“Well, Joshua. It’s February 15th. I know that. I don’t think you have a historical event in mind. Right?” He wagged his index finger at Josh. “You aren’t thinking of the explosion that destroyed the USS Maine in Havana Harbor? That happened today 104 years ago. Did you know that.” Josh shook his head. “So it must be something personal.”
“Today’s the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. My mother lit a candle this morning. She’s angry at my grandmother always reminding her about it. My mother says…”
“Joshua. That’s enough,” Eleanor interrupted.
“Mrs. Farber. Excuse me if I don’t get up. My knees don’t work so well anymore. My condolences on the anniversary of your father’s death. May his memory be a blessing. Always.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lowenstein. Come on Josh. We have to go get Aunt Helen.”
“Do you want to sit with us?” Josh asked.
“That’s nice of you to invite me, Joshua. I’m going to sit with the other residents. I almost said ‘old farts’ but that would have upset your mother,” he said winking at both of them. Josh grinned, pleased to be part of a conversation where an adult used a bad word. “I’ll see you in there. And Joshua. Remembering all of these historical facts aren’t as important as remembering your grandfather.”
“My grandpa died when I was very young,” Josh replied. “I don’t remember him at all.”
“That’s why you must talk to your mother and grandmother about him. Find out what kind of man he was. That is really something worthwhile learning. And think about him from time to time. Not just on the day when he died. Now go get your aunt. She must be waiting for you.”
Eleanor looked down at Mr. Lowenstein and smiled. “That’s a very nice thought, Mr. Lowenstein. Thank you. I’m trying to teach our children to celebrate the lives of their grandparents, the times they went through and what they accomplished. I appreciate your taking an interest in my son.”
“He’s a pleasure to talk to. Pretty soon, he’ll be doing crossword puzzles in his head, like me.” He reached up and patted Josh on the shoulder. “It’s getting late. You don’t want your aunt to miss the concert.”
Mitch found an illegal spot in front of the dumpster at the end of lot. They weren’t going to collect garbage today. At least, he hoped, not while the concert was on. Despite the cold, he left his overcoat in the car and walked briskly to the lobby. As he moved through the crowd in the lobby, toward the makeshift auditorium, he was aware of the swirling blended odors of women’s perfumes, overwhelming the scent of their male escorts’ aftershave lotions. Together, the elegant combination masked the Home’s usual smells of antiseptics and old age.
The cafeteria had been converted into a large hall. The maintenance staff had folded the metal legs of the round tables and rolled them off to the side, where they rested like giant wagon wheels against the wall. Men in blue coveralls were still setting up metal chairs, auditorium style in rows divided into three sections, facing a raised wooden platform which was the stage. Some of the nursing assistants were standing at the back, with the wheel chair bound residents. He scanned the middle rows, recognizing some familiar faces from his aunt’s floor. Mrs. Greenfield and Mrs. Cohen and the Asian woman, who didn’t speak English. He didn’t see Eleanor and the children. He turned toward the stage and found his family in the front row, seated in the first five seats in the center section. Aunt Helen was in her wheel chair on the aisle, the folding chair having been removed to make room for her. Mrs. Fessler was sitting next to a middle-aged couple, Amy and Josh next to her. Eleanor had left the seat next to Aunt Helen for him. He kissed his aunt on the top of her head, slid in next to Ell and mouthed the words silently, “The front row?”
Eleanor leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Look over my left shoulder. Mother charmed the man sitting two seats down. He’s the President of the Nursing Home’s Board. Mr. Emmanuel Shapiro. His wife, I didn’t catch her name, the woman in the yellow suit sitting between him and my mother, was not pleased. They were saving the seats for someone, but you know my mother.”
Mitch glanced over and saw Mrs. Fessler showering attention on Mr. Shapiro, as Mrs. Shapiro sat stoically between them, intently staring at a piano and several music stands, arrayed on the stage around a floor microphone. “Yes, I do,” he said. And then added, “All too well.” Eleanor responded by pinching his arm, just enough to hurt and remind him to behave himself.
