairs. Her friend, the piano teacher Edna Nitkin, was busy fanning herself with a a book of Czerny Etudes. When Miss Nitkin saw us standing at the doorway, she bolted from the room. Edna Ida Nitkin was a proud woman who, in her youth, had beat Leonard Bernstein at the Mason & Hamlin Annual Competition held at New England Conservatory. She had been awarded the prize by Serge Koussevitzky, Harold Bauer and Joseph Lhevinne, and immediately engaged as soloist with the Boston Symphony. But her greatest pride, in later years, was her Rapunzel-length hair; her crowning achievement. Edna Nitkin was short and stooped, and I thought she was about a hundred years old. My mother was determined to change Edna's style, as she noted that Edna's hair made her look like Cousin Itt from the Addam's Family.

One Christmas, during a gift-giving exchange, my mother, eager with good intent, had purchased a short black wig for Edna, who was at the time my piano teacher. As Miss Nitkin dutifully opened the red and green package from Jordan Marsh, her gnarled fingers trembled with anticipation. "Oh, I wonder what this is!" she exclaimed with glee. But after she untied the ribbon, tore open the box, and found a black polyester/nylon wig that resembled roadkill, she screamed with horror. Edna Nitkin flung the wig onto the floor, and fled from the room in tears. "How could you?" she cried. My piano lessons with Edna Nitkin ended right then and there. My mother had tried to make up with Edna each time their paths crossed, at lessons and recitals, even on the steps of the music school. "Oh Edna. Please don't be angry with me. I just thought you might enjoy a new look, that's all, to emphasize your beautiful face. I wear wigs all the time—they're in vogue."

But it was to no avail. Edna Nitkin's memory was as long as her hair. 

"I'm shvitzing," said Mrs. Scriven wiping the perspiration off her forehead with a handkerchief. She acknowledged Edna Nitkin's flight from the foyer with rolled eyes. "If we open the windows it just gets warmer. The humidity is making me meshugge. How are you darling?"

I nodded and muttered, "OK."

"Sarah," my mother said reaching for Mrs. Scriven's hand. "We need to talk about the rest of summer, and Marjorie's future. I have news."

"Oh? What sort of news?"

"It's just that—"

"Yes? Come on. What is it? Let's go sit down before we all pass out from this unbearable heat."

She led us to a round table in the sitting room. I placed my elbows on the surface and clasped my hands as if in prayer.

"Well. Our Marjorie has been offered a scholarship to Meadowmount."

Mrs. Scriven sighed loudly and took off her glasses to wipe them.
"So? What about it? It's only a summer music camp. Perhaps she'll get to be with other children for a change. We'll continue our work in the fall."

"Well, I'm afraid—"

"Afraid of what, Mrs. Kransberg?"

"Marjorie's been accepted to Juilliard, on scholarship, as well."

"Oh? Is that right? Well, I hope you're not scheming to have Marjorie leave me for that greedy, over-rated, pupil snatcher, Ivan Galamian."

My mother cleared her throat. "Well, eventually she'd like to study with Ivan Galamian. But for now Marjorie has been encouraged to work with one of his assistants."

Mrs. Scriven's face reddened. She looked searchingly across the table.

"Darling. Do you want to leave me for another teacher? An assistant that you have never met?"

My heart sank.

"Tell Mrs. Scriven what Mr. Galamian told you," my mother coaxed.

I fidgeted. The heat had made my legs stick to the chair.

"Um."

"Go ahead Darling. Tell me what that pupil snatcher said. What was so revelatory?"

"It's—it's my bow arm. He says that it needs—um, work."

"Oh yeah? What sort of work?" she snapped.

"I'm not sure," I whispered, groping for words.

"And only he or some assistant can help you? Don't you see? That's his shtick. First the assistant does all the work. And then Galamian—who does he think he is really, Svengali?—gets all the credit."

My mother fingered her soft, brown hair. "Lynn Chang studies with Ivan Galamian."

After an awkward silence, Mrs. Scriven continued. "That's different. Lynn is considerably older than Marjorie, and he went from me to Alfred Krips. I would've sent Marjorie on to someone else if I felt the time was right."

"But Mr. Galamian seems to feel that younger is better when it comes to advancing the technique."

