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.

Imaginary Acts (Ch.11 Pt.2)

"Sugarplum," says Dorothy DeLay after listening to my run-through of the G Minor Bach Fugue. "Imagine leading a four part choir whenever you play this. Point to the alto in the opening to introduce the fugal subject; then, two bars later, indicate to the tenor, finally, gesture to the soprano to join with the others. Bring out every voice for your audience to hear. Fugues are daunting for the average listener."
I nod with apprehension. My recital at Paul Hall begins in four hours, twenty minutes, and twelve seconds. I wipe my clammy hands on the skirt my mother sewed for the event.

"Let's talk for a moment about the summer," she says, lifting a tub of Darigold cottage cheese from the coffee table. "I hope you'll attend Aspen, so that we can continue our work together. Great outdoor concerts and picnics, too."
I mutter something incomprehensible about my mother and Interlochen. The truth is, Fred Müller, my manager, has sealed a deal for a summer program. I've been awarded full scholarship to Interlochen, and that's that. Müller has convinced my mother I might be named concertmaster for the World Youth Symphony; my mother imagines her daughter following in the footsteps of Joseph Silverstein, Boston Symphony's legendary concertmaster.

"You have your mother come upstairs after the recital, OK? It'll be easier for us to discuss plans here in my studio than backstage at the hall, where I might get distracted by others."
You mean, accosted by other stage parents.
"If your mother has objections to Aspen, I need to understand her reasoning."
I force a smile. I'm aware that Dorothy DeLay has a degree in psychology as well as music, but my mother has a Ph.D in Obstinacy. No amount of analytic reasoning will change her ways.
"Are parents really allowed up here?"
"What dear?"
"You know. Isn't there some sort of, um, policy? Like, no parents allowed on the fifth floor."
Miss DeLay sets the tub of cottage cheese on the coffee table and darts a disapproving glance. "Oh, these hare-brained institutional policies, Margo. For every rule, there's an exception. Speaking of exceptions—"

I tuck the violin under my arm and distractedly etch a circle into the carpet with my bow. Somewhere I had read that Piatigorsky, the great Russian cellist, had begun one movement of a Bach Suite in a concert, and detoured into another. The week before, Robert McDuffie, Miss DeLay's prize student and not exactly a wimp, perspired uncontrollably during a performance while fighting his way through a fugal episode of Bach.
Why did I agree to this recital in the first place?

"If I'm to stick with this diet," says Miss DeLay, digging into her pocketbook and jangling coins and keys, "I'll
need chocolate. Sweetheart, here."
She crumples a couple of dollars and extends her arm.
I reopen the thick Galamian edition of Bach to examine a fingering.
"Will you bring me a candy bar from the vending machine before your next class? Make that two, actually. I'll be going all day without a lunch break."
I distractedly reach for the dollars after glancing at the notes.
"Thank you, Margaret, and keep the change."


♪ ♩ ♪

Backstage of the recital hall, I begin to warm up; the violin feels alien. I've been told to enter on stage at five minutes past the hour, allowing latecomers a grace period. I tiptoe to the stage door, hold it ajar, and frantically scan the audience. I spot my mother sitting third row center. She's fanning herself with what appears to be several concert programs. I know what she'll do with those programs; she'll send to my sisters, aunts and uncles as proof of my prodigious accomplishments. She glimpses my figure from behind the door, and tosses a bouquet of kisses. I release the heavy door and let it close with a thud. My legs turn to Jell-O.

In less than an hour, I tell myself, the recital will be over. I glance up at a red lettered sign: EXIT. If the performance is awful, really awful, I'll unlatch the fire escape, jump out, and vanish. Kids disappear all the time in New York City.

