The Letter (Ch.13 Pt.5)

Harry Ellis Dickson

I never felt as small as I did while standing on the stage of Boston's Symphony Hall. Conductor Harry Ellis Dickson had announced my name and offered a bit of information about the legendary violinist, Niccolo Paganini to the school children. I heard whistles and shouts before walking on stage to play my solo, for the young audience was thrilled to be on a field trip, away from school, and in a famous concert hall.

I remember tuning lightly (Emanuel Borok sat concertmaster and offered a quiet A) before signaling to Mr. Dickson to begin the piece. My knees were shaking. I heard the familiar swish of his baton, and readied my violin for the third movement of Paganini's Violin Concerto in D Major. I watched my fingers as they fell upon the strings like feet hopping over fiery coals. The devilishly difficult double stop harmonics lost their purity; sequences became reconfigured. My tempo must have rushed for Mr. Dickson broke into a cold sweat; his beat grew more agitated. After each passage, I resolved to do one thing, and one thing only: to get through the performance. I dared not look up at Mr. Dickson, or out into the audience (especially at the balconies and chandeliers which made my head spin), but kept my eyes glued to my now frozen fingers.

When the concerto came to a merciful conclusion, and the audience erupted into applause, I tore away from the stage. Sure, as a child performer, Mr. Dickson had spun around and kissed the top of my head after the performances at the Esplanade, as he had with violinist Lynn Chang. But this time, I sensed that I had let him down. I turned away before even shaking his hand, the customary gesture after a performance. Behind the stage door stood my mother with a yellow sweater over her shoulders which matched her Eva Gabor wig. She grabbed me. "My dolly! I was too nervous to sit in the audience. I got such shpilkes from this performance. How did it go? Did you give it your all?" Then a moment later. "The audience is still applauding! Go—go take another bow on stage!"
"I need to get back to school," I said while suppressing tears. "I have a final in Geometry."

It was to be my last year in high-school, having compacted four years into three. My classmates were preparing for their SAT's, and trying to figure out what they wanted to do for careers, while I continued to practice for solo competitions and college auditions, as my profession had been predetermined. Erick Friedman was under the impression that I'd pursue my violin studies with him at the Manhattan School of Music. However, there was also an opening for the Heifetz Masterclass at the University of Southern California.
I packed up the violin and ordered my mother to hurry. "Please," I begged. "That test determines my grade."
"Ok," she said, after thinking a while. "Let's hope to hear a glowing report from Harry later—"

I tried to shake all thoughts about the performance and put it behind me. It had just been an off day; better luck next time. Mr. Friedman would cure me, and I'd overcome stage fright. And, I thought, thank goodness my mother hadn't sat in the audience and listened to the concert, for she may not have recognized the piece.

But days later, my father returned late from work, clasping an unsealed envelope which was addressed to me yet delivered to his store: Kransberg's Furniture at 301 Cabot Street in Beverly. He waved the envelope in the air. His voice thundered. "Right or wrong. I read this note from Dickson that he wrote to you."
"From Harry?" my mother asked with anticipation. She quickly put on her reading glasses. "Maybe he's arranging an audition for Marjorie with Ozawa. Let me see."
"Frances. Let her read it to you herself."
I could tell from the look on my father's face that the letter was a missive. My eyes welled with tears. I slid the note from the opened envelope, unfolded the paper, and held it in my shaking hands. I began the letter aloud in a thin voice.

Dear Marjorie,

It is out of respect and profound admiration that I write this letter, for you are a remarkably talented young lady. I suspected you were not pleased with your performance last Friday, which I well understand, for it did not go as well as either of us expected.  


At this point I continued silently.  


In which case, I cannot help but offer unsolicited advice. To the chagrin of my colleagues, family, and friends, and perhaps to my detriment, I have a stubborn habit of speaking my mind, and sharing with others my convictions whether they wish to hear them or not. 

As you begin to explore opportunities for your future in music performance (as you should), I hope you'll recognize that there are numerous ways to succeed in a musical career besides becoming a soloist, which, in my humble opinion, can be rather one-dimensional and fraught with high pressure demands. You may find this hard to believe, but I struggle whenever I perform a solo. My concerts never go as well as they do when I'm alone in a practice room. When I'm all by myself, I feel as if I can surpass the greatest violinists, even Heifetz. My imagination lifts me to towering heights. But in front of an audience, I lose about 30% of my capabilities. Soloists require nerves of steel; I have not been endowed with that trait, but it hasn't prevented me from enjoying an amazing life in music. I can't help but wonder; is a solo career what you really desire, or are you being pressured by your parents? Because it is you that concerns me, not them.


Speaking from my own personal experiences, a position in the Boston Symphony has been stimulating and rewarding; I continue to pursue other interests on the side (such as chamber music and conducting) in conjunction with my BSO responsibilities. I enjoy working with my colleagues, many of whom hold outside occupations and hobbies in addition to their busy musical careers. I haven't even mentioned the role of pedagogue, which I regard with the highest esteem. So you see? There are many paths to consider for your future, which I'm sure will be bright.

As I stated earlier, I hope you will accept these thoughts as an indication of my deepest respect for all you have accomplished thus far and will continue to do. As artists we must, first and foremost, remain truthful to ourselves, though it is easier said than done.

 Sincerely,
Harry Ellis Dickson

I finished reading the note with tears streaming down my cheeks. I wanted to crumple it up, toss it in the garbage and beg my parents to let me quit the violin, for if I was not to become a soloist by age sixteen, I felt as if I had turned into a failure. I lunged toward my father who, after all these years, had remained almost a stranger. My arms were outstretched. "Daddy," I cried. He thrust me aside and  glared resentfully at my mother. "How many times did I try to tell you Frances?— but you never listened to me, and you never will. She's not gonna make it—"

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."

Rehearsal and Lunch (Ch.8 Pt.2)

J. Frederick Müller stood on the orchestra podium, arms outstretched like an exotic bird poised for flight. The baton trembled in his thick hand, for Mr. Müller was plagued by stage fright. He was more at ease as president of Scherl & Roth, as an orchestral arranger, and part-time journalist for Orchestra News. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. As nervous as Müller was, I bordered on frantic. The violin bow skipped along the strings in a flying staccato during the backstage tuning. My mother sat in the audience in rapt attention with the score to the "Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso" propped open in her lap. On stage, I closed my eyes to calm down and concentrate.

Mr. Müller tapped the music stand twice with his baton to start the Introduction.  The orchestra of high-schoolers began at an agonizingly slow pace. I lowered my violin, and tucked it under my arm.  

"Please, Mr. Müller. Can you move the tempo along?" I asked with trepidation.
Mr. Müller nodded and continued to beat time in four, though the opening was marked in two. He hadn't heard me.

 "Mr. Müller—" I repeated.
"What's that? You said something, Marjorie?" The orchestra sputtered to a near standstill.
"We seem to be apart—somehow," I whispered.
Mr. Müller shushed the orchestra. He scratched his large head, and peered over the score; his horn-rimmed glasses had slid midway to his nose.
"Dear?"
"The introduction is too slow," I explained with added conviction. "It feels—"
I hesitated.

"Yes, Marjorie. Do speak up."

"Well, kind of static."

"Oh, why of course," Müller replied, taking a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and furiously wiping the sweat from his face.
"Boys and girls, listen carefully. Our young soloist, Marjorie, requests a faster tempo. Watch me, please. Always, always follow my stick."

A violist hiccuped loudly and all the children laughed. Mr. Müller tapped the music stand with fervor.
"Shhh, boys and girls. Let us begin from the top."

Plunk, plunk went the strings, in an unsteady cascade of pizzicato that sounded more like the clattering of skeletal bones.
Müller's tempo remained the same stultifying slow.
"Follow me, follow me," he shouted at the players while shaking his baton. "The stick, the stick. Watch."
I stomped to quicken the pace. Adrenalin caused my heart to pound, and my fingers to fly. The orchestra straggled to keep up. J. Frederick Müller looked faint, as if he needed a supply of oxygen. Perspiration soaked his shirt, and I could hear him wheeze during a Grand Pause, which led to a sequence of three note chords that I tossed off with abandon. Certainly, I had played the final section of the piece faster than all my peers at Meadowmount. Even Lynn Chang!
I finished a whole bar before the orchestra. The young players tapped their bows on the music stands, and cheered. Mr. Müller gulped air, and gestured to the orchestra that the rehearsal had ended.