"Look, I'm not going to waste my time arguing with you, Mrs. Kransberg. If you want to schlep your daughter all the way to New York for lessons with some assistant to Ivan Galamian, go ahead. I can tell you've made up your mind—"

"Sarah, I hope you'll understand. We think the world of you. Marjorie wouldn't be where she is today if it weren't for you."

Mrs. Scriven's brown eyes filled with tears. I had difficulty looking in her direction, for I felt ashamed, and at a loss for words.

Years later, while pregnant with my second child named after her, I would travel across the country to share a magic moment with Sarah Scriven. I would tell her that I loved her dearly, that she was, in fact, one of the greatest influences in my life. And Mrs. Scriven, in her inimitable way, would reveal her sincerest thoughts: "Truth be told, I never really liked your mother." 

In her late eighties, Mrs. Scriven possessed the same feisty temperament as she had when I studied with her. "I felt that your mother pushed too hard, and I always worried for you. I could see the strain on your father's face, as if he didn't understand his place or role in your life. You were such a Mama's girl, weren't you?"

I was taken aback, of course, and a bit shaken. But, as I had students of my own by this time, I let her muse about a life spent in music, and was eager to hear her advice.

"Through teaching, I have friends all over the world. There's a little piece of me in every one of my pupils, and their pupils too. And if there's one thing I've learned, Marjorie, it's this: No matter how difficult things may seem, when you've loved a person, you love them forever."

photo from The Music Trade Review, June 1931:

Edna Nitkin at the piano, her teacher J.M. Sanroma on right

Playing for Ivan Galamian (Ch.4 Pt.2)

After about a half hour of warming up, there was a firm knock on the door. Ivan Galamian, a tall man with baggy eyes that drooped like a bloodhound, stood and motioned for me to follow him. He shuffled to the adjoining room which was his studio. I tagged behind with the violin and bow tucked under my arm.

Ivan Galamian's voice was low and quiet with a thick, Russian accent.

"Vot you vant play?" he said as he sat down in an armchair.

I stared at the old man, trying to assess whether it was a wart or mole under his lower lip.

"Vot you play for me?"

"Mozart."  

"You how old?"

"Eleven."

 An antique wall clock ticked loudly. I waited for Mr. Galamian's instructive.

"Zee Mozart," he said, finally.

I began to play the first movement. By this time I felt as if knew the Mozart Concerto in my sleep. 

Mr.Galamian remained silent throughout the exposition. Suddenly, with a wave of his hand, he gestured for me to stop.

"Vot etudes you bring?"

"None." I lowered my violin and stared at my feet.

"Scales?"

I drew a blank. With great effort, Mr. Galamian rose from his chair and placed Kreutzer Etudes on the music stand. He licked his hairy forefinger and opened the thick book.

"This for bow arm," he said. "Needs vork."

I began to sight-read. The etude sounded familiar. I had heard comedian Jack Benny play it on television.

Ivan Galamian tapped a pencil on the music stand. "Enough, good little girl. I vill speak vis parents now."

After putting my violin in its case, I followed Mr. Galamian through the long corridor, and into the spacious kitchen where my parents sat with Mrs. Galamian over a pot of tea.

They looked up at Ivan Galamian in amazement. I thought they might levitate from their chairs. Mr. Galamian gestured for them to remain seated.

I went to sit next to my mother, and Mr. Galamian pulled up a chair by his wife. The kitchen felt oppressive as we awaited the pedagogue's verdict.

  ♪ ♩ ♪

"Your daughter—very musical," said Mr. Galamian. 

"Is she ready to study with you, Mr. Galamian?" my mother chirped.

Silence. The old man was hard of hearing.

"Would it be possible for Marjorie to study with you?" she enunciated.

Mr. Galamian weighed each word as he spoke. "She has clear mind—" 

"What my husband means," said Mrs. Galamian, "is that an uncluttered mind is a clean slate."

"She must vork on bow technique," said Mr. Galamian, tapping his right arm.

"Oh yes," my mother agreed. "I've noticed a difference with your pupils in that respect, Mr. Galamian. They look so graceful when they play. You're a—a miracle worker!"

 

The Galamians spoke of their summer camp, Meadowmount. The camp was actually a school, located in upstate New York near the Adirondacks.

"It's a very disciplined environment," said Mrs. Galamian. "Meadowmount is primarily geared for older students. But we do accept gifted children."

