The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Whilst Harriet was navigating through the growing pains of her early teens, Ruth Frankel’s life was to become similarly painful although in a very different way.

  Through the 1950s, Ruth lived a quiet and unobtrusive life teaching generations of girls at Knightsbridge with kindness, patience and gentle humour. Some would have found the grind of taking untutored and unmusical girls each new school year and making passable musicians out of them either frustrating or bothersome.

  Ruth however was a natural teacher who found pleasure in each individual challenge and delight when her girls performed at the end of year concert. As part of the staff, she attended the key celebrations in the school – Founders’ Day, reunions, open days. She always looked for her special pupil, Harriet, hoping that she would return. Although realising she could not have favourites, Harriet was the sort of pupil who had shown insight and passion towards the music. Ruth would have loved to have seen how her charge had grown and developed, but no word ever came back.

  The accommodation arranged by Mrs Butterworth was restricted and came with obligations. But Ruth, making the best of it as always, managed to live a sparse and frugal life uncomplainingly.

  The flat in which she lodged was owned by Mrs Cicely Downs, grandmother of a girl at the school. It was in the basement of a red stone four-storey block in Chadwick Street near St James’s Park. Ruth could walk to and from school in half an hour each day. The flat, really a large bedsit, consisted of one large room with a small bathroom off it. Mrs Downs, a semi-invalid lady in her seventies, occupied the majority.

  Part of the lounge had been curtained off and it was here that Ruth lived. It was a small, square space with a drop down bed, sink and single gas ring with no view outside. A series of hooks on the walls served as her wardrobe. A small cupboard served as table and storage for any necessaries of life. There was a single chair and cushion. Ruth was not allowed to use the bathroom off Mrs Down’s accommodation as this was reserved for her sole use. Her toilet was out in the hall and up on a half-landing, shared with a number of other residents. Washing herself and her clothes was restricted to the sink and, occasionally, the local public bath-house.

  Mrs Downs charged what she always emphasised was a fair rent.

  “You won’t get anything else this central for that price. You’d have to go out to the suburbs and travel in. And don’t forget who’s paying for the electricity and heating.”

  The ‘fair rent’ did take more than half of Ruth’s weekly wage nevertheless. Her occupation of the flat also came with conditions. Mrs Down’s various ailments and illnesses prevented her from shopping or doing any household chores, so Ruth was required to take a list to the local market to get provisions, making sure she accounted for all of the expenditure by marking the cost of each item on the list. There were also bedmaking, cleaning, washing and ironing duties.

  Ruth existed in this way for several years. For a girl who had suffered the exigencies of Dachau this restricted existence was comparative luxury.

  And remember, she thought to herself, this is a palace compared to the Morgentalers’ attic.

  Small and slight, her diet consisted in the morning of toast made with a fork over the gas ring, with dripping and salt. In the evening she invariably had a bowl of chicken soup with vegetables and bread, which she cooked for the week ahead, although not without complaint from Mrs Downs.

  “Keep that lid on. I can’t abide that smell coming through all the time. And you’re steaming up my windows.”

  Despite Ruth’s physical needs, it was not in her nature to complain about any facet of her life. She had been born meek and shy and she was conciliatory, humble and grateful for any trivial blessings in her life.

  She did, in her private reflective moments, think about her family. On visits to the Red Cross offices and the Hebrew Immigration Society, she did eventually establish that Mother, Father, sisters and Baruch’s family had all perished and were recorded as dead. She allowed herself to weep for them from time to time when she was alone but steeled herself to get on with life.

  You were spared. There must be a reason. Take each day one step at a time and give thanks that you are here. You have food. You have somewhere to lay your head. One day this will all become clear.

  *

  But life was first to take a turn for the worse. One cold day in February 1959, Ruth returned from work and called in to Mrs Downs to see to her requirements. Receiving no reply, she looked in. Having seen the dead many times before she instantly understood. A policeman came to take a statement and ambulance staff removed the body. Within a few weeks, Mrs Down’s daughter had abruptly given Ruth notice to quit.

  “I’m very sorry but we’re clearing it out and putting it on the market. You’ll need to be out by Friday week.”

  This was a severe blow to Ruth who, nevertheless resilient as always, began a search for a replacement flat. Her needs were small, she told the agent. Just a small, inexpensive place. She could live very simply and had a small but regular income, which would enable her to consider something a little further out if necessary.

  That month, however, the stars were badly aligned. She was called into Mrs Butterworth’s office.

  “Please take a seat, Ruth. I have some very difficult news for you, I’m afraid. You know that we have always been very pleased with your teaching. Indeed there are often compliments from parents and I know that you are fondly thought of by girls whom you have coached through. But recently there have been certain…” she hesitated, searching for the right words, “…developments. You will not know it but I shall be taking retirement soon. Forty years is a long time, I can tell you. My daughters do not want to take on the responsibility so we shall be selling the school as an ongoing concern.”

  “Will I not be able to continue as before? I could just get quietly on with my teaching. As you say there have never been any complaints.”