"Bravo!" shouted my mother from the back of the hall. She had been listening for acoustical balance.
With the Saint-Saëns score in her hands, she walked briskly towards the lip of the stage. I stood and waited for her verdict.
My mother looked up and gave me a wink.

"You're a marvelous conductor, Fred."
He wiped his brow. "Aw, you're just being nice, Frances. I didn't really do anything at all. Just trying to keep up with your daughter and her fast tempi. Whew!"
"No, really," insisted my mother. "You have that certain—something. I've watched other conductors.
None of them have what you have—"
Mr. Müller grinned. The color had returned to his face. He tucked the score into his briefcase and snapped it shut.
"Shall we have ourselves some lunch at the hotel, ladies?"

♪ ♩ ♪

At the Ramada Inn lounge Fred Müller ordered a deluxe patty melt with steak fries and a Heinekin.  

"You deserve a hearty meal, Fred. Eat, enjoy. Conducting burns lots of calories, I'm sure."
"Why yes, Frances. Did you know orchestra conductors enjoy the longest life expectancy?"
"Really? Maybe I should learn to conduct—," my mother said, sipping Sanka.

Mr. Müller laughed. "Frannie, you're a charming woman. Why, that husband of yours, John. He's a lucky, lucky fellow."
My mother put down her cup, lowered her eyes, and fingered a blonde wig hair.
"Anyway, as I was saying. Arturo Toscanini lived to be around ninety years old. Pierre Monteux, Sir George Solti, Ernest Ansermet —all managed long, productive lives. We conductors have a way of fending off the grim reaper, I suppose." He laughed at his own wit.
"Marjorie, dear, you've been so—so quiet. Were you not satisfied with today's rehearsal?"
I looked at him cautiously, without saying a word.
"Did you feel the Rondo went smoothly? Do you have any musical concerns or issues you'd like to discuss?"  
"It was—fine." I picked at my tuna salad.
Translation: Müller, your beat is insufferably slow and erratic, and an accompanist you're not. Is there a God, because if so, I'm praying that we'll make it through this concert without a train wreck. 

"Why, you must be a finicky eater," said Mr. Müller, polishing off his glass of Heineken.
"She watches her diet," insisted my mother. "A young girl must look absolutely flawless for the camera and stage."
"Is that right Frances?"
"Absolutely."
"Then Marjorie takes after you. You're flawless, Fran."
 My mother crouched over her hot drink, and ripped open a package of Saltines.
"Tell me, Fred. Will there be many prominent individuals attending this Sunday's concert? You know, anyone who might have an impact on my Marjorie's future?"
Mr. Müller thought for a while. "I'm quite certain there'll be an audience of highly esteemed individuals. Instrumentalists from all over the country attend Enid's annual Tri-State Music Festival. Why, they typically host 14,000 students from schools across the nation. I understand that the American Brass Quintet will be featured at the Grand Concert, too, alongside Marjorie. They're terrific, Frances."
"Oh?"
"Yes. The trumpeter from that group is New York Phil's youngest player— just a kid 24 or 25 years old.
I think his name is Gerald Schwarz. I'd love to introduce him to Marjorie. I've heard that he's an up and coming—" 

"You don't say," said my mother, biting into a Saltine.

photo of Mr. Müller, my mother and me 1973

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.

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?"

Debut with the Boston Pops (Ch.2 Pt.4)

At  Bessie Buker Elementary, where I attended public school, the principal interrupted the lunchroom for an impromptu meeting with all the school children. Something out of the ordinary had happened.

"I have a special announcement to make," said the Principal, Mr. Stone. "Children, please give me your full attention. Eyes up front." He clapped his hands into the microphone. I was about to bite into the egg salad on challah my mother had packed. It looked delicious with chunks of celery and pickles, although the kids at my table plugged their noses when I lifted the sandwich from my "Peanuts" lunch box.