Mr. Galamian muttered something unintelligible to his wife, as though his mouth was full of jelly beans.

"Oh yes," continued Mrs Galamian. "Ivan suggests that your Marjorie begin her studies with one of his assistants."

A look of disappointment showed on my mother's face. "But Mr. Galamian. Why can't Marjorie study with you?"

Mr. Galamian shook his head slowly. 

"He means not yet," said Mrs. Galamian. "Ivan has about one hundred and fifty students, and your daughter is too young. But don't feel bad. You know, Mr. and Mrs. Kransberg, Boss is so busy that after we were married—by none other than Norman Vincent Peale—I expected to go off on a honeymoon, like all blushing brides get to do." She giggled to herself. "But instead, you know what happened? There was a student waiting on the steps! Boss taught on the day of our wedding like every other day."

My parents laughed.

"But Meadowmount will be a fine start for your daughter. And from there, she'll be admitted to Juilliard," said Mrs. Galamian.

"Really?" my mother sang.

"Absolutely. But I should warn you that some students refer to Meadowmount as boot camp."

"Boot camp?" my father asked. His eyebrows dipped.

"Labor camp," said Mrs. Galamian. "We work those students hard. Don't we Boss?"

 "How many weeks?" my mother asked.

"Two whole months. Practice sessions are five hours, six days a week with one hour private lessons, chamber music classes, and numerous recitals. It's intensive. But the students leave Meadowmount transformed into serious artists."

"Our little Marjorie has never been away from home without us," said my father, scratching his chin, and staring across the table into my eyes. "Eight weeks can seem like a long time for a child."

 I had never been away from home before, and I could feel my stomach tie itself into a knot.

"Well, you can visit on Sundays, Mr. and Mrs. Kransberg. That's a day of rest for most campers. And I'll have you know, Marjorie," Mrs. Galamian said, as she reached to pat me on the head. "Sunday mornings, I cook the hotcakes myself. Boss tells me they're award-winning. Why, I've caught a few campers helping themselves to third and fourth helpings."

"What a phenomenal experience," my mother said. "And just think. She could get into Juilliard, too, like the young violinist, Lynn Chang. But—" she closed her eyes deep in thought. "How will we break the news to Mrs. Scriven?"

On the Way to the Galamians (Ch.4 Pt.1)

After my debut with the Boston Pops, my mother decided that it was time to leave Sarah Scriven for a teacher with more clout. The next step, in the climb to success, would be to audition to study with the famous pedagogue, Ivan Galamian in New York City. I would play for him on the sly, without Mrs. Scriven's knowledge. If accepted by Mr. Galamian, my mother would deal with Sarah Scriven later. In the meantime, she could think of a tactic to soften the blow to Mrs. Scriven that one of her prize pupils would be leaving her studio.

There was no room for argument with my mother on this subject. My father did his best to remind her that it was Sarah Scriven who had generously offered extra lessons free of charge, and Sarah Scriven who had been responsible for my debut, after countless solo appearances with various community orchestras and the Crescendo Club. What's more, Sarah was, to my father's eyes, a Yiddishe Mama with a golden heart. But my mother's mind was made up, and she stood determined; Ivan Galamian had the necessary connections to launch a young concert violinist's career, and anything else that Mrs. Scriven might do paled in comparison. Besides, Ivan Galamian was on the faculty of both Juilliard and Curtis, the two most prestigious music schools in the country.

"He's the greatest violin teacher alive," my mother said. "Think of the concert violinists he's produced: Pinchas Zukerman, Michael Rabin, Miriam Fried, and the Cripple—I always forget his name."

"Perlman?"

"Itzhak Perlman. They're all Jewish."

She tilted her head back and looked Heavenward. "Our people have the violin in our blood. Let's hope Ivan Galamian accepts you as a pupil, my dolly. Because if he does, I can almost promise, you'll have it made."

My mother pulled a pink frilly dress from the closet, and laid out a pair of white tights next to it on my canopy bed. She had taken out the scissors a few days before, and given me a haircut modeled after The Little Dutch Boy. "You'll look adorable. And we mustn't forget to show Mr. Galamian this—"

"What?"

She waved a newspaper in front of my eyes. A full page photo of my debut at the Esplanade with the Boston Pops had been published in the "Hamilton-Wenham Chronicle" with the caption:

Young Violinist Takes Boston By Storm.

