Winter Eyes

by Lev Raphael

  She looked like him.

  He crept to the door; Sasha was still on the phone. Stefan stole across to the bathroom and held the picture up by his face in the mirror. She looked like him, even though she wasn’t a boy and he was. Stefan felt excited as if he’d found a huge treasure all alone and wouldn’t have to share it with anyone. Reluctant, he returned the wonderful picture to the bedroom table and then slipped into the bathroom. He made a lot of noise there flushing and washing up. It was very strange to have this much of a secret from Sasha, but as he walked back to the steps and Sasha hung up, Stefan knew what he’d found was a secret from everyone.

  “I have wonderful news.” Sasha came to him, clamped his hands on his shoulders. “Would you like to go to Carnegie Hall tomorrow night?”

  “A concert? Really?”

  When his father came Stefan was still plaguing Sasha for details of what it would be like; the closest thing in Stefan’s head was the circus but he knew it was different.

  “How did you get the tickets?” his father was trying to move into the foyer—Stefan couldn’t tear himself away. It was going to be a recital! And he even knew some of the music—well, he’d heard it.

  His mother smiled when he burst into the kitchen with the news. All the next day Stefan wanted to tell everyone at school about the concert he was going to. And that he was even going to sleep away from home; hardly anyone’s mother let them sleep over. Stefan felt proud and full and excited; on the way home in the bus he didn’t mind not telling anyone. Sometimes kids laughed at things you said, even though you weren’t being funny, and a lot of times they just didn’t listen. Nobody bothered him because he kept quiet; the worst thing at school was to be made fun of. There was a boy in another second grade class who had bad teeth—they weren’t a nice color, he didn’t know why, it couldn’t be not brushing, wouldn’t the boy’s mother make him brush?—and lots of kids called him “Yellowteeth” when they were mad or chasing him or something. It made Stefan squirm to hear that; it wasn’t fair or polite to make fun of any kind of cripple, even if they bothered you.

  He didn’t think this kid bothered anyone. Stefan once found him crying in the first floor bathroom during recess and quickly backed out into the hall. Sometimes he thought he should talk to the boy, but he wasn’t sure.

  He almost could not eat dinner and his mother had to straighten out his clothes when he got dressed. He felt like a soldier in his suit and stiff shoes. His mother kept fixing his hair.

  Sasha talked to him all the way to Carnegie Hall on the bus. Stefan didn’t know how long a ride it was; he hardly heard anything, almost couldn’t breathe the excitement made him so tight. It wasn’t his tie, Sasha had fixed that. He’d never seen his uncle all dressed up before; the black suit made Sasha look more important than anyone, like a king. The street when they got off the bus was very crowded; Sasha took his hand and led him through the suits and fancy dresses. Everyone moved like they came to recitals all the time. Stefan saw gold flashes and jewelry and drowned in the perfume. He clutched Sasha’s big hand. He’d never gotten lost before—even in the biggest department store—but here, where everything was blinding and big and crowded he was sure he could. Inside it was too much to see when he looked up from their seats to all the balconies that went to the top. Sasha explained things to him, opening the program, but Stefan’s eyes swam. The noise was slow and shiny like ocean waves on TV. He stared everywhere, thrilled into silence, seeing a blue hat with funny feathers, a silver cane, a very white shirt, lots of different glasses, a fat lady in a tight and shiny dress, but there was too much for him to talk or even point. His neck got stiff and finally Stefan sank into the chair to peer at the stage and the long proud piano. They wouldn’t be able to see the keyboard from where they sat; that didn’t seem so bad, though—he was here, at a recital, in Carnegie Hall with Sasha.

  “Ahh.” Sasha nodded and a man in a suit with a long jacket in the back strode out. The applause was so loud Stefan didn’t know right away it was applause until he saw Sasha’s hands clapping different from the way he did. Stefan tried copying it, but people were stopping.

  He didn’t say a word all evening except when Sasha bought him an orange drink at the intermission and he sipped it standing at the wall, watching everyone. “Thank you,” he managed, the straw giving him a little trouble. Sasha grinned down at him. In the thick exciting crowd swarming for drinks Stefan felt strangely at home because there were languages he recognized. The beginning of the recital was nothing compared to the second half; from the opening notes of the Liszt Stefan sat bolt upright in his seat, transfixed by the sweep and power. There was one place that pounded and pounded like drums—it was so strong it brought Stefan near tears. He had never heard music so large and stirring; that was why it was a grand piano, the dark wood and dark music were together. He couldn’t applaud when it was over and people shouted, though not exactly like at a ball game, it wasn’t as wild. He grabbed Sasha’s arm.

  “Yes?”

  But he couldn’t get any words out.

  And then the pianist came back! Everyone sat down and there was more. Sasha explained the word “encore.” Stefan couldn’t take it all in; he was hot and very tired but also somehow more awake than ever.

  “The Bach was beautiful, no?” Sasha said as they headed up the long aisle, an arm on his shoulder to keep him from being swept off by the streams of people; all around him he could feel a happiness like his own. Stefan wondered if going to pray was like this.

  “I like The Wanderer Fantasy.” Stefan pronounced it carefully.