“So,” he turned to Aunt Helen, “this should be a great concert.”
“Where’s Senator Ribicoff? He usually comes to events like this.”
“Senator Ribicoff?”
“You know. My Senator. He’s such a distinguished looking man with silver grey hair and dark framed glasses. He always asks me for my vote. And I always vote for him.”
She twisted around in her wheelchair as best she could. “I don’t see him. It’s not like him to be late,” she said worried.
“I’ll look,” Mitch said, standing up and surveying the audience. The room was full. He guessed at least 400 people, not counting the ones standing in front of the local tv station cameras. He noticed Molly and a man he assumed was her husband, seated next to Rabbi Pilzman and his wife, together with other Nursing Home administrative staff in the second row, one aisle over. Molly waved to him and he waved back. The first row of her section was filled with people he had never seen before, men in suits and ties and no nonsense looking women. Must be either from the Board of Directors of the Home or the Ellington School, he thought.
“I don’t see the Senator,” he said, sitting down again and taking Aunt Helen’s hand. “Maybe he had another commitment.” He should just tell her he was dead. He recalled reading Ribicoff’s obituary about four or five years ago. By then, he hadn’t been Senator from Connecticut for almost twenty years. What prompted her to remember him now? If he told her the Senator was dead, it might set her off. Better to lie and keep her happy, he decided. “Sometimes, politicians hop from one event to another. He’ll probably be here later. Maybe by the time they serve refreshments. Look, they’re starting,” he said to distract her.
The Administrator of the Home stood behind the microphone and thanked everyone for coming. As if the residents had a choice, Mitch thought sarcastically. He introduced the members of the Home’s Board of Directors. Each one was asked to stand and they were greeted with polite applause. When it was Mr. Shapiro’s turn, he walked to the front and removed a few pages from his suit jacket. He too thanked everyone for attending. He promised to be brief. Conscious that the tv cameras were focused on him, he launched into his speech about race relations, tolerance and how this afternoon’s concert was an extension of the alliance of Jews and African Americans which had begun with the civil rights movement. He finished to applause which seemed to come more enthusiastically from the Nursing Home group than from the Ellington School attendees. Mrs. Fessler made a point of leaning across Mrs. Shapiro and shaking Mr. Shapiro’s hand. Mitch cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. Eleanor shot him a disapproving look.
The Administrator introduced the Head of the Duke Ellington School who honestly stated, although he knew everyone wanted to hear the School’s talented young musicians, he felt it was important to introduce the School to an audience generally unfamiliar with it. Talking quickly, he rattled off a string of statistics about the School’s impressive graduation rate, 98% of all seniors as compared to 56% for all DC Public Schools. Mitch, concerned about keeping Aunt Helen quiet, only heard the graduation rate and got lost with the rest of the numbers about budgetary shortfall and the plea for monetary donations to supplement the School’s budget to give these kids a chance. This was followed by the predictable statement that this afternoon’s program would not have been possible but for the unstinting devotion and commitment of the School’s dedicated staff. As he was introducing the various Deans, Directors and teachers in attendance, Aunt Helen leaned over and whispered, “Is he here yet?”
“Not yet, Aunt Helen. W
ait,” he said, trying to hush her. “They’re going to get to the music soon.”
“You know they don’t like Ribicoff because he’s Jewish. I haven’t seen him lately. I hope nothing has happened to him.” Her loud whispering drew several disapproving glances from those around them.
Mitch patted his aunt’s hand. “He’ll come, Aunt Helen.” He showed her the one page program, hoping to keep her quiet. She turned her head sideways so her good eye, the right one from which the cataract had been removed, was closer to the yellow sheet.
“It’s a good selection,” he said quietly. “A little jazz- Oscar Petersen and Itzhak Perlman and then a medley from Fiddler on the Roof.”
“We’re going to hear Itzhak Perlman play?” Aunt Helen said too loudly.
“Shh. No. A few pieces he and Oscar Petersen played together. Stormy Weather and something from Porgy and Bess.”