My mind races as I imagine all sorts of strategies to survive. I recall Joseph Silverstein performing the same Bach G Minor Sonata at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. There's a violinist for you, I think to myself; an artist unburdened by stage fright. I envision him backstage with me, amused as I pace back and forth. His thick eyebrows, two furry caterpillars, raise and dip.
Scared of a solo performance, are you? He brushes off my nervousness with a wave of his hand. What could possibly be more enjoyable than playing Bach? I imagine him saying. Besides, it's not as if you're performing all six sonatas and partitas, as I'll do on my birthday.

I've attended many recitals of his in Boston. Each time Silverstein bounds the stage with the enthusiasm of a diner heading for the buffet table. He squints into the lights with a grateful grin and offers a deep bow to acknowledge his audience. Silverstein then readies the violin to produce—as my mother describes—a purity of tone comparable to vintage wine. He renders the sonata that I'm about to perform with elegant ease. In his supple hands, voices flow in seamless textures, sometimes blending together, other times diverging. But always beautiful. The audience is transfixed by the artist's touch and tenderness. Even the complicated fugue is suffused with gaiety and charm.

A backstage voice bellows. "It's time, young lady." The man, his sullen expression that of an executioner, props open the stage door. It creaks loudly. With quickening pulse, I walk past him, into the lights, and acknowledge the smattering of applause with a prolonged bow and grateful grin. I slowly ready the violin, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. Soon the ordeal will be over. My knees tremble. Joseph Silverstein, I find myself wondering: Are you with me?

Dorothy DeLay at Aspen  © Peter Schaaf; Joseph Silverstein

Audition for Harry Ellis Dickson (Ch.2 Pt.3)

Whenever Mrs. Scriven felt confident in a student’s performance caliber, she would contact Harry Ellis Dickson and let him know she might have a potential young soloist. In my case, my mother was convinced that writing a personal letter to Mr. Dickson would be more effective, since she she had spent all those years as a violinist in his Brookline Civic Symphony. My mother wrote explaining that I was now a pupil of Lynn Chang's former teacher, Sarah Scriven.

"Dear Harry," the letter began. "Wait until you hear my little Marjorie. You will not regret hearing her." The words "not regret" were underlined three times. And her letter continued with all sorts of compliments paid to the maestro for his various talents, his encouragement of my mother while she participated in Brookline Civic while pregnant with me, as well as musings about my future. "If only my daughter could be given a chance as soloist. To be a concert violinist is my Marjorie's dream. Who would have thought this would happen? Could it be because she heard music through the womb while I played in your wonderful ochresta (sic)? What do you think Harry? All Marjorie needs is a chance; an opportunity. I'll leave it to you Harry, but remember, you can make her dreams come true! Yours truly, Frances M. Kransberg."  

Harry Ellis Dickson telephoned Sarah Scriven a few weeks after the letter was sent. He had a soft spot for aspiring, young musicians. Besides, child performers were box office sensations. Mr. Dickson agreed to listen to several of Sarah Scriven's students. He was on the look-out for a young soloist, a fresh face, to be featured during the summer Esplanade Series at the Hatch Memorial Shell. But Mr. Dickson made one thing clear to Mrs. Scriven: No parents were allowed to attend the audition, not even Frances Kransberg.

My mother obeyed Mr. Dickson's request, as she had no choice.

Up to the Green Room of Symphony Hall I went with Mrs.Scriven, Elliott Markow (who was my arch rival and closest friend), and his fourteen-year-old sister, RoseAnn. I had watched Harry Ellis Dickson conduct at Symphony Hall with Lynn Chang as soloist, and now I was to play the Mozart Concerto in G Major for him. I wiped my sweaty hands on my dress while Mrs. Scriven tuned my violin. 

After Mrs. Scriven finished tuning, Harry Ellis Dickson threw open the doors to the Green Room and entered with a brisk step. He reached out to Mrs. Scriven for a hug.

"Sarah, Sarah! It's been too long. Who are the marvels I get to listen to today?"

Mrs. Scriven's face lit up. "I have some wonderful talent with me, Harry. Really. You're going to love these kids. All three of them."

 The thought struck me that I'd make an idiot of myself if I had a memory lapse and forgot all the notes of the Mozart. My legs turned to Jell-o.

"This is Elliott Markow and his older sister, RoseAnn. And here's Marjorie."

"Who's on first?" asked Mr. Dickson animatedly. He glanced at his watch and began to pace.

"Marjorie. She's the youngest. Ten years old, right darling?"

I nodded.

"And she's studied with me for—how many years?"

I froze.

"I have to tell you, Sarah," said Mr. Dickson. "I have precious little time. We have a rehearsal on Brahms Fourth with Seiji in an hour."

"Marjorie is a bit shy." She turned to me and coaxed. "Tell Harry how long you've studied with me. He won't bite."

"Th-th-three—"

"Oh darling, don't be scared. It's only Harry."

Mr. Dickson walked towards me and pinched my cheek between his thumb and fore-finger. Up close he seemed shorter. On the podium at Symphony Hall, I thought Mr. Dickson was a giant. 

"I know how difficult it is to play for others, believe me," he said. "In fact, to this day I suffer. Sure, my own violin playing sounds great when I'm alone in the practice room. No problem. I can pretend to be Heifetz. Or better than Heifetz. And I think to myself, Harry, why can't you just play like that on the concert stage? What's the matter with you? Look at Joe Silverstein. One Friday afternoon, just before he was to perform the Bruch "Scottish Fantasy", Leinsdorf found him asleep on the couch. Imagine! But not me. I step in front of an audience and, oh boy, I must lose what, about 30 per cent? Sarah—you know what I mean."

She waved him off. "That's enough, Harry."

Meanwhile, a few passages of the Mozart evaporated from my memory.

"Remember, don't play like a mouse. Be bold," warned Mrs. Scriven before taking her seat on the couch.

I began the concerto with all the confidence I could muster. My cold, numb fingers moved on their own, like obedient soldiers. As I drew the bow up and down, notes that had vanished, reappeared, as if by magic. A little voice inside my head said, Gee, you don’t sound nervous; maybe Mr. Dickson will choose you to be the soloist after all. Mummy and Daddy will be proud. Mrs. Scriven, too. The longer I played, the more my thoughts drifted to assessing what Harry Ellis Dickson thought of my playing. I searched Mr. Dickson's face. He smiled. Then Mrs. Scriven's. She averted my eyes by looking down at the blue and yellow Oriental rug. I glanced at Elliott. Was he picking his nose? My fingers got tangled up and I botched an arpeggio. What had I just played? Was it even Mozart? My hands felt disconnected from my arms, and my bow veered off course in the wrong direction. I made a quick detour to the cadenza, and crashed into the final chord.

Before I drew to the tip of the bow, tears rolled down my face. I felt ashamed. Mrs. Scriven shot up from her chair and threw her arms around me, practically crushing the violin with her large bosom. "You're a human being, darling, not some sort of machine. The greatest artists have off-days. Harry understands, don't you Harry?"

Mr. Dickson nodded agitatedly. "I'll say. Most of my days are off. But you're terrific. Really, young lady. Such musicality, and solid technique."

I cried harder.

"A sheyne punim," he said, and patted my head.

Mrs. Scriven plucked a cotton handkerchief from her pocketbook and dried my tears. "You're right, Harry. You should only see when she smiles—those dimples."

"Who's next?" Mr. Dickson asked abruptly. He looked again at his watch.

Statuesque RoseAnn rendered a note-perfect Beethoven Romance in F Major. Her tone was velvety and smooth, like chocolate fudge cake with vanilla icing. She seemed older than fourteen.

Then it was skinny, golden-haired, Elliott's turn. He played Mozart's Adelaide Concerto. Elliott's confidence must have soared after hearing me fall apart. He didn't play like a mouse. Only I did. More tears ran down my cheeks.

Elliott concluded the Adelaide triumphantly.

"And how old are you?" Mr. Dickson asked Elliott.

"Eleven." Elliott grinned broadly. Done deal, I thought.