  “Yes? It was too—”

  Stefan frowned.

  “You’re right, it was gorgeous,” Sasha went on, and Stefan smiled.

  Outside, the street and the air seemed very new to Stefan; he could’ve stood in front until it was time to sleep, but Sasha led him to the corner.

  “Shall we have ice cream?”

  This was too much for Stefan—he wanted to yell. He nodded and Sasha hailed a cab. The yellow screech was like everything tonight: big and fast and more real than he was used to. In the cab he kept thinking of a line someone had said in a movie: “This is the happiest time of my life.” He wanted to say it and thank Sasha but the words got all tangled up and instead he mumbled “This is happy time.”

  Sasha didn’t seem to notice he’d said it wrong. “Yes, this is happy time.” Only when Sasha spoke, it didn’t sound as happy and Stefan wondered why.

  They had ice cream in a restaurant near Sasha’s building; well, he had a giant sundae and Sasha just had coffee. Lines of music kept going through Stefan’s head so he ate in time with them, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, waving his spoon a little. Sasha talked to him about what they’d heard, explaining things, but Stefan could only listen a bit with the music in his head and the ice cream and everything.

  “Did you ever teach Eva to play?” he suddenly asked.

  Sasha made a noise, looked at him very hard, started to speak.

  Stefan didn’t think Sasha would get mad at him; the evening was too much like a story with happy endings.

  “How did you know?” Sasha finally asked, smoothing his hair.

  “I didn’t.”

  Sasha shook his head, and then his eyes went funny the way Stefan’s mother’s did when she wasn’t really paying attention.

  “She was such a good pupil—like you. Your mother had lessons from a teacher, but Eva wanted me.…” Sasha laughed a little strangely.

  “How come I don’t have grandparents? Everyone at school has some.”

  Sasha shook himself like a dog getting up from a nap. “They died.”

  “Were they sick?”

  “No.”

  “Was it an accident?”

  “No, not an accident. You shouldn’t ask.” Sasha’s eyes were very big and sad. It was “the War” Stefan felt sure, he didn’t know why. He wanted Sasha to say it, to explain what was so bad, to tell him the truth. He began to feel tired and like sleeping.
r />   “We’ll go now,” Sasha said, beckoning over the waiter.

  Stefan was soon washing up in Sasha’s bathroom. He changed into his pajamas and slippers.

  Sasha had made up the couch for himself.

  “I never was in a big bed,” Stefan yawned.

  “Do you want a glass of milk?” Sasha was still dressed. What Stefan wanted was Scotty but he’d only brought clothes for tomorrow and his book bag. Sasha would take him to school.

  “Yuck,” Stefan muttered.

  “Yuck?” Sasha ruffled his hair.

  “School.”

  Sasha shrugged. “But tonight was nice?”

  Stefan lit up. “Yes.” He searched for words.

  “Why not sleep now, it’s late.”

  Stefan wanted to kiss Sasha good night but was too embarrassed. He went in and slipped under the covers. Sasha closed the door for him. Pulling one of the pillows into his arms, Stefan thought he heard Sasha at the piano. Maybe it was just the music in his head, though.

  Playing punchball wasn’t any fun for Stefan because he didn’t hit well; as soon as he got up at home everyone moved infield, sure he wouldn’t get further than first. He felt awkward. Nobody laughed at him, though, because he could catch so good. Stefan usually sat out games at recess when the weather was nice; no one called him a sissy or anything, which was what he most feared. He didn’t sit too far from the game for that reason.

  That morning a few days after the recital, there’d been a book fair and cake sale and with his dollar Stefan had bought a copy of The Three Musketeers with pictures—there was a sword fight on the front—and some cookies he’d already eaten. This was the first book he’d ever bought for himself and he held it and studied the way it was made before he even read the first page. He sat in the sun by himself near the wall while kids shouted and screamed, ran around, called each other bad names, jumped rope. It was like being in the kitchen when different things were cooking, first you’d smell one pot, then another and the smells would get all mixed up. Now he heard different voices and words blowing around him. He sat with his eyes closed sometimes, remembering the noise and shine of Carnegie Hall. The next day after the concert when Miss Zimmer was mean to a girl in class, Stefan thought, “Well, nobody took you to a recital,” but instead of laughing inside, he began to feel sorry for his teacher. What if she really wanted to go and didn’t have anyone to take her? This sudden change in what he thought of Miss Zimmer was very disturbing and he wished he could ask somebody about it. Maybe Miss Zimmer wasn’t very nice because she was lonely?

  “Tell me please,” he heard a girl saying. He looked up. Two older girls sat down the wall from him. Both had very shiny black shoes, pink dresses and white hair ribbons. Could they be sisters?

  “Tell me,” one begged.

  “You’re too little.”

  Stefan thought they looked the same age.

  “Tell me, what were they saying?”

  Someone hit a home run and all the jumping and yays covered what the girls said next.

  “Go Evan!” guys yelled and then Stefan heard: “Go, Yellowteeth!” The boy running bases stopped and walked away from the game back into school. “Evan! I’m sorry!”