“I like Gershwin,” Aunt Helen said smiling. “I hope Senator Ribicoff gets here for him. He likes Gershwin too,” she said with conviction.
Mitch sighed with relief as the Head introduced the Director of the Jazz Orchestra who, in turn, introduced the student musicians from Ellington. The pianist was a rail thin kid, whose foot was already tapping to an imaginary beat. Or maybe from nervousness, Mitch guessed. The bass player, seemed to him, to be uncharacteristically short and looked like he would be unable to stretch far enough to reach the top and bottom of his instrument. For Mitch, the drummer was true to his stereotype, an ansty, active, nervous, constantly moving kid, who theatrically was testing the drums’ tension. In contrast, the violinist was serious and serene. He stood poised, dressed in sharply creased black pants and a wide collared long sleeve white shirt, with his violin and bow in hand. He waited patiently, behind his music stand to begin. Mitch looked at the program and put the names to the faces. The male and female vocalists stood off to the side, waiting for their time to perform. Except for the bass player, whose name indicated he was Hispanic, all the other students were African American. Not surprising for a public school in the District of Columbia, Mitch thought.
The lanky kid on the piano began an introductory slow, melodic riff for Stormy Weather and the serious one, calmly tucked the violin under his chin and began a mournful, lilting blues like solo, with the bass following along for the underlying beat. The drummer joined in with a soft brushing of the snare drums and quiet tapping of the cymbals. All Mitch could think of was the off color spoof of Stormy Weather he had learned in Hebrew school about the Rabbi who, with a heavy hand, performed a circumcision. The lyrics came back to him:
Tell me why,
There’s no meat behind my fly,
Sloppy Rabbi
He glanced around to see if any of the other Jewish men in the room, approximately his age, had the same recollection. He couldn’t tell whether Mr. Shapiro was smiling because he liked the performance or the raunchy lyrics were also flitting around inside his head.
The pianist picked up the pace and he and the drummer played off each other, improvising until they slowed down and the violinist rejoined them in a bluesy tuneful ending. The audience applauded enthusiastically.
Mitch looked at his aunt whose eyes were fixed on the violinist.
“Like it?” he asked her.
“I don’t know the piece, but he has beautiful tone,” she said, pointing with a long bony finger at the serious boy.
The next selection was “I Loves You Porgy.” The violin took the lead in the Gershwin, and the young man played it plaintively and longingly. Aunt Helen strained forward, watching the violinist’s fingers on the frets, his bow hovering on the strings, making them sing of a woman’s love. The piano was barely a whispered accompaniment. The audience waited as the violin’s drawn out ending notes, seemingly impossibly soft, disappeared into the air of the hall, and then erupted with cheers of appreciation. Aunt Helen sat there quietly. She didn’t clap. Mitch took her hand in his. Her facial expression was one of contentment and calmness. She turned and looked at him, but it seemed to Mitch that her mind was elsewhere.
Following a few more jazz pieces, the two vocalists stepped up to the microphone and waited while the violinist played the familiar introductory theme to “Fiddler on the Roof.” The pianist nodded and the two singers opened with a moving version of “Sabbath Prayer,” followed by “Sunrise, Sunset.” Mitch thought the male singer’s baritone, while deep, didn’t have the richness and color of the young woman’s voice. They sang one more duet, “Do You Love Me?” and then the performance concluded with “Anatevka,” and the final plaintive notes of the fiddler from the fictitious Russian shtetl.
The audience burst into cheers, whistles and applause as the young performers, holding hands, bowed and smiled for the cameras. Mitch thought that whoever had planned the program knew to close with the numbers most likely to please this crowd. The members of the Board of the Nursing Home shook hands with the staff from the Ellington School, posing together for the tv cameras and still photos. Mitch sensed a general movement toward the left of the hall where refreshments were being served. He stood up, released the two hand brakes on Aunt Helen’s chair, preparing to wheel her to the food tables, and moved closer to talk to Ell and his mother-in-law.
