by Adrien Leduc
asked.
"Me too! Me too!" the Braunfman sisters whined in unison.
Moshe ignored them all, cherishing this moment as he hugged his new violin.
- 6 -
"It's a marvelous piece of equipment," Mr. Humbert remarked as he and Moshe sat in the school's band room one drizzly lunch hour the following week. "Must have cost a fortune," he added admiringly, rotating the violin in his hands.
Moshe nodded. "Yes, my father spent a lot of money to buy it."
"And you say you've been taking lessons? Because I can't admit you into the school orchestra on account of the instrument alone," Mr. Humbert replied with a chuckle.
"I can play, Mister Humbert."
"Can you?"
Moshe nodded enthusiastically.
"Alright then. Let's see what you've got."
Moshe felt nervous, but excited, as his teacher handed back the violin. Palms sweating, he took hold of it and carefully tucked it under his chin. With his left hand, he grasped the neck. Moshe was by now so accustomed to his violin that it felt comfortable, natural. It was as though the instrument was a part of him. For three months now he'd been taking lessons. In that time he'd already mastered the introductions to Corelli's Sonata de Camera and Bach's Violin Sonata No. 1.
With Mr. Humbert watching closely, Moshe took up the bow and began to play. Soft. Swift. Melodic. The sounds of Moshe's violin filled the small room, waxing, waning, and moving Mr. Humbert almost to tears. When Moshe was finished, he sat back and looked at the floor, not wanting to seem overly confident and rather anxious at how his playing had been received. But Moshe needn't have worried for the band teacher leapt to his feet and spread his arms wide.
"Moshe! That was amazing!"
"Thank you," the boy answered quietly.
"And it's no longer a matter of whether or not you're good enough for our school orchestra. It's, will-you-please-come-and-play-in-our-school-orchestra-because-we'll-be-lost-without-you!" he said in a single breath, the words tumbling out.
Grinning from ear to ear Moshe nodded. "Of course."
- 7 -
As October drew to a close and the leaves on the trees began to brown and wither, Fourth Avenue Middle School announced its intention to host a Remembrance Day ceremony for the community. The announcement was met with a mixture of criticism and support.
"They're just kids. What do they know of war?"
"Their fathers, uncles, and older brothers fought in the war - who better than they to convey the horror of it all?"
"What an abomination. They're much too young to be exposed to war."
"Better younger than later in this day and age - have you heard the talk of war in Korea?"
Moshe didn't really have an opinion on the matter until he learned that the orchestra would be taking part in the ceremony.
"Your first public performance is in three weeks?" Mr. Lebowski asked incredulously one afternoon as Moshe sat beside him, tuning his violin.
"Yep."
"Well, we’d better get started then. What are you playing?"
The boy listed the pieces Mr. Humbert had elected to perform, among them, God Save The Queen and Rule Britannia. Though the elderly Pole had scoffed at most of them, grumbling something about "imperialistic drivel", he agreed to help Moshe prepare.
“Your sugars, Moshe.”
“What’s wrong, mamma?”
“They’re still high.”
Marthe Silverstein set down the glass tube she was holding and stared at her son. “Are you eating sugar? Candy? Doctor Kaczynski said you can have some once in awhile, but - “
“No, mamma. I haven’t had any sugar this week.”
“Well, I don’t know what’s the matter then,” she sighed.
“I’ll just have a little bit of supper tonight. And I’ll drink lots of water.”
“Alright, bärchen.”
“You aren’t nervous?” Pasquale Dinardo asked as he and Moshe leaned against the school the following morning.
“No.”
“Wow. I would be - but then again - I don’t play an instrument like you do.”
Moshe shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll only be a few hundred people.”
“Yeah, but half of those are going to be from Saint Mark’s.”
Moshe froze. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?”
“What’s this about Saint Mark’s?”
Dinardo grinned and ran a hand through his hair. “The grade eights. They’re coming to the ceremony. That’s a lot of good-looking Catholic girls.”
While Dinardo was thinking about the opposite sex, Moshe had other things on his mind. Peter Carlson was in eighth grade this year. Peter Carlson would be at the Remembrance Day ceremony.
“How is school these days, son?” Friedrich Silverstein asked one evening after supper.
“It’s good, father.”
“What are you learning? Are you learning lots in science and mathematics?”
Moshe nodded. “Yes.”
Friedrich looked pleased. “This is good. You need to excel at science and mathematics if you are to become a doctor one day.”
“And if I wish to be a professional violinist?”
“That is your plan B, bärchen. You must aim for something higher. A career that comes with more guarantees. Like a doctor or an engineer.”
Marthe Silverstein nodded her approval. “Your father is right. Your music is a plan B. It is better to become a doctor or an engineer. If these plans fail, then you can become a musician.”
What if he only wanted to be a musician?
“What do you mean you don’t want to play in the ceremony?”
Moshe looked at his teacher. Mr. Humbert was clearly disappointed.
“I just don’t have time. I have too much homework.”
Moshe felt terrible for what he was doing, what he was saying. Especially after Mr. Humbert had pinned such high hopes on him.
“I just don’t understand - a week ago you seemed so enthusiastic about being in the band, Moshe.”
The boy grimaced, wishing he could melt into the floor and disappear.
“I was. It’s just...things have changed.”
“What’s changed?”
Peter Carlson and his cronies are coming to the Remembrance Day ceremony.
Moshe shrugged. “Just...stuff.”
Mr. Humbert shook his head in dismay. “Alright. If you change your mind, let me know.”
“I will.”
Glasses. Shorter hair. (He'd trimmed off an inch the night before with his mother’s sewing scissors.) A new shirt.
Was it enough? Would he avoid being recognized?
“Moshe, you look so different today!” Marthe Silverstein exclaimed as her son entered the kitchen and took a seat at the table. “Where ever did you find those old glasses?”
“In the medicine cabinet.”
“Can you see with those?”
His vision somewhat blurry, Moshe nodded. “Yes, mamma. I can see fine.”
“Okay,” his mother sighed, slapping a dollop of porridge into his bowl. “Eat your breakfast. You’re going to be late for school.”
Getting back into the school band wasn’t as difficult as Moshe thought it would be. Though he did face a number of inquisitive stares, and several of the other students, feeling betrayed by his abrupt departure, were refusing to speak to him, Mr. Humbert had welcomed him back with open arms.
“Now for the ceremony I want everyone dressed in their Sunday best. Boys may wear a bow tie, but only black will do of course. Ladies, anything in the hair or around the neck must be black as well. If there aren’t any questions concerning dress, we need to discuss set-up.”
Moshe looked out the window as Mr. Humbert proceeded to detail the layout of chairs and music stands.
Just one more week and it will all be over.
“My son, I didn’t know you could play so well,” Friedrich Silverstein said proudly a week later as the ceremony’
s three hundred attendees exited the auditorium. A number of them milled around the orchestra pit waiting to congratulate the musicians, Marthe and Friedrich Silverstein among them.
“Perhaps becoming a professional musician should be plan A, after all.”
Moshe grinned. “Thanks, pappa.”
“That was super swell, man,” said Dinardo, suddenly appearing. “My mom was so impressed. She said to tell you that you play really well.”
Moshe felt his cheeks flush. “Tell her thanks for me.”
“Who’s your friend, Moshe?” asked Marthe Silverstein, dipping into their conversation.
“Mamma, this is Pasquale Dinardo. This is the boy I’ve told you about.”
The woman smiled at the young Italian. “So nice to finally meet you.”
“Nice to meet you as well.”
“Moshe has told me a lot about you.”
“Only good things I hope.”
The woman smiled. “Only good things. Why, is there something he’s not telling us that we should know about you?”
Dinardo shrugged and casually ran a hand through his hair. “No, Missus Silverstein.”
“I’m only joking, Pasquale,” Marthe Silverstein said jovially, patting the boy’s shoulder.
“Hey, look!” Moshe heard someone shout. “It’s Mushy and Retardo!”
James Cooy.
Moshe whirled around, expecting to see his pudgy classmate. Instead, it was Peter Carlson.
“Hey, buddy. We’ve missed you at Saint Mark’s.”
Evidently his attempt to go unrecognized had failed.
“My cousin’s been keeping me updated though,” he continued, a smile playing across his lips as James Cooy stepped into view beside him.
“So wait a second. This Peter guy is fourteen and he’s in eighth grade?”
Moshe nodded. “He was held back a year.”