"We seem to have a concert violinist in our midst. Marjorie Kransberg has been selected to appear as soloist with the Boston Pops Orchestra. She will be performing the Mozart Concerto." And he pronounced Mozart as a New Englander, with the "r" missing. I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks.

"Mozaht was a famous composer, and Mahjorie will play his music on her violin in front of thousands of people this summer at the Hatch Memorial Shell in front of the Charles Rivah."

Chomping, laughing and whispers could be heard throughout the lunchroom. One boy ejected a spit ball from his straw. It narrowly missed my face but landed smack in my lunch box. 

Mr. Stone put the mic down and walked straight towards me. I sipped from the straw of the milk carton, and pretended not to notice.  All the kids stared.

"Mahjorie, your mother is on her way. She has requested that you be dismissed early today, in preparation for your debut with the Boston Pops. She says you haven't practiced the Mozaht in a while, that it's rusty. I'll have you know, young lady, that we're all very proud of you here, at Bessie Buker."

I took a small bite out of the egg sandwich and chewed slowly.

"I told your mother that you'll put Wenham, Massachusetts on the musical map. She agreed."

♪ ♩ ♪

It was a brilliant Saturday morning, with thin wispy clouds in the sky; the perfect day for a concert in the park at the Hatch Memorial Shell. As I sat alone backstage in my puffy white dress, waiting for Mr. Dickson's cue to walk onstage, I wished I could have been any other kid in the world. Anyone who wouldn't have to play from memory in front of thousands of people. I peeked at the orchestra through a crack from the backstage door. Harry Ellis Dickson stood on the podium, waving his arms in agitated, circular gestures. He had assured me that I'd get a signal from him when time for my entrance. 

Weber's Freischutz Overture concluded to wild applause.

Harry Ellis Dickson motioned for me. "Come on, come on," I saw his lips move.
A smiling faced concertmaster grabbed my hand, as I made my way to center stage. "You'll be great," the concertmaster said, and winked. I recognized him from the Boston Symphony concert with Lynn Chang. It was Rolland Tapley.

After a quick A from the oboe to check my strings, the introduction began with the orchestra tutti. I scanned the audience. There were so many people on the lawn of the Hatch Memorial Shell that they blended into a wash of color. I felt better. Not seeing actual faces meant that I could try to pretend there wasn't any audience at all. I closed my eyes. A gentle breeze brushed against me and whispered words spoken by Mrs. Scriven: "Tell a story with your violin, darling. Remember, Mozart's music is operatic."

The orchestra began the spirited introduction with a burst of G Major, and the story began. Our hero, Wolfgang the violinist, wanted nothing more than to play outdoors with friends, and asked his father politely. Leopold, the hero's father, replied: "No, you must practice, practice, practice." Leopold's voice grew darker, more agitato. He counted on his fingers the courts of Kings and Queens awaiting young Wolfgang's appearances, and the gold coins and trinkets to be earned. "Please", begged Wolfgang, as he accelerated and grew into a crescendo. Low tones of cellos and basses leaped to the rescue. Horns blasted in response: "Let him play, let him play. It's a beautiful day." Wolfgang modulated to the key of E Minor: "Papa, if you let me go outdoors now, I'll practice later." Leopold responded in firm staccato: "No, no, no. You have work to do." The strings responded with an ascending chromatic scale: "Why, why, why are you such a stubborn old fart?" Wolfgang pleaded with a flurry of sixteenth notes. Oboes whined. Horns bellowed. Cellos and basses laughed in octaves: "Ha! ha! ha! What silly characters in a ridiculous story. But isn't this fun? Let Wolfgang and Leopold resolve their differences in a cadenza."

Mr. Dickson's eyes grew wide beneath his horn-rimmed glasses. Perspiration dotted his fore-head. I heard the swish of the baton after the cadential trill.
The concerto finished and the audience cheered.

"Bravo! Bravo!" yelled orchestra members, tapping their bows wildly on the music stands. Rolland Tapley laughed as his music fell to the floor.
Mr. Dickson grabbed my hand, as he had with Lynn Chang, and raised it in the air.  He kissed my cheek, turned around to the audience, and reached for the microphone. It hissed and buzzed.