The violin was lying on the chair in front of her. The bow rested on the music stand. She stared at it, already feeling the familiar smooth burnished wood tucked under her chin, her fingers pressing hard on the strings, the bow held firmly in her other hand. She put her hands on the hard dirty rubber and pushed the wheels forward. She slid forward in the seat so her feet stopped her motion just as she reached for the violin. Gently she picked it up and in one practiced motion, pulled a tissue from her belt and rested her chin on the violin. With the bow in her other hand she quietly began to play.
She saw herself in Vittorio’s small apartment, nodding at her to begin the minuet from Mozart’s Serenata Notturna. But where was the music. There was nothing on the stand. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need the music. She knew it by heart. She closed her eyes and began to play. In her mind’s ear she heard her notes strong and firm, the high notes exquisitely soft and delicate, the lower ones dancing lightly, almost flirtatiously. Vittorio joined in, answering her playing, coming down the scale, their timing perfect, the pauses exact, the minuet swirling around them. She played on until the end and paused. They usually went on to the second movement of Mozart’s lesser known Second Night Music for Countess Lodron. She waited for Vittorio to retune his instrument and then started at his nod. She remembered the beginning well enough. They had played it often together. But now she was lost. It was so unlike her to forget. Vittorio would be surprised. He would point out, with his bow, the place in the music and she would begin over. She opened her eyes and saw his delicate long fingers reaching for the violin. She beamed up at Vittorio, waiting for him to brush back her hair which had fallen down on her forehead, a caress of her cheek with the back of his hand, his brilliant smile, followed by his laughter at her mistake. As her eyes focused, she saw the face of a young black boy reaching out for her violin.
“You’re not Vittorio,” Helen screamed. “What have you done with him.” She clutched the violin and bow firmly to her chest. “No. No. You can’t have it. It’s mine. Mine and Vittorio’s.”
Over the general sound of many people talking to each other, Mitch had been vaguely aware of a low, unpleasant screeching noise, like finger nails on a blackboard trying to scratch out a tune. He had turned to find the source, just as Eleanor, looking over his shoulder toward the stage had put her hands to her face in horror. He saw Aunt Helen, with a rapturous expression on her face, holding the violin, making discordant sounds as she pantomimed the motions of a violin player. Several other people still in the front, including the tv news crews and Mr. Shapiro had also noticed and were staring at his aunt.
Mitch got to the aisle just as Amina rushed past and interceded between the young violin player and Aunt Helen. Amina bent down, hugging his aunt and gently stroking
her hair and cheeks.
“Helen, it is me. Amina. I am here with you. It is going to be alright.” she said softly.
“No, it won’t,” Aunt Helen shouted. “They have taken Vittorio. It’s my violin. It’s mine.”
“Shh. Shh. Hinda Malka. Shh. Be quiet. I am holding you,” Amina said, continuing to rock her in her arms. “You can talk to your Mother and Lillian tonight and tell them how you made beautiful music. Give me the violin, Hinda Malka. It doesn’t belong to you,” she said softly. Mitch watched his aunt slowly, reluctantly, release her grip and let Amina take the violin and bow from her hands. Amina quickly passed them behind her back to the Duke Ellington student. Mitch came up as Aunt Helen sagged back into her chair, deflated, looking very thin and tired.
“Let me take her to the refreshment table, Mr. Farber. She needs some time to come back from where she was.”
“Thanks, Amina. We’ll be over shortly,” Mitch said relieved.
Mitch felt a hand on his elbow. “Disaster barely averted,” Molly said, glancing at the tv crews and the few reporters who, drawn by Aunt Helen’s shouting, had converged on the stage. Amina wheeled Aunt Helen down the aisle and Mitch and Molly walked down the row where Eleanor and her mother were talking to Mr. and Mrs. Shapiro.
“Why does that nurse cover her head,” Mrs. Shapiro asked, to no one in particular.
“For the same reason that Hassidic Jewish women do,” Molly answered. “Out of modesty.”
Mrs. Shapiro misunderstood. “Oh, she’s Ethiopian Jewish. One of those Falashas,” she said, using the derogatory name for the Ethiopians who claimed to be descendants of one of the lost tