Professor Klimt (Ch.14 Pt.1)

I was sitting in the lobby of Mr. Friedman's Lincoln Plaza apartment alone, without my mother. I waited for the doorman's signal at the front desk to go upstairs. My father had stormed out of the house that week, driven all the way to Virginia, and finally returned days later, heavily intoxicated, only to proclaim that he had every intention of beginning a new life—with a shiksa. My mother was beside herself with panic. "I'll stay home this Saturday, Margie, to be with your father. Do you think you can get to Erick Friedman's apartment and the Manhattan School of Music by yourself? It means taking the bus and navigating your way around New York City."
"I know," I said.
"This, you've never done alone."
"Don't worry, Mom. I'm old enough to handle it. Sixteen."
She packed a huge shopping bag with woolen sweaters, music books, an egg salad sandwich, two cartons of juice, and a banana. There were tears in her eyes. She whispered so my father wouldn't hear. "I'm afraid if I leave this time for New York, he'll walk out again for good. Margie, your father's not well." And she looped circles with her index finger by her ear.
I nodded in agreement. "Really, Mom, I'll be fine."
"And don't you worry about Harry Dickson's letter. He was just cranky. Harry's Harry. What more can I say? You'll have other opportunities—"
I closed my eyes to extinguish the memory of Symphony Hall.

Meantime, I was eager to prove my autonomy to Mr. Friedman. Instead of a mama's girl, I felt suddenly  transformed into a young woman about to explore Manhattan on my own. Before I left, I had taken my mother's Maybelline set from the bathroom and packed it in my bag. In Mr. Friedman's lobby, after the five hour bus ride, I held up a pocket mirror and swabbed Blue Freeze over my eye lids. Next, I dabbed Mauve on my lips and applied a few quick strokes to my cheeks, as I had watched my mother do on occasion. I undid my shoulder length braids and held strands of frizz between my fingers, letting them fall against my face. I reached into my coat pocket for the Binaca and sprayed a few blasts, then breathed into my hand and sniffed.
"OK, young lady, Mr. Friedman says you can go up now."
"What?"
"The professor's waiting for you," said the doorman. "Elevator's straight ahead."

I rang Mr. Friedman's buzzer and listened for the sound of his deliberate footsteps. The door opened and he peered down at me with soft espresso eyes. My heart pounded with pleasure as I gazed up at his unbuttoned white shirt and rolled up sleeves which exposed a dark tan and enormous biceps.
Mr. Friedman glanced across the hallway. "Where's your mother?" His voice was so low that I thought he had swallowed the last syllable.
"She couldn't make it today," I said, thrusting back my shoulders.
 "Is—is everything all right?"
"Fine." I tried to keep from smiling. At the moment, I couldn't imagine better.
The way he studied my face, I wondered if there was something wrong with my make-up.
"Please, dear, how rude of me to keep you standing there. Won't you come inside? May I take your coat?"
I walked past him, as if the apartment belonged to me, or as if I belonged to him. I peeked inside the kitchenette and couldn't help but notice a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. There were remnants of chicken bones and mixed vegetables in the garbage pail. He obviously hadn't been alone the evening before.

Klimt: sketch for The Bride, 1917

I took a few steps near the sofa by the coffee table, and placed my violin case within eye-shot of Mr. Friedman's art work. His drawings of nude ladies reminded me of a book of sketches by Gustav Klimt at the Boston Public Library that I had seen, but decided not to check out. Mr. Friedman's sketches displayed a striking similarity to Klimt, and I found them fascinating. Did women really pose like that? I wondered.
"I've been thinking of you," he said.
"Really?" I felt blood rush to my cheeks as I slowly unbuttoned my coat.
"Yes, sweetheart." His eyes lingered on my fingers unclasping the buttons.
"I've been thinking about you because your father telephoned me regarding the concert with Boston Symphony. He mentioned something about a letter, or a critique."
"Oh God." I finished unbuttoning my coat and threw it on top of the violin case.
"I don't want you to feel demoralized. Because I too—"
Just then, the phone rang. I had been spared.

"Hello?" asked Mr. Friedman. "Yes, baby, I know. Yes, of course, we'll have lunch on Thursday. I'm sorry I didn't get back to you but my parents—you know. My father erupted into one of his tirades. And I worry about him. The man eats like there's no tomorrow. He'll have a heart attack one of these days."
A high-pitched voice at the other end rattled away.
"I promise I'll call later, baby. My student is here now."
He hung up.
"As I was saying, Margie dear."
The phone rang again.
"Will you excuse me?"
"Sure," I said, as I pretended to mindlessly gaze at the sketch of a reclining nude lady with a bouquet of flowers between her legs.
"Hello sweet!" he said into the mouthpiece. (I gathered it was a different girlfriend). "How are you? Yes, I know we have a date for Friday. What about a bite to eat first and then the movie?"
He paused for a while.
"OK, OK. I'll give you a buzz later. I have a student here and she's traveled all the way from Boston."
Mr. Friedman placed the receiver back on the phone and stepped closer toward me. The gold rope chain and mezuzah pendant laid across his black-haired chest and gleamed in the early morning sunlight.
"I'm so sorry. As I was saying—"

The phone rang again. "Just ignore it," he said, waving it off as it rang endlessly.
"Again, it all comes back to the question of muscular relaxation and knowing what to do during the pressure of a performance."
"I don't get it," I said, as I had week after week, and looked up at him pleadingly.
"Let me offer you an analogy."
I waited.
"Defensive driving."
"I don't drive."
"Well, imagine operating a car during, let's say, a snowstorm.You need to understand how to apply the brakes and manage the steering wheel. Initially you might find yourself gripping the wheel but then, the moment you take control, you begin to relax. Before you know it, you're just driving; well, not just driving, but enjoying. Margie dear. Take out your violin, and we'll begin, so that you practice control."

I had brought the slow movement of the Brahms Concerto. We worked on the opening phrase for almost thirty minutes. "Balance the bow," he said. I felt his large hand over my own, to help guide the stick. "Save at the beginning of the stroke. That's right. Otherwise you might feel yourself running out of bow at the end which squelches the sound and induces panic. Think directionally. Again, like driving a car."
He pointed to the notes on the page.
"This phrase begins here and arrives there; a destination."
"Oh, I get it!" I started again.
"Now raise your elbow higher at the frog."
"Like this?" I signaled while playing.
"That's correct. That way the control is eased away from the hand and directed into the arm to minimize tremor. The hand may tremble if you're anxious, but not the elbow."
"Mine does," I quipped.
He laughed softly. "You're such a pleasure to teach. Just relax. Consciously."
He picked up his del Gesu, tucked it tenderly under his chin, and offered the first theme of the Brahms. Phrases opened like flowers; glissandi lingered as embraces; Erick Friedman's resplendent tone could melt the coldest of hearts.

Later, he put the violin down and took his seat by the piano but not without the requisite lecture. "I know all this can be demoralizing—the technique of defensive playing— because, as one becomes aware, one often feels worse before getting better. I tried to explain this to your father but I'm not sure he understood. Funny man, your father."
I looked down at the floor and didn't laugh.

Mr. Friedman continued after an awkward silence. "When you're a child, you don't know any better, you just play in front of an audience as you're told. No nerves; completely unselfconscious; that's how it was for Menuhin and many, many others. Now, if you happen to be an exhibitionist, again no problem. Because exhibitionists actually get a thrill, or a rush, from parading in front of others stark naked. But Margie dear, that's an anomaly. It's normal to sense fear and feel trepidation at your age. The adrenaline kicks in and we have a fight or flight response. Unless—"
"Unless what?" I asked, gazing into his eyes, completely absorbed.
"I'm telling you, some people are just too stupid to sense anything—"
"Really? I wondered about that," I said.
"I hope you'll attend my concerts at Carnegie Hall. I'm performing six concertos in two nights, including Brahms, Sibelius and Tchaikovsky. Korngold, too. I want to play the Korngold as an encore for Jascha. He won't hear it, of course, but never mind. And you think I'm not going to feel pressure? Ha! If the Stern Mafia could silence me—"
I looked at him quizzically.
"Yes, that's right. Isaac Stern. If he had his way, I'd no longer be concertizing."
"What happened?"
Mr. Friedman stopped, remembered.
"Between you and Stern?" I pressed.
"Too long a story for today—but I'll share it with you another time."

I completed the Brahms Concerto with Mr. Friedman accompanying at the piano. Even while he stopped numerous times to point out corrections, my spirits soared. He apologized for the fistfuls of wrong notes at the keyboard, but I found them charming. "I'm a clunker," he said.
"No, you're not!"
"We'll continue next week."
The session ended much too quickly. When I glanced at my watch, I realized that we had spent two hours together, and if I didn't hurry, I'd be late for a Mendelssohn Trio coaching with pianist Joseph Seiger, the esteemed accompanist and friend to Mischa Elman. Mr. Seiger was a munificent pedagogue, able to unlock  hidden details in the score. I packed up my violin, tossed my coat over my shoulders, and looked searchingly at Mr. Friedman. If I quit playing, as I had thought about doing, I might lose him.

He got up from the piano bench and reached for the door.
"Put on your coat," he said, "it's cold outside."
As I brushed past him to leave, he stroked my cheek lightly with the back of his hand.
"You're so talented," he whispered.
Halfway down the hallway near the elevators, Mr. Friedman opened the door again and called out, "Marjorie?"
His bass-baritone voice filled the hall.
I turned around immediately, eager to return. "What? What?"
"Do you need money for a taxi?"

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—"

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.

Prelude to DeLay (Ch.11 Pt.1)

My father, accused of all sorts of wrong doings by my mother, sat in our living room in his Hanes boxers. He picked up the phone after my mother's prodding, and telephoned the famed pedagogue, Dorothy DeLay at Juilliard. My mother stood with her arms folded. I eavesdropped from the kitchen doorway. After finally getting through to Miss DeLay, he introduced himself as the father of a promising, young violinist who had studied for the past three years with Sally Thomas on Honorary Scholarship at Juilliard and Meadowmount, soloed with the Boston Pops under Harry Ellis Dickson, and had recently been offered a conditional acceptance into the Heifetz Masterclass. My father may have been tone deaf but he had perfect sales pitch.

"You  see, Miss DeLay—do you mind if I share a bit of background? Our fourteen-year-old violinist, Marjorie, is a sensitive, sensitive youngster. You give her one harsh look, a look that signals dissatisfaction with her work, and she'll begin to cry. That former teacher of hers—I mean no disrespect—I'm sure you're friends and all that, but—" He lowered his voice. I thought I heard my father say, "colder than a nun's navel. And if my daughter's gonna have to leave Juilliard on account of her, it won't be for anyone other than Heifetz. But she'd love nothing more than to return to Juilliard and study with you."

I edged my way into the living room to witness my father's performance. As far as I was concerned, he could have won an Oscar for the deft handling of an internationally renowned pedagogue.
He pointed to me and then to his forehead, as if to say, listen and learn. He was about to prove his intellectual prowess and business acumen. "That's right. I couldn't have this kind of conversation with her as I'm having with you."
My mother stroked his arm for encouragement.

"I'm gonna let you in on a secret, Miss DeLay." My father leaned over the secretary desk and distractedly picked up a ballpoint pen to doodle in the phone book. "Marjorie and my beautiful wife, Frances, hop onto the 2 A.M. Greyhound Bus on Saturdays in Boston and arrive in time for an 8:00 lesson at Juilliard. And I drive them to the bus terminal every week to see them off for the five hour commute. How's that for dedication?"
He nodded enthusiastically. I couldn't make out Miss DeLay's response, even as I crept closer to my father. The scent of Old Spice tickled my nostrils, and I was about to sneeze.
"Is that right, Miss DeLay? You have a young violin student by the name of David Kim who flies in from South Carolina with his mother two times a week? Wait till I tell my wife, Frances. Oh, you're gonna enjoy Frances! You know, she plays the violin too. An amateur, she calls herself, but I think my Frances is a virtuoso."
My mother's hands flew to her mouth as she stifled a laugh. "Your father," she whispered to me.

"Now my next question, Miss DeLay: Will our Marjorie need to audition for you?"
My father shook his head, no, to signal Miss DeLay's response, and waved his finger for us to keep still.
"You do, huh. You remember Marjorie's performance of the Bruch Concerto. Yes, that's right. She was runner-up for the Juilliard Pre-College solo competition last year. Oh, what a fantastic memory you have, Miss DeLay. How do you manage to remember all those marvelous students from around the world? Frances tells me that you teach violinists all the way from Israel and the Soviet Union. They arrive at the school in droves! When I tell my little girl, Marjorie, that she's now a Dorothy DeLay pupil and will be returning to Juilliard, I'll bet you anything she'll head straight to her violin."

When the telephone interview had ended, my mother cheered "bravo." She wrapped her arms around my father and reached for a kiss. He pulled her down to his lap. As I stood and watched with amazement—were these my parents?—my mother shot me a glance.
"Go practice, Marjorie Jill. Time is of the essence."

J. Frederick Müller (Ch.6 Pt.2)

Scherl & Roth company owned and operated a large string instrument factory in Cleveland, Ohio. My mother was so determined to purchase a quality violin for me that she arranged for us to meet with a personal representative.

A big-bellied, moon-faced man opened the door.
"Welcome to Scherl & Roth. I'm J. Frederick Müller, president of the company."
"Nice to meet you," said my father, removing his hat. "We're the Kransbergs from Massachusetts. I'm John, this is my wife Frances, and youngest daughter, Marjorie, the budding concert violinist."

"So, you're a violinist, young lady," Mr. Müller said, bending to my eye level.
"Where, and with whom do you study?"
I stared at his horn-rimmed glasses perched upon a snub nose.

"Answer the gentleman," my mother urged.
"Juilliard."
"Oh?" Mr. Müller asked, evidently impressed. The name Juilliard had cachet.
"Yes," said my mother. "Our Marjorie studies with Ivan Galamian's first associate, Sally Thomas. In fact, she recently returned from Meadowmount, the prestigious summer school. Everyone agrees that her violin is inadequate at this stage of her development. We heard a young girl, Stephanie Chase, who plays on a magnificent instrument—it might even be a Strad, and she's signed with management all ready. This is what our Marjorie is up against in terms of competition. Can you show us your finest?"
"Bear in mind," said my father. "I'm only a furniture dealer, so we're concerned about cost—"
"I understand. I'm sure we can find just the right instrument for your daughter."