Dinardo shook his head in disbelief. “And he’s the guy that used to pick on you at Saint Mark’s?”
“Every day almost.”
Dinardo whistled. “Damn. He’s a big kid.”
Moshe swallowed to release the knot in his throat. “Yeah.”
“And he’s Cooy’s cousin. How weird is that?”
“It’s weird, alright.”
“What are you going to do? Now that he knows you go to school here?”
“Make myself invisible, I guess.”
Dinardo laughed. “What!?”
Moshe smiled. “Only joking.”
Though he wished he could.
- 8 -
Fall turned into winter and by the first week of December Ottawa was covered in a thick blanket of snow. The colder temperatures worsened Friedrich Silverstein’s limp (a lingering effect of his childhood bout with polio) and there were several days where he was unable to work, his leg being too painful for him to walk. On these days Marthe Silverstein would sit dutifully at her husband’s side, fetching him chicken soup or lemon tea whenever he requested.
Moshe meanwhile had taken to practicing his violin with even greater zeal than before and every weekend he would sit in his room for hours producing sweet sounding tunes.
It was at about this time that Moshe began to feel differently about girls. Whereas previously he’d considered them to be unintelligible, clucking hens, he was now intrigued by their curious mannerisms. No longer were girls indiscernible creatures who sat around the school yard making up games and talking a mile a minute. Rather, they were charming and intriguing, walking, talking enigmas worthy of discovery.
There was one girl in particular that had caught Moshe’s attention. Tall and blonde, Catherine Carlisle was the most popular girl in sixth grade and was always the centre of attention. Moshe knew that his chances of befriending her were slim; she was beautiful and popular while he was neither. Still, as Boston Blackie always said, anything was worth a try.
“Now class,” Mrs. Braithwaite began one morning, “for this year’s fundraiser, it has been decided that all the proceeds from the Christmas Ball will go to the Israel National Fund.”
There were several murmurs from Moshe’s classmates.
“Now, I know that this decision is rather...unorthodox.”
She glanced at Moshe as she said this, causing him to squirm uncomfortably in his seat.
“However, it is the school board that makes these decisions and therefore it is our duty to abide by them.”
She turned to face Heather Parkinson whose hand was reaching impatiently for the ceiling.
“Yes, Miss Parkinson?”
“My father says that Israel needs our help to be defended against the Moslems.”
“Yes, Miss Parkinson. That is the purpose of the Israel National Fund. And, in addition, to provide the good people of that new nation with proper food and clean water,” Mrs. Braithwaite added with a tender smile.
Moshe felt the eyes of his classmates on him and he sunk lower in his desk.
“Why can’t we just leave the Jewish people to do their own things?” Cooy demanded.
“Because, Mister Cooy, those poor people require our assistance. They lost so much during the war - as we all did,” she added hastily to quell a sudden outburst of disagreeable murmurings, “however unlike us their fight is not over. They are trying to establish their own country,” she continued, glancing at Moshe once more, “so that all the Jewish people of the world can go and live there.”
James Cooy muttered something under his breath. Moshe caught the words “waste of time.”
“Now then,” Mrs. Braithwaite continued, her voice taking on an even higher and even more nasally pitch than before, “I will be circulating the sign up sheet for those interested in assisting with the Ball. We need volunteers to usher, to decorate the auditorium, to sell tickets, and so on and so forth. So,” she said, plucking a piece of paper from her desk and handing it to Catherine Carlisle, “let’s all try and put our names beside the task we’d like to assist with. If you are in the school band,” she said, casting an eye towards James Moore who Moshe knew to be one of the percussionists, “you need not sign up as Mister Humbert will be keeping you plenty busy preparing for the evening’s entertainment. It is my hope that this class will have the most volunteers. So please demonstrate your school spirit by signing up. That is all. If you could turn to your readers now, we’re going to pick up where we left off yesterday afternoon...”
Moshe tuned out Mrs. Braithwaite and instead concentrated on Catherine Carlisle who was busy signing her name on the volunteer sheet, hoping maybe, just maybe, he’d get the chance to ask her to the Christmas Ball.
"You can't be serious?" Stacy Meyers giggled. "Mushy asked you to the Christmas Ball?"