  “He’s sorry!” There was lots of confusion; kids buzzed around the boy who had shouted the ugly word. Someone threatened to punch him but the two boys just stood and called each other things for a while and then stopped. Stefan felt very bad for Evan, and he was impressed; he could never have walked away from a game no matter what anyone said to him. Stefan looked down at his book—it was crumpled, he must’ve been holding it too tight.

  “—and they put them in camps,” one of the girls was saying.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Not summer camps, dummy!”

  “What kind?”

  “The other kind, where they hurt you.”

  “Why?”

  Stefan sat with his eyes closed; the game had broken up and there was less noise in the yard. He’d never heard of any camp but the summer kind.

  “Because Germans are nasty.”

  Stefan felt confused. Camps? Germans? Wasn’t Schubert and Winter Eyes German? But his father hated Germans, and Stefan suddenly remembered that Sasha had promised to play Winter Eyes for him, but hadn’t. Because of camps? What kind of camp did they hurt you in?

  The two girls began skipping rope. “A my name is Annie…” but one stopped.

  “Will they put us in camps?” she asked, her voice shaky.

  The other girl went on skipping and spoke in time as she jumped:

  “No—cause—we’re—not—Jews.”

  The bell rang and Stefan headed to line up with everyone else to go inside. He was wondering about camps and had trouble working on his art project that afternoon—the trees he’d cut out looked stupid to him and he kept using too much glue to put the leaves on; his hands stuck to the desk and each other. Why couldn’t he just go outside and look at the real ones?

  On the bus the person next to him usually talked to someone across the aisle, or in front, in back, so Stefan could look out the window at all the different stores and buildings without being bothered. There was always so much noise after school that not talking was like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold night. Today, Evan sat next to him for the first time; Stefan thought someone usually got Evan by car.

  “That was a good hit,” Stefan said. What he wanted to say was how he liked it when Evan left the game, that it was brave, but Stefan didn’t know how to start.

  “Thanks,” Evan said, and Stefan turned to the window.

  “How come you almost never play?”

  Stefan shrugged.

  “It’s easy.”

  Stefan was embarrassed because he had never been this close to Evan’s teeth and he wanted to know why they were that yellow-white color. It was hard not to stare; at least blind people couldn’t tell when you looked at them.

  “Hey Stefan,” someone a few seats back called. “What color are your teeth now?”

  Evan stared straight ahead, biting his lip.

  Stefan felt terrible. “George is stupid,” he tried.

  Evan didn’t say anything, not even when he got off in a few stops.

  The bus stop was only one block from their building, so he had been able to convince his parents he could come home alone now. Stefan wasn’t really alone, though: a few other kids always came the same way. Sometimes he talked and sometimes not. Mostly now Stefan had enough music in his head for when he didn’t have to think about something or listen. This was what he called his “secret singing” that was just there without trying—but as he swung his book bag, waiting for the light, Stefan heard those two girls talking about camps and Germans, and also Evan being called Yellowteeth. It was all mixed together somehow. When the light changed Stefan not only looked both ways but also behind him.

  He liked being in the lobby of his building alone; once he was past the buzz-door it was like a castle to him—big and dark and gold. There were two giant old mirrors and deep window sills, a long table big enough for King Arthur and his knights, and alone, Stefan could imagine he had just crossed the moat and that there were towers above him.

  Waiting for the elevator he wondered what kind of music they listened to in castles.

  “There’s this kid at school Evan who has funny teeth,” he said at the kitchen table while his mother heated the milk for his cocoa. He bit a cookie and tapped the remaining piece the way his father did, like it was a cigarette.

  “Funny?”

  “They’re like yellow. And white too.” Stefan squirmed. “How come?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe his parents have it too. Or one of them.”

  “Like mumps?”

  “No, you catch mumps, but some diseases you’re born with. Those are genetic.”

  Stefan gazed down at the cloudy cocoa. His mother brought out things for dinner from the fridge but he didn’t ask what they were having. He didn’t know you could
be born sick from your parents: he thought you were only sick from the air, from germs.

  “Kids call him Yellowteeth.”

  His mother turned. “You don’t.”

  “No, that’s mean. But how come they do it if it’s mean?”

  “People don’t always think.” She was running something under water.

  Stefan sipped his drink and started another cookie. “Do they do it on purpose?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Stefan was trying to see if he ever did mean things on purpose, said bad names to anyone. He wanted to sometimes, but it made him scared to feel that mean.

  “Like Germans?”

  “What?” Something fell into the sink. “What?” She turned and he watched the water drip off her hand onto her dress and shoes. “What are you asking?”

  Her eyes were scary and Stefan wanted to leave.

  “I just heard something about camps,” he said.

  “Where?” His mother almost whimpered. “Who said this to you?”

  “A girl in the yard after the book fair.” He’d forgotten to tell her about his book.

  “What did she say?”

  “That people went to the other kind of camp, where they hurt you.” Then he remembered. “Jews. What’s Jews?”

  His mother smoothed her hair back, looked around the room. “Go play, Stefan.”

  “Mommy, I’m sor—” He got up and tried to hug her.

  “Please.” She backed away from him.