Winter Eyes

by Lev Raphael

  “Was Eva pretty like you?”

  His mother’s face went hard and white and she rushed from the room. Her bedroom door slammed and Stefan knew he was in trouble.

  “Anya?” he heard his father call and then there were quick heavy steps down the hall. A door was wrenched open and Stefan listened, transfixed, to a sound he’d never heard before: it was thin and high and tired—crying that made him shiver. His father’s thick fast words merged with it and Stefan heard nothing else. He felt lost the way he once had at school when he’d passed a kindergarten class and said hello to a friend in another class also on the way to the bathroom.…

  “Young man!” From behind, a dull ugly voice had stopped him in the hall. He was afraid to turn. “Come here.” Reluctant, he had obeyed. “Come here and sit down.” He entered the large kindergarten class of children doing fingerpaints. He sat on a chair too small for him at the front of the large-windowed room, still not looking at Mrs. Lewis, a thin old woman who read Bible at assembly (until someone told him, he’d thought she’d written those things about pastures because of the way she held the big black book).

  “What class are you in? Mrs. Johnson’s? And does she let you talk in the hall and disturb other classes? I didn’t think so. And why did you?”

  Stefan sat on the horrible chair, clutching the large wooden bathroom pass, dizzy, unable to answer. He could hear little children giggling at him.

  “Why don’t you answer? Are you a stupid little boy?” Stefan couldn’t remember how he escaped or what he said.

  He never went past Mrs. Lewis’s class to the bathroom again, but took the long way around no matter how bad he had to go.

  His father stood in the doorway now, black with anger. “Psia krew!” he shouted in Polish. Stefan didn’t know what that meant, but he knew it was something terrible. His mother had never said it, and his father, only a few times. “If you ever make your mother cry again I swear I’ll—”

  Stefan stumbled back to his bed. “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Max?” came his mother’s thin call. His father disappeared. The murmuring radio suddenly seemed very loud to Stefan, who edged towards it, eyes on the door. He shut it off and closed the door very softly. “I didn’t do it,” he thought stubbornly, but he had done it somehow, and that was what he couldn’t understand. And why his father had threatened him. Stefan winced at how his father had stood dark and terrible at the door.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” he muttered, finding a bit of strength. Whose fault was it? What had even happened? “I made Mommy cry,” he thought with sudden horror—how had he done such a bad thing? She would surely be mad at him.

  When his mother woke him for school the next morning he jerked back from her hand.

  “It’s only me,” she murmured, as if he’d been dreaming. She was so nice to him all morning and at the bus stop that he didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry” wouldn’t be enough; he felt like a very bad boy all day, almost cried when Mrs. Johnson corrected an arithmetic mistake of his in front of everyone. His lunch tasted nasty.

  Nobody said much at dinner; Stefan ate everything on his plate, slowly—what he wanted to do was run away or cry but he knew he wouldn’t do either. His mother and father talked in English when they did say anything, mostly about the food. Stefan slipped away from the table with as little noise as possible when they began to wash up. He didn’t turn on the radio in his room for fear someone would yell at him. Stefan sat at his desk fiddling with schoolbooks. Mrs. Johnson had asked him three times today before he answered the math problem-—and wrong too. Later she called him over and asked him if he was all right; he loved Mrs. Johnson sometimes, when she smiled at him and smelled pretty, but not today.

  “What’d you do?” someone asked as they’d clambered aboard the bus and Stefan shrugged. A fight broke out between two girls in the seat across from him when he was almost home and Stefan watched as if it was television. He didn’t care that they were crying and screaming and the bus driver had to stop and that everyone was all excited. He didn’t care.

  Stefan went to the closet, half-guilty, to get Scotty. His father said he was too old for a doll, even a dog doll, so he couldn’t decide whether to take Scotty or not. His dog looked so battered that finally he couldn’t resist and dragged him out from some old shoes. Sasha had given him the white dog with a plaid hat and blanket around his middle a long time ago. One of Scotty’s shiny black eyes was missing. Poor Scotty; he cradled the half-blind dog, telling it everything would be all right, but Stefan knew that was a big lie and Scotty couldn’t be fooled. He was glad Scotty wasn’t a real dog—you couldn’t hold a real dog that tight and it could bite you.

  If he knew how to drive a car he would run away to Sasha. Sasha never made fun of him or was mean when he made mistakes at the piano. Stefan leaned back against the closet door, hugging Scotty, imagining how his mother and father would beg him to come back and how he would stand at the piano and shake his head and they would cry and promise never to be mean to him again or go away. Stefan felt his cheeks hot and wet before he realized he was crying. He clutched old Scotty and trembled, the tears coming without a sound. It scared him to cry and make no noise—it almost wasn’t him. He stopped very suddenly, wiped his face with Scotty’s bad ear and rose to turn on the music. The gentle glide of violins was the first thing he heard; he forgot to pay attention when it was over so he didn’t find out what it was. It calmed him down though. Next was something he’d never heard before; very long and in a strange language. It was just a man and a piano—very sad songs even when they were fast or angry sounding. He fell asleep on his bed once or twice, but he heard all of the end; he thought the announcer called it Winter Eyes. The name was creepy; it made him think of ghosts and blind dogs in the snow.

  At his next lesson Sasha acted very funny, didn’t smile or make any jokes and even missed some mistakes he made. Sasha’s face was paler than most times and Sasha and his father said nothing to each other before the lesson started. Stefan wanted to cry. His parents must’ve told Sasha how bad he was. At the break Stefan just wanted to go away from there and never come back. He and Scotty would leave and no one would ever find them.

  “Your mother and father were very angry,” Sasha said, stirring sugar into his tea. “They wanted to stop your lessons.”

  Stefan froze.

  “But I said I was sorry and it wouldn’t happen again.” Stefan felt sticky and hot, like he’d been running too much. “So you mustn’t ask me about Eva or anything or they’ll take you away.”

  He thought Sasha wanted to cry—this terrified him.

  “Why were you sorry?” Stefan managed.

  “Because I shouldn’t have told you.”

  In a flash Stefan understood his parents had been angry at Sasha.

  “Was Eva a bad lady?”

  “No—she died. I can’t tell you.”

  Stefan was sure then that he loved Sasha and Sasha loved him; he wanted to do something, say what he thought. He didn’t know how; the words were too big. He wished he could give Sasha a present to make him feel better.

  “Are you mad at me?” Stefan asked.

  “You?” Sasha laughed. “Never—how could I be mad at you? Until you started lessons I didn’t have anything to look forward to.”

  “Not all the other students?”

  “No.”

  Stefan wanted to laugh he was so bursting with pride. Sasha was talking to him more adult than ever. That was why he liked being here; even with Mrs. Johnson at school he felt like a little kid no matter how nice she was. Sasha acted different, was nicer to him.

  “Why can’t you tell me about Eva?”

  Sasha looked away. “Your parents won’t let me. You’re too young.”

  “When can you tell me?”

  “Maybe some day.”

  “Promise?”

  Sasha sighed. “Let’s go back.”

  Stefan played that afternoon with new assurance; for the first time he fe
lt something special at the piano—he didn’t worry about fingering or counting in his head or the sharps. His hands moved on the keys without a break and he heard the little piece all the way through.

  “That was very good. Very,” Sasha told him again as Stefan was leaving with his father, who smiled at the compliment.

  “So you’re doing well,” his father said in the elevator.

  Stefan nodded, reluctant to let his father into the world he and Sasha shared. As his father preceded him out onto the street, Stefan had a sudden hot wish not to have to go home with this man, to stay always with his uncle who would play for him and cook and never leave, never yell.

  And then the nastiness of his thoughts almost hurt him; it was very bad not to want to be with his father. But he couldn’t make the wish go away; all during the drive home he tried thinking of everything but the dark open piano that was like a ship sailing on the sun-bright wood floor which complained when you crossed it.

  Sasha came by one night a few days later; since the lessons began Sasha had visited less often.

  “Why don’t you come listen?” Stefan had asked his mother many Sundays but she was always busy or tired from being busy. He didn’t think he would mind her sitting while he practiced: his mother would be quiet—even though his father didn’t say anything the few times he stayed, just the way he sat there was noisy somehow, and Stefan made more mistakes than usual.