"What marvelous pupils," said Mr. Dickson, "each and every one." His left hand rested against his cheek, as if nursing a tooth-ache. Mr. Dickson's eyes darted from one student to the next. "Sarah, you never disappoint. You're an amazing teacher." He muttered to himself, "As if she didn't know—"

"I'm so proud," said Mrs. Scriven. "I kvell. All three should have an opportunity to perform at the Esplanade. Can you give each one a chance, Harry? Please? They're all deserving. What do you say?"

Mr. Dickson paused, then paced around the Green Room. He threw a woolen scarf around his neck, and paced some more.

"Sarah my dear. I really have only one spot for this summer. But I assure you—"

"Only one? But Harry—"

"I'll need the week to think it through. These youngsters are something else, though, I'll tell you. Tough call."

Mrs. Scriven's puppy dog brown eyes teared. She loved her students more than anything in the world, as if they were her own flesh and blood. As I look back, I'm sure it pained Mrs. Scriven to think that for every winner there might be a loser.

Mr. Dickson gave Mrs. Scriven a peck on the cheek, picked up his baton box in one hand, and the violin case in another. "Kinder, don't vorry," he said, imitating Serge Koussevitzky.

Mrs. Scriven waited for him to close the door and sighed deeply. "Well, my dears. It looks as if we'll have to wait a whole week, or at least until Thursday, to find out his decision."

in photo Marjorie and Elliott Markow late 1960s

Harry Ellis Dickson with Lynn Chang (Ch.2. Pt.2)

My mother often spoke about the conductor and violinist, Harry Ellis Dickson. She referred to him as a Bostonian musical treasure. A first violinist in Boston Symphony, he was also music director of the Brookline Civic Symphony, conductor and founder of Boston Symphony Youth Concerts, assistant conductor to Arthur Fiedler of the Boston Pops, close friend to actor Danny Kaye, a raconteur, and an accomplished writer, all rolled into one human being. My mother idolized Mr. Dickson, who everyone called 'Harry'.  "Oh, that Harry," she would say, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "What a sense of humor. I just finished his book, Gentlemen, More Dolce Please!  You know, my dolly, he writes the way he talks. Such wit. When I was pregnant with you, I sat in the back row of the first violin section in Brookline Civic, and you know what Harry would say?"
"No Mummy, what?"
"He'd turn to all the violinists, point to me, and remark 'pregnant women are the most beautiful'. Of course, I didn't look too bad in those days. I kept my hair off my face, in a chignon, and watched my weight during the entire pregnancy. Then, when his buddy, the comedian and famous actor Danny Kaye would come to watch Harry conduct during rehearsals, Harry would seat him right next to me. I couldn't get over it. Danny Kaye was supposed to pay attention to Harry but the whole time he made eyes at me. Danny was a you-know."

"A what?"

"A flirt." She sighed.

It was Harry Ellis Dickson who championed the extraordinary young violinist Lynn Chang, and showcased him as soloist on numerous occasions with Boston Symphony. My mother was all too eager to have me follow in Lynn's footsteps.

"When will my Margie have the opportunity to audition for Harry?" my mother asked Mrs. Scriven one day at a lesson. I was ten years old.

"I'd give it some time, Mrs. Kransberg. Marjorie's not quite ready yet."

Mrs. Scriven had acquired a patient tone of voice with my mother, for I had become Mrs. Scriven's pride and joy. My musical progress had been rapid, and I had won several awards of recognition from the National Federation of Music Clubs performing works of Viotti and Mozart. I was regularly invited to perform in youth concerts throughout the New England region, including as soloist with New Hampshire Philharmonic and Wellesley Symphony Orchestra, and I had performed "Ave Maria" at Linwood Scriven's memorial service. Although I found it exasperating to practice several hours a day with my mother pointing out errors, I enjoyed the distinction of being a prize pupil. Even my father boasted about my accomplishments to his customers at Kransberg's Furniture. He'd arrive home from work with a cigar box full of candy as my reward. "Keep your mother happy," he'd say with a wink.