  “If it were up to me,” said Mrs Butterworth with a sigh, “then that would all seem eminently sensible. However, the gentleman who wishes to purchase the school has privately asked me about the current staff. A new broom as it were. It seems you will have to leave.”

  “But I don’t understand,” said Ruth. “My teaching is good. I am not expensive. The subject of music is one of the school’s main attractions now, is it not?”

  “Indeed it is,” said Mrs Butterworth, now shifting in her chair, “but the purchaser has put – how shall I put it? – various conditions on the transaction.”

  “Conditions?” asked Ruth.

  “Yes. Firstly, my daughters will be leaving as part of the old regime. The gentleman has his own staff he wishes to place. The girls are not too worried about that as they have been considering their futures, in any case. Both of their husbands are good providers and they don’t need the money. But secondly, and most importantly from your point of view, he says that he cannot, under any circumstances, employ any… aliens.”

  “Is that what I am?” asked Ruth, animated although constitutionally incapable of anger. “I have been here for nearly fifteen years without trouble to anyone.”

  “Well,” said Mrs Butterworth, “it seems that the gentleman has an aversion to Germans, probably understandable, but also to… Jewish people.”

  It felt like a stab to the heart. Almost half of her adult life she had given to this work, to this school, to that line of girls on the school photographs in the corridors. She felt the tears welling up.

  “But what can I do? Only this week my lodgings disappeared. I could manage as long as I have my job and an income but…” she tailed off, looking disconsolate.

  “I’m so sorry, my dear,” said Mrs Butterworth. “If it were up to me, there would be no problem but I have no choice. It is an offer we cannot afford to refuse. Your last day will be this Friday. I’m sorry. If I can help with any testimonial, perhaps?”

/>   Ruth thanked Mrs Butterworth. Although severely shocked, as a warm and kind person she did not wish to see her employer discomfited, so refrained from any criticism or emotional display.

  She carried out her final few days conscientiously, also sparing her pupils any of the drama associated with her dismissal.

  In her lodgings she began to gather together her meagre possessions. In forty-eight hours, she would have nowhere to live and no income to support herself. Even in the camp there had been some defined space in which to live, however cold, restricted and filthy.

  Perhaps, she thought, one of the charities might be able to help, but she dismissed the idea. Their help was mostly directed at the flotsam washed up as refugees. She had been here and self-sufficient for years. In any case, she thought, I do not want to be a victim or a charity case. These may be hard and difficult times but nothing to what I haven’t beaten before.

  There must be a way out of this.

  Then, her eyes alighted on her violin case. She shook her head. This was the one last connection she had with her father. This had seen her through Theresienstadt and Dachau. This had been her succour over the years. The violin had been there to calm the Catholic priests, to offer one last spirit-raising refrain for prisoners on their death march, to secure her employment, to be her vade mecum and to resonate in her heart as she played it, recalling her childhood and all that had been lost to her. To sell it would be like amputating an arm. She knew she was only the temporary custodian but to relinquish it would be almost treasonable.

  She thought a long time. She came to her conclusion. There was no alternative.

  She took it into a local pawnbroker. He looked the violin up and down cursorily, knowing little of musical instruments and preferring watches and jewellery.

  “Five pounds any good to you?”

  Ruth thanked him but declined his offer. She then remembered a one-man music shop in Soho that sold sheet music, accessories, strings and the like where she had bought sundries. She recalled that he also traded in second-hand instruments. After journeying there, hugging the violin to her as if it were her child, she pushed open the door of the shop and the bell rang loudly. The proprietor appeared, a large florid man by the name of Welford who sported a luxuriously cultivated moustache. He recognised Ruth.

  “Ah Miss Frankel. I’ve not seen you for a while. How can I help you?”

  “I would like you to consider buying my violin,” she said with little enthusiasm.

  Welford sensed an opportunity.

  “Oh, giving up the teaching are you? Interested in buying another?”

  “No, I need the money at this particular time.”

  “Well, let me see now,” he said, pulling it from its case. “Oh yes. Nice construction. John Johnson. Not a well-known name. Quite old, yes, 1750 I see.” Then, drawing the bow across the strings, “Very decent tone. Very decent indeed. How much are you looking for?”

  Ruth replied, “Well I hoped you would give me a value. I have no idea of price. My father bought it for me in New York more than twenty years ago. I think it must be quite valuable, at least I hope so.”

  Welford, not a man given to sentiment, sniffed a killing.

  “Well, it’s a decent instrument but not of the front rank by any means. You see,” he indicated a corner of the shop, “over there I have half a dozen violins that I’ve had for some time. It could be a while before I move it on. And I take the risk, do you see? No saying what price it might fetch.”

  He turned the violin over in his hands, examining it, pointing out one or two scratches and blowing out his cheeks extravagantly.

  “I may be doing myself in here but how about…” He wanted to pitch the price at a level that would not scare off Ruth but which would net him a nice profit. This violin, he knew, was of some value… “Five hundred pounds?”

  Ruth frowned to herself and looked at the floor. She was not comfortable with haggling but felt she must make some sort of argument. This was the only asset she had of any value.

  “Well, thank you for that. However, when my father bought it all those years ago, I’m sure he paid a few thousand dollars for it.”

  “That’s as maybe,” said Welford, “but there’s no market in them now. Times change. There’s not many wanting to make music for themselves. It’s all records now. But, tell you what, because it’s you…” now affecting a generosity beyond commercial sense, “go on, I’ll make it five hundred and fifty, but that’s as far as I can go.”

  Ruth did a quick mental calculation and considered her options. Take this price now or search for a better offer? If what he said was true, then that might prove difficult and in the meantime she was penniless. With a heavy heart she agreed.

  “Very well then. But I’ll need the money today and it would have to be in cash please.”

  “A bit of a tall order,” said Welford, although, wishing to appear obliging rather than miss this opportunity, he continued. “But I can give you, say three hundred now and then the rest if you call in sometime tomorrow. Have to go to the bank. Don’t keep big amounts here. I’ll give you a receipt but you know me, I’m a man of my word anyway.”

  The deal was struck. Welford opened his strong box and took the notes out, parcelling them up in a manila envelope for Ruth. She left, looking back as if she had abandoned her child. She calculated that if she was very careful, which in any case completely characterised her, she could eke out the money for food and temporary lodgings until she found another position.

  One thing she did promise herself. After a decade or two of only using her eyes to smile and covering her face self-consciously when looked at directly, she resolved to get herself a set of teeth. For a humble woman who had seen so much hardship and tragedy and who had lived a life of quiet desperation, this seemed like a luxury beyond her imaginings.

  Back at the music shop the new owner of the Italianate congratulated himself. He had re-examined the violin, bow and case and realised, as he suspected, that he had been astute enough to secure a major bargain. After so many years, Ruth had forgotten the secret pocket under the velvet lining in the case, which contained the flattened, creased and yellowing letters which told of the instrument’s colourful and distinguished history.

  Welford paid particular attention to the note from the dealers M.E. Hill and resolved to cash in his bargain with them at the earliest opportunity.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Ruth’s erstwhile pupil, Harriet, left the London Ladies’ College at the earliest opportunity aged sixteen. Her father the Earl, a distant and laissez-faire parent, asked her what her intentions were. The Honourable Harriet Villiers only said that, first of all, she would enjoy some time off after the strain of ten years of solid education. Very likely she would be entering the social life of London society. There was much to do: fashionable clothes to buy and be seen in; parties; weekends in the country; perhaps a little mind-expanding travel. There was plenty of time for seriousness later. Right now she was young, wealthy, unique and immortal. Summer would last forever.

  Away from school she had begun to consort with two or three aspiring debutantes of a similar age and disposition. Her two main confidantes were Georgia and Bella, two girls who were not distinguished by any enthusiasm for deferred gratification or the discipline of such pointless ideas as work.

  They were taking afternoon tea at the Goring Hotel, aping the leisured ladies of society.

  “We’ll have such a jolly time, Hats. My mantel shelf is groaning under invitations. Mummy wants to send me to finishing school. Switzerland would be quite agreeable but it all sounds a bit like hard work to me.”

  “My parents want me to consider university – Fine Arts or something improving like that. Three years! And it could be somewhere horrid like… Durham… or even Scotland, Mummy mentioned St Andrews. I mean, really! Nobody who is anybody leaves London, do they?”

&
nbsp; “Actually you know, I’m just about exhausted with learning,” said Harriet. “I mean I think I know what I need to get by now. I’m for having a good time. And if you think about it, now the war’s well and truly over, it is our patriotic duty to spend so as to help the lower orders. I’m also for having a good time, maybe picking up a chappie with a few attributes – you know, money, title, estates. Helpful if he didn’t look like a hog but I can make allowances. The better the name, the uglier he can be. He’ll certainly have to outrank an ‘Honourable’!” she said to laughter.

  Privately, part of Harriet’s plan was to resemble, as closely as possible, Audrey Hepburn. Her previous eating habits, which might have been characterised as omnivorous, were abruptly terminated.

  Instead, following a diet plan she had found in The Lady, she had reduced her food and drink intake to subsistence levels. A typical day consisted of a boiled egg, an apple for lunch and, if she took dinner at all, she would get Phillips to steam some vegetables.

  As the calories reduced over several months her shape changed and she looked approvingly at herself. Her cheekbones and chin reappeared and she attitudinised in front of a full-length mirror as she noted her change from a broad body to one that was more attenuated and slender. Slimming also required the pleasure of buying new clothes, and – now turning seventeen – she began to attract attention from men.

  Harriet now had the figure, hair and eyes that had drawn Henri Ladouceur to Nancy Crostwick and she exulted in the admiring looks, reinforcing her stringent diet. Yet she was not yet at Hepburn dimensions, so she resolved to persevere and wonderful things would happen.

  *

  A visit to the family doctor for a minor ailment would compound the problem. Dr Cressall, an Irish émigré, cultivated a lucrative practice by promoting expensive remedies to his coterie of rich and upper-class clients.

  “Well, this medicine will alleviate that cough. Stay off the cigarettes for a week or two. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?” he enquired of Harriet.