  They all sat this evening in the dark thick-curtained living room that had come to look odd to Stefan because it didn’t have a piano. Sasha and his parents spoke slowly, with lots of space between what they said; he didn’t think they were having a very good time. His class was like that just after someone had been yelled at for not behaving.

  Now and then Sasha would glance his way and smile, so Stefan didn’t feel left out even though tonight no one spoke in English.

  “Do you know Winter Eyes?” Stefan piped up after what sounded like a long silence to him.

  Sasha frowned. “Winter—?”

  “It’s a man singing and a piano. It’s songs. I heard it on the radio.”

  “Winter Eyes?” his mother repeated to herself.

  “I didn’t know the language,” Stefan added.

  “Winter Eyes, Winter Eyes,” Sasha was saying. He clapped his hands. “Die Wintereise? It must be.”

  They laughed and Stefan recognized the sound of the words.

  “It’s German, it means winter journey,” Sasha explained. “By Schubert. I played you something of his, remember? The Impromptu?” Sasha hummed and Stefan knew it.

  “Can you play it?” he asked, eager, but embarrassed he’d called it the wrong name.

  “I could get the music.”

  “And sing too?”

  “Oh my voice.…” Sasha smiled.

  “It’s ugly,” his father announced. “It’s German, I hate German.” His father shook his head.

  Sasha and his mother were looking down.

  “I don’t want you to play it for him,” his father warned, adding something in Russian that made Sasha go very pale.

  “Prosze,” his mother said, and to him: “Shouldn’t you—?”

  It was time for bed. He said good night and left them. When he closed his door he kicked a book across the room. Why did they say things he didn’t know? Why were they mean to Sasha? He hated them, especially his father, who never wanted him to have any fun ever.

  In the bathroom washing his hands he said defiantly “It’s not ugly, it isn’t,” though all he knew of German was the way it had sounded on the radio and how Sasha said Winter Eyes.

  2

  Stefan didn’t like his second grade teacher very much; Miss Zimmer wasn’t friendly and didn’t let you even whisper when she was talking. Also her face was as hard-looking as her desk. There was one boy in class—David—she was always punishing because he never listened, and he said things back. Stefan kept very quiet—he was afraid of what could happen to him. When David misbehaved Stefan watched, hoping somehow Miss Zimmer would lose, but she never did. She was so big, and the teacher besides. Stefan didn’t volunteer for anything in her class and was glad because of the alphabet that he—Stefan Borowski—sat in the row with the other A’s and B’s that was furthest from her desk, and closest to the windows. He didn’t look out at the park ever in case he’d get yelled at; he could smell the trees, though, and hear them, and he liked that. When he saw Mrs. Johnson from last year in the hall he always said he liked his new class a lot—Miss Zimmer might be listening.

  “Your new teacher isn’t as nice as Mrs. Johnson,” his mother said when she and his father came back from parents’ meeting night. He hoped no one had said anything bad about him.

  “She says you’re very well-behaved. And polite.”

  “Of course he is,” his father said, wrenching open his paper. “What does she expect, an animal?”

  “Max—” His mother put a hand on his father’s arm, as if to keep him from hitting someone.

  “That stupid woman.” His father’s voice was harsh and thick. “You’re a teacher too, Stefan tells me,” his father mimicked, and Stefan couldn’t help giggling at the way he made his face stiff just like Miss Zimmer. His mother smiled too.

  “What did you say?” Stefan asked with respect, delighted they didn’t like his teacher much either.

  “I am a professor, Miss Zimmer, there is no comparison.”

  Stefan gulped. “Why did you say that?” He felt sick—his father didn’t have to sit in her class, but he did. He wanted to die.

  “If she does anything.…” his father warned.

  “It’ll be all right,” his mother assured him.

  But they didn’t know, and he had trouble falling asleep that night.

  It was bad but not too bad. Miss Zimmer just kind of ignored him. He was confused until he understood she wanted as little to do with him as possible, and then he didn’t care. He stopped being afraid of her because he knew she would leave him alone. When other kids complained about Miss Zimmer at lunch or on the bus Stefan didn’t join in, even in his head.