Impatience reflected on my mother's face at the lesson. "But Sarah, Harry'll remember me from Civic Symphony when I sat there in my ninth month of pregnancy with Margie. He'll get such a kick out of hearing her play." Then, in a conspiratorial whisper. "I had to quit Brookline Civic because I got fenumen with this little one. You know what I mean, Sarah—busy, busy, busy."

"My dear, Mrs. Kransberg. I assure you," said Mrs. Scriven slathering her hands, wrists, and arms with talcum powder but restraining herself to a sotto voce. "I'll let Harry know about Marjorie when the time is right. You need not push. Please, Mrs. Kransberg. Don't turn into a stage mother."

"A stage mother?" My mother looked quizzically. "I could never—"

"But, you know," said Mrs. Scriven, smoothing her white hair away from her face. "As I think of it, I have two tickets for this Saturday evening's Boston Symphony concert. My husband Linwood, may he rest in peace, loved the symphony. We were season subscribers for as long as I can remember. The tickets are not front row, but pretty darned close. Lynn Chang will be performing the Tchaikovsky Concerto with Harry conducting." Mrs. Scriven held a steady gaze in my direction, and narrowed her eyes. "I think it might be useful for Marjorie to hear Lynn. What do you say, darling?"

I looked helplessly at my mother without uttering a word.

 
♪ ♩ ♪

 

"Marjorie. There you are. I was looking all over for you," Mrs. Scriven said, after my father had deposited me on the steps of Boston's Symphony Hall. He forbid my mother to drive into the city at night.

Mrs. Scriven grabbed my hand and pulled me into the venerable, brick building through throngs of people. "Come on, darling. Let's go inside."

Mrs. Scriven handed her tickets to the usher and we stepped into the hall. I had never been in one place with so many seats. Glancing up at the balconies and crystal chandeliers made my head spin. My stomach knotted, as if I were the one having to perform in front of thousands of people.

Mrs. Scriven clomped down the aisle to her seat, and gestured for me to take my chair. She took off her brown fur coat and spread it over her lap, then peeled off her leather gloves, dug into her pocketbook, and sprinkled talcum on her hands. Mrs. Scriven lifted her bifocals from her bag and placed them on the tip of her nose. She licked her fore-finger. Slowly, she began turning the pages of the Boston Symphony program booklet, and lingered on the photograph of her former student, Lynn Chang.

 

Mrs. Scriven pointed to the name Joseph Silverstein in the program. "He's the concertmaster—leader of all those violinists. Important job."

Awkward pause.

"He won the Naumberg Prize, not long ago. Do you know what that is?"

I shook my head, no.

"Well, it's a coveted musical award which establishes international solo careers. Joseph Silverstein could have become a world famous soloist, but instead he chose to be Boston Symphony's concertmaster."

I nodded in agreement.

"And to tell the truth, he's come a long way, that Joseph Silverstein."

I smiled.

"What I mean is—that he keeps improving. Do you understand how vital that is to an artist?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Marjorie Kransberg," snapped Mrs. Scriven. "The day you open your mouth and say something to me is the day I'll probably drop dead from shock."

 

One by one, a few musicians strutted onto the stage. A beefy violinist sat down in the first violins. He nodded to Mrs. Scriven, and grinned. "That's Rolland Tapley," she said. "Rolland which rhymes with Holland. He's such a sweet man."

A bald cello player took a seat, pulled up the music stand, and stabbed his end pin onto the floor. A horn player shook spit out from his instrument. An oboist swabbed his oboe with what appeared to be a turkey feather. Musicians were fun to watch, like exotic animals at the zoo. As more players made their way onto the stage, the cacophony of  squeaks and honks created a painful crescendo. I looked around at all the elegantly dressed people swarming into the hall, and chewed my thumbnail. I said a silent prayer for not being the evening's soloist.