"Let's have an extra round of applause for the parents of ten-year-old Marjorie Kransberg. And Marjorie's teacher, also—the incomparable Sarah Scriven."

A Magic Moment for me with Harry Ellis Dickson

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

Meet the Scrivens (Ch.1 Pt.3)

What felt like an interminable journey on Route 128, with drivers rolling down their windows to cast spiteful glances, resulted in a crawl into Boston. A final lurch and we were on Commonwealth Avenue, just a few blocks from the Boston Music School. Unlike the somnolent suburb of Wenham, Boston was a cacophony. Cars blared horns as they careened around corners, policemen blew whistles and hollered at pedestrians. Long-haired men with protest signs against the Vietnam War waved two fingers in the air, and shouted "Peace, Man".

"See Margie," said my mother, pointing as we walked. "Over on Newbury Street, is the Berklee College of Music. I studied there for a while, too, in the Adult Program before you were born. Then your father came up with every excuse for me to stop. He said, Frances, you have three children to worry about, and a home to take care of. You're ignoring your responsibilities as a housewife." She shook her head. "I was a young mother those days. Had I known better—" She paused while looking longingly at the row of buildings that belonged to a school.

"My parents were in a hurry to marry me off, I guess. So I became a mother at the age of nineteen." She reached for my hand. "But now your sisters have families of their own, and you know what?"

"What, Mummy?"

"I don't think they need me any longer. To them, I'm a nuisance."

I gave her hand a squeeze, trying to make up for every loss. "No, Mummy, you're not."

She looked at me adoringly. Little tears welled in her eyes. I knew right then and there that I was her last hope.

"I'll channel my energies into you, Sweetheart, and see to it that you have beautiful music in your life. What can your father say to that?"

Behind the double doors of the Boston Music School, a black lady with an Afro sat in the foyer at a large desk. I had never seen a black person except on television. I stared.

"May I help you?" 

"We're here for an audition," my mother declared.

The lady smiled and glanced at me. "What instrument do you play, Honey?"

I looked up at my mother.

 "She's a violinist, and here to play for Mr. Linwood Scriven."

"Are you sure he's expecting you?"

My mother nodded. "Oh yes. I had telephoned the school earlier, and was given this time."

"Very well. Someone else must have been here when you called. Go on upstairs, then—that away." The woman pointed. Her spangled bracelets jingled.

A broad, winding staircase with a dark banister led to Mr. Scriven's studio on the second floor. My mother, clasping my burnished leather violin case led me up the stairs. "I can't wait for Mr. Scriven to hear you play. This ought to prove that his time spent teaching me was not wasted."

She knocked on his door. It creaked open.

There stood a ghostly figure. Mr. Scriven was so frail and elderly that it seemed we might blow him away with our breath. 

"Do you remember me, Mr. Scriven?"

My mother resembled a dancer in her swirly, navy-blue skirt cinched at the waist with a beige, puffy-sleeved blouse. Her thin hair was concealed by a shoulder length brunette wig—the one my father affectionately called the Sophia Loren. Everyone agreed that my mother was beautiful. She had olive skin and almond shaped eyes. Her facial features were delicate and smooth.

Linwood Scriven stared through thick lenses that magnified his blue eyes into jumbo marbles.

"I want you to meet and hear my youngest daughter, Marjorie."  

No response.

"She'll play for you," my mother repeated, louder.

 

My mother's heels clicked against the oak floor. A large bust of Beethoven rested on top of Mr. Scriven's upright piano. Placing my violin case on the piano bench, my mother whispered, "Margie, play the Vivaldi Concerto. Show Mr. Scriven what you can do. He might be just a bit hard of hearing, my dolly, so play strong. It was many, many years ago that I studied with him." 

Mr. Scriven tottered to his rocking chair and sat down. I readied my violin and began the opening bars of the Vivaldi. Glancing at Mr. Scriven, his feet tapped the first motive while I played. He hummed the tutti sections.

"You're sweet," he wheezed, after the movement ended. "An angel." He turned to my mother. "I'll be going away to meet my Maker soon. Will you join me?"

My mother gasped.

At that moment, the studio door bolted open. A large-bosomed, white-haired woman with shoes worn by the Wicked Witch of Oz, landed into the room. 

"What's happening here?" the old woman asked wringing her hands. My mother shot up from her chair.

"I'm Frances Kransberg, a former pupil of Mr. Scriven's. And this is my almost eight-year-old daughter, Marjorie. She's auditioning—" 

"Is that so?" asked the old woman. "I'm Sarah. Linwood's wife. Had I known, I would have auditioned your daughter."

"So you're Mrs. Scriven. I've heard many wonderful reports about your teaching from my friends in Brookline Civic Symphony." 

"You're a violinist?" 

"An amateur. My daughter is the talented one."

My mother turned to me and coaxed sweetly. "Dolly. Play your concerto again. This time for Mrs. Scriven." 

Though it was the last thing I felt like doing. I had no choice but to start over, having been warned by my parents never to argue with either of them in front of others.

 

I hurried to the last bars of the concerto, lowered the violin, and stared at my feet.

Sarah Scriven bent down to my face.

"So, you want to be a violinist when you grow up?"

 I nodded.

"You're a talented young lady. You like to practice?"

"Uh-huh." I lied.

"Because playing the violin takes not only talent but guts, and lots of hard work,"she said.

The unkempt appearance of Mrs. Scriven's whitish hair gave me the giggles. 
"What happened to your front tooth?"

"Fell out."

"Did you get  money for that tooth?"

 "Naturally," my mother ejaculated. "The tooth fairy always brings gelt."

Their eyes met, and they laughed, having found a common heritage in Judaism.

"Mrs. Scriven, don't you have a phenomenal pupil by the name of Lynn Chang? A Chinese boy?"

Mrs. Scriven tilted her head back and sighed. "I did. A major talent, that Lynn. He's off to Juilliard every Saturday studying with Ivan Galamian."

"How about that," said my mother, sucking in her cheek. "I was hoping my little Marjorie could work with your husband, Linwood, or study with both of you together. You know Sarah, I'll tell you a secret." 

My mother's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Of all my violin teachers—and I had many, including members of the Boston Symphony—Mr. Scriven was my favorite."

"How's that?" asked Mrs. Scriven, eying my mother cautiously, as if examining a specimen from the Museum of Natural History.

"Well." My mother paused. "Your husband was demanding but kind, exacting but patient. A mensch. I would've thought—I mean, if he hadn't aged so—that he'd be the perfect teacher for my Marjorie."

"Linwood no longer accepts students," Mrs. Scriven snapped. "He's too frail and his mind is going, as you can see. I was Lin's pupil way back when, and then, well, we fell in love and married. But there's a thirty year difference between us. Obviously, I'm willing to take on new students to pass along my husband's repository of knowledge."

"That would be wonderful," my mother gushed. "You were your husband's prize pupil, Sarah, after all. May I call you Sarah? And, as we speak of lineage, I'm aware that your husband studied with a famous pedagogue but I cawn't remember the name—"

"Linwood was a pupil of the eminent French violinist Henri Marteau, who was a pupil of Léonard, a disciple of de Bériot." Mrs. Scriven replied. "That's what's known as yikhus, or pedigree."

My mother and Mrs. Scriven swapped tales peppered in Yiddish. Their heads bobbed at the tempo of Allegro. I didn't like the guttural sound of Yiddish. As they spoke, Mr. Scriven, alone in his rocking chair had slumped forward. Was he dead?
Mrs. Scriven glanced in her husband's direction. "He's like a child nowadays. We enjoyed our music together all those years; I idolized him. He was so devoted." She took out a handkerchief from her pocketbook and blew her nose. "Did you know that Linwood's favorite composer has always been Beethoven? He loves the Violin Concerto for its spirituality. Beethoven soothes the soul."

"I understand," said my mother, softly.

"Life is a circle, Mrs. Kransberg. So sad—"

"So true," my mother agreed.

"It's settled then," Mrs. Scriven said. "Lessons for your daughter beginning this Saturday."

photo of Sarah Scriven and me