  “I wish I didn’t have school,” Stefan told Sasha. “I wish I could just come here and play whenever I wanted to.”

  “Even scales?” Sasha teased.

  Stefan nodded.

  “I didn’t like school when I was young. Neither did your mother or— You’re lucky you have something you do like.”

  He and Sasha didn’t talk about school a lot when they were together, though when Sasha asked him a question Sasha really wanted to know, not like his parents sometimes. Mostly they didn’t talk; he had his lesson and then Sasha would play for him. That was beautiful; Stefan would sit on the steps, leaning against the curved iron rail, watching Sasha’s long white hands.

  “Did you always play piano?” he asked one fall afternoon. Sasha had just finished a very sweet Canzonetta by Dussek—Stefan liked to say the names to himself sometimes, thinking of how the music looked on the page, hearing the best parts.

  Sasha closed the lid but stayed at the piano. He nodded, once to the piano, once to Stefan.

  “But I didn’t take it seriously when I played, not like you,” he smiled and Stefan wriggled at the compliment.

  “Then why did you keep playing?”

  Sasha sighed. “Except for your mother and father I had nothing else. The War,” Sasha said wearily, and in the silence that followed Stefan suddenly was afraid to ask any more questions. The way Sasha spoke was so heavy and he looked as sad as poor Scotty. He didn’t like his uncle to be sad: it made Stefan feel lonely and far away, as if even English had become a language he didn’t know. “We lost everything.”

  “Do you ever cry?” he brought out so low Sasha didn’t hear him.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you cry?” Stefan asked.

  Sasha shook his head. “I won’t.”

  Stefan considered this. “Then what do you do when you’re sad?” Sasha opened the lid and began to play. “I do this,” he said,
eyes closed, back very straight. What he played was as sad as Winter Eyes but worse because there were no words to it. Sometimes Stefan was just like this music—all hurt but unable to say anything. In the piece there was a melody that always sounded like it was going to finish but never did, struggled and faded like it wasn’t strong enough to be complete. The iron railing was cold against Stefan’s cheek as he clung to it. Sasha’s solemn playing kept making Stefan feel he would cry, but each time he went tight inside, the piano led him away. He wondered what Sasha meant by “the War,” if he had been a soldier. He heard different things about “the War”—on TV, on buses, even in the supermarket as he helped push the cart, but he didn’t know if it was all the same war they meant. He knew war was very bad, and that was why his parents didn’t want him to have gun toys. People got killed. It was hard for him to picture what war looked like; he wasn’t allowed to see it on TV even when it was just Indians. He sort of thought it was like a big accident, bigger than the worst accident possible, and there would be hospitals in it too.

  His father sometimes complained about his back and had to lie down with a heating pad and be very quiet. Stefan couldn’t remember, maybe that was the War too. Sasha finished playing just as the telephone rang. Sasha didn’t move, even though the phone was by the piano on a small table. Sasha met his glance with a grin; it seemed daring to Stefan not to answer the insistent cry, too daring. He half-rose and Sasha reached for the receiver.

  “Hello?” Sasha smiled into the receiver and went quickly on in a language that didn’t sound to Stefan like Russian or Polish or anything he’d ever heard. He didn’t like being alone with Sasha and not understanding what his uncle was saying. Stefan stood and wandered down the little hall. The door to the bedroom was not closed as usual and he stood there, gazing in. There wasn’t much to see but a bed and tall bureau, and curtains and a window that did not face the same way as the living room: towards Riverside Drive and the narrow park running along it, the Hudson River, and the Palisades. He was hardly ever in this room; and the sound of Sasha on the phone seemed to ease him through the doorway. The floor here was bare, too, and the dark clean-smelling room made him think of his mother even though there wasn’t anything much here, except in the corner on a round table. He moved across to the table on which there were grouped several small gold-framed photos. He saw his mother in one—very pretty and very sad, from long ago, and his father and Sasha; they were all so young they looked funny to him. Sasha’s hair was very black and there weren’t any lines on his mother and his father seemed happy even though he wasn’t smiling. Behind the three was one he’d never seen before; it was very heavy. There were four small people on a street corner, walking, his mother and father, Sasha and someone else, a woman. He knew it was Eva. She looked like his mother.