It was several days later and Catherine Carlisle and her posse were crowded around the auditorium's east wall, tying chains of wreaths together and arranging ribbons on bells.
The pretty blonde nodded and Moshe felt his stomach do a back flip. Watching them from his spot in the orchestra pit, he couldn't help but feel stupid.
Had he actually believed that she, Catherine Carlisle, would want to go to the Ball with him?
He'd caught up with her after school in the hallway. Her entourage was absent for once and Moshe had decided to seize on the opportunity and speak with her. And while Moshe had meant to just make small talk, he struggled and blurted out his desire to attend the Ball with her.
The look she'd given him... It had been a mixed bag. Pity. Sympathy. Disgust.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
He hadn't even told Dinardo. Though word traveled fast at Fourth Avenue Middle School and it was only a matter of time before he and everyone knew. His cheeks burning at the sound of his name and the patronizing glances from Catherine's friends in his direction, Moshe busied himself arranging his sheet music.
A second later Mr. Humbert tapped his conductor's wand. "Alright, band members. We don't have a lot of time to rehearse, so let's get started. Silent Night. Everyone turn to Silent Night. I want wind instruments onl
y. Wind instruments first. Strings, you’ll be next, followed by percussion. And last but not least, brass.”
There was a round of groans from the trumpets and trombones and Mr. Humbert rapped his conductor’s wand on the stand in front of him. “Quiet, please. The audience isn’t coming to hear our voices.”
The band teacher smiled and raised his wand as the noise slowly dissipated.
“Flutes, clarinets. On my count.”
"Well, I don't know about you, but I think Mushy would make a swell date. I mean, he doesn't even celebrate Christmas so it's not as though he'll be hogging the egg nog or wearing one of those stupid sweaters."
It was recess the following day and James Cooy was speaking loudly enough for everyone on the tarmac to hear.
"Catherine and Mushy, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N - "
"Shut up, Cooy!" Stacy Meyers hissed. "Can't you tell she's embarrassed!?"
Cooy shrugged. "I don't see what she has to be embarrassed about. Like I said, Mushy would make a fine date for the Christmas Ball."
"Ignore them," said Dinardo with a wave of his hand as he and Moshe sat on the jungle gym some twenty feet away.
Moshe said nothing and instead continued to stare at his feet. A moment of silence passed then Dinardo spoke again.
"You know, Cooy wasn't always popular. People used to pick on him too."
"Really?"
"Yeah. In second grade. All the time. He was the fattest kid in the school. He's lost some weight since then and grown a few inches. That changed things for him."
So if he was unpopular now, it could take four years for people to stop teasing him? That would be…he’d be in tenth grade by then!
Dinardo ran a hand through his hair. "Just ignore them and eventually he'll leave you alone."
"I thought you said you punched him that one time?"
"I did."
"Well, that doesn't exactly count as ignoring him..."
The young Italian grinned. "I guess you're right. Maybe you'll have to do the same."
Punch James Cooy? That would be like throwing rocks at a hornet's nest...
- 9 -
"And brush your teeth. You know your breath smells funny when your sugars are high."
"Yes, mamma."
"You'll be home by nine o'clock then? No detours afterwards, alright?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Good. Because your father's not been feeling well again today and he can’t be going out to pick you up somewhere.”
"He won't have to, mamma. I'll be home on time."
"Alright," Marthe Silverstein sighed, running a comb through her son's hair.
"Hey!"
"What? Can't a mother brush her son's messy hair?"
"It's not messy."
"It looks - "
The woman stopped herself upon seeing her son's expression. "Alright. It looks good. Oh, and I put your violin beside the door so you don't forget it."
"Thanks, mamma."
"You're welcome, bärchen. And you play well tonight. You show those WASPs that even though we don't celebrate Christmas, we still deserve to take part in their festivities."
"Yes, mamma."
Moshe was tired of constantly answering his mother with "Yes, mamma", but he knew that it was paramount to give her his best behaviour in exchange for the freedom she was giving him tonight. Initially, his mother had insisted on accompanying him to the Christmas Ball, but after convincing her that no other parents would be attending (this was true for the most part as only a handful of parents were going as chaperones) she'd relented, though demanding Moshe be home by nine o'clock.
The Ball didn't end until nine o'clock - Moshe had told her that it ended at eight, but given that it had snowed that afternoon,