On the day of my audition with Mr. Galamian, my mother piled pillows and blankets in the back seat of the Oldsmobile, so that I'd sleep en route to Manhattan. We weren't halfway out of the driveway before my father lit a cigarette, and took a deep inhale.

"You have to smoke in the car, John? Margie and I get nauseous from the smell. Don't you want her to have a successful audition? She needs oxygen, not cigarette smoke."

"Look, Furrances," he said, craning his neck as he pulled out of the driveway and sped down Burnham Road. "I gotta have a smoke. Next time, do me a favor. Go without me, only, don't smash up the car."

"Since when do I smash up cars?" Her voice leaped up an octave. "You know, John. I'm a wonderful driver—I haven't once gotten into an accident on the road."

"Ha! If you're so wonderful, why do I get calls from the police?"

"You don't, John. You're making that up." My mother rolled down the window and a blast of cold air hit me in the face. She turned to me. "Your father likes to create stories. Don't pay any attention to him. Lay kepeleh so you'll have strength enough for your audition."

I sank into the pillows and pulled a blanket over my head. Sleep would be preferable to listening to my parents argue. 

Hours later, I awakened to the blaring of car horns, slamming of brakes, and noxious fumes. We were stuck behind a stalled bus in mid-town Manhattan.

"Where the hell am I gonna find a parking space in this spaghetti bowl of a city?" my father snapped.

"Shhhh! You'll upset Margie. Remember, to be in the presence of Ivan Galamian is a great honor." 

"I don't care if he's Jesus Christ—"

 A cascade of swear words fell from my father's lips as he tried to find a parking space on the Upper Westside.

I felt car sick. 

"Mummy, I'm nauseous." I licked my dry lips.

"Now the kid's carsick," groaned my father, and swerved into a lot off Broadway. 

My mother lowered the visor to look into the mirror. She dabbed a coat of lipstick. 

"She's carsick, Frances."

"Margie? No, she's fine. All she needs is to get out of here and away from your cigarette smoke. Feh!"

My mother was right. I felt much better after stepping out of the car and walking along 73rd Street to the Galamian's house.

"This must be it," said my mother in front of the brownstone building. "Imagine all the concert artists who have climbed these very steps to his studio."

She rang the buzzer with determination.

An old woman peeked out from a heavily pad-locked door. After a slight hesitation, she clicked open all the locks. "Won't you come in?"

 "I'm John Kransberg, and this is my wife Frances," said my father, holding his Fedora hat to his chest. On cue, my father could step into the role of a perfect gentleman.

He gave me a gentle shove from the doorway. "This is our little violinist, Marjorie."

"Oh, how do you do," said the old woman warmly. "I'm Judith Galamian." Her salt and pepper hair was stacked in a tall bun. She wore a paisley apron over a simple dress. It felt as if we were visiting my grandmother.

My father took a couple of steps into the foyer. Strains of violin music wafted through the house. "Frances, what a lovely piece." He smoothed his hand over an end table. "It's a Chippendale."

Mrs. Galamian sustained a beatific smile.

"I wish I could say I'm an artist like your husband, Mrs. Galamian, but I'm just an old furniture dealer."

"A very successful business man," asserted my mother. "John owns the company Kransberg's Furniture. Have you heard of it, Mrs. Galamian?"

"Come again?" 

"Kransberg's Furniture," repeated my mother with a puzzled expression.

Mrs. Galamian scanned our faces. The faint sounds of violin playing grew into shrieks.

My mother cocked her head to listen. "You are so fortunate to hear magnificent music from your famous husband's studio all day long."

"You're so very kind," said Mrs. Galamian. "Actually, Boss is in the midst of a lesson right now, but he's been expecting your daughter." She lowered her voice to a little girl whisper. "I always call my husband Boss. You know, I mustn't disturb the artist at work—"

"Of course not," exclaimed my mother. "I'm the exact same way with John. That's how it is when our husbands are busy."

My father folded his arms and snorted.

Mrs. Galamian reached for my hand to usher me away.

"Follow me, dear, to the warm-up room. Boss will come get you when he's ready. Your parents are welcome to keep me company in the kitchen. I'll make a strong pot of tea, and we'll get acquainted. Such  interesting people, your parents. Why, I'm sure we'll have lots to talk about—"

Me sitting on Dad's Oldsmobile