"She'll also need a good bow, and strong case," added my mother.

"Tools of the trade," laughed Mr. Müller as he led the way to his office.

"I'll go to the store room and be right back. Please folks, make yourselves at home."

My father whispered as he glanced around the office. The walls were lined with framed posters of Germany.
"Müller—a German name, Frances. You think, deep down, that he's a Nazi? I'd say he's probably in his mid-fifties."
"Oy John, you think?"
"Müller doesn't have to know we're Jewish. Don't say anything, Frances. Promise me. It'll just make everyone uncomfortable."

Mr. Müller returned to his office with a stack of violin cases.
"So. Where are you folks from?"
My parents gave each other knowing looks.
"We traveled all the way from a little town in north-shore Massachusetts," said my father. "It's just a bit north of Salem. You've heard of Salem, haven't you, Mr. Müller? The witch trials. Frances grew up in Salem—"
"We're of the Jewish faith," blurted my mother.
"That's nice," said Mr. Muller unfazed by my mother's random statement. "Many of the world's greatest violinists are Jewish." And he went on to name a few. "Mischa Elman, Jascha Heifetz, Isaac Stern, Nathan Milstein, Itzhak Perlman and Pinchas Zukerman, right? Maybe you'll be famous some day, young lady. The world awaits a great woman violinist. Here. Try this one. And I have some bows for you to play on as well. Nurnbergers—fine German made bows."

Mr. Müller sat down on his swivel chair, leaned back, and clasped his hands behind his head.

I lifted a mud brown violin to my chin, and decided to show this J. Frederick Müller that I wasn't just any kid playing the fiddle. From repertoire that I heard others perform at Meadowmount, including works by Mendelssohn and Wieniawski, I played excerpts with unbridled passion, stomping my foot for heightened effect. I, too, could be a rising star.

From the look on Mr. Müller's face, I thought he might tumble off his chair.
"Why that's remarkable," Mr. Müller exclaimed. "You are—how old?"
"Just eleven," boasted my mother.

"Oh, this selection will never do."
He swiveled around in his chair and grabbed the wretched, muddy violin from my hands.
"I'll go to the vault, young lady, and bring you back a magical violin."

Mr. Müller returned with renewed energy and a bounce in his step. "Here you go, Marjorie. What you played on a moment ago was a factory made Roth. But these violins were handmade by Ernst Heinrich Roth. He was the maker responsible for carrying on the tradition of fine German craftsmanship to America. The Grandpapa, so to speak. Anyway, Ernst Heinrich crafted each instrument to the exact dimensions of the Cremonese luthiers, Stradivarius and Guarnerius."

"Margie, play the same repertoire as a moment ago, so we can make a comparison," said my mother, her voice taut with anticipation.

"You must be a musician, Mrs. Kransberg. Are you?"  

"Only an amateur violinist, Mr. Müller. I enjoyed playing in Brookline Civic with Harry Ellis Dickson. Oh, the fun we had—"
"But Margie gets her musical talent from her old man," my father winked. Everyone laughed.

  

I played through a wide range of repertoire. My mother's eyes were closed. She listened intensely to every note.
"Ooh," she gasped. "What a magnificent sounding instrument. I prefer this one to all the rest. It has carrying power."

Of all musical instruments, the violin is praised for being the closest to the human voice. My mother used to warn me if I became angry, the violin would growl in response, and betray my anger. If I achieved inner serenity, the violin could soothe and soften the hearts of those who listened to its song. I tested as many violins as Mr. Müller encouraged me to try that day in 1970, and chose the one that responded to my demands with a rich, varied tone.  

"Your daughter is a marvelous talent," said Mr. Müller, after I laid the chosen Roth in its case. "She could be a soloist all ready."

"Really?" asked my mother. "How might our Marjorie secure concert engagements? She hasn't an agent or manager—"

"I tell you what, Mr. and Mrs. Kransberg. If you purchase a violin from Scherl & Roth, through my connections with Music Educator's National Conference and American String Teachers Association, I can assure you that this company will put your daughter on the map. Why, we'll get the word out nationwide that Marjorie plays on one of our instruments, and we'll have her booked for concerts in no time at all. I'll personally launch her career."

"Mr. Müller!" My mother drew in a breath as she uttered his name. "You're our angel." She turned to my father. "Remember John, when I spoke of seeking a benefactor for our Marjorie? Here he is—
J. Frederick Müller."

In photo: Me featured on cover of Orchestra News 1971

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