 

Finally, the magic moment arrived when the house lights dimmed. Audience members applauded as concertmaster Joseph Silverstein took center stage.  He cued the oboist for an  A.

Mr. Silverstein sat down, and twitched his bushy eyebrows. They looked like two caterpillars. As Harry Ellis Dickson strode to the conductor's podium, the orchestra stood up, and Dickson enthusiastically shook Silverstein's hand. "William Tell Overture" broke the spell of anticipation. The overture made me want to gallop away on a horse, march in a parade, or at least perform cartwheels in the aisle. I didn't want the music ever to end. After an eruption of wild applause, the hall quieted. A rustling of Boston Symphony program booklets could be heard, and a few coughs. "Oh look here," I overheard a lady behind us remark. "A child prodigy violinist is about to perform the Tchaikovsky Concerto."

Mrs. Scriven's eyes were glued to the stage. My hands turned clammy. Silverstein raised and dipped his furry eyebrows. The orchestra tuned. A giant wave of orchestral sound crashed and receded.

Lynn Chang charged onto the stage, a small kid with longish hair. Mr. Dickson trailed behind. He lifted his baton in the air, jerked his head, and the orchestra tutti began. The young violinist launched into the third movement of the Tchaikovsky Concerto. Confidence exuded from Lynn Chang's face, as if his performance was mere routine. The Tchaikovsky began slow, and then, like a steamroller, took off. Lynn Chang's left hand whizzed up and down the fingerboard. His violin bow ricocheted off the strings like a spray of fireworks. Sweat flew from Lynn Chang's face and dripped onto his violin. I had never seen anyone wipe his forehead during one bar rest with a sleeve. The audience gasped. I was certain the concerto was about to end, but the music had only reached a cadence. I felt dizzy; my hands gripped the arm rests. Notes spiraled and clustered into fiendishly difficult passages with double stops. How could anyone play so perfectly? As Lynn Chang dug into the final chord, the audience burst into a resounding ovation.

Harry Ellis Dickson spun around, grabbed the soloist's left hand and raised it high, like a champion. As the audience cheered, Mr. Dickson kissed Lynn Chang's forehead.

Finally, Mr. Dickson reached for a microphone. It hissed and buzzed.

The audience quieted down.

"Will the wonderful parents of Lynn Chang please stand?"

A Chinese couple slowly rose from their seats, and smiled with deference. 

I turned to Mrs. Scriven and whispered into her ear. "How did he do that?"

"What?" she asked. The ovation endured.

"How did he do that?" I repeated.

"How did he do what, darling?" Mrs. Scriven smiled warmly, and smoothed my hair.

"How did that violinist, I mean Lynn Chang, play so fast without missing a single note?"

The rest of the concert was a blur. To this day, forty years later, I can't remember the second half of the program. All I could think about that night was the wizardry of Lynn Chang.

My father arrived to pick me up after the concert, impeccably dressed in a gray suit. He stood in the foyer with a cigarette loosely held between his fingers. 

"How was the concert?" he asked Mrs. Scriven.

"It was remarkable."
"You mean, that Lynn Chang's something else, huh? Frances talks about him all the time. She says he's a wunderkind."
"I mean, Mr, Kransberg, that your daughter sat enraptured the entire evening. Watching her face during Lynn's performance was the highlight for me."

My father took a deep puff of his cigarette, and blew out a perfect smoke ring. I knew he liked Mrs. Scriven because the normal edge to his voice mellowed whenever he spoke with her. "May I offer you a ride home, Sarah?"

"No," she said. "I have a taxi waiting."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Thank you for taking such good care of our little Marjorie. She's lucky to have you for a teacher." 

"She's a wonderful girl, Mr. Kransberg. And you know what else?"

"What else?" 

Mrs. Scriven's neck disappeared as she raised her shoulders. "The greatest surprise yet. Your Marjorie can even talk!"

Photo of my mother while she was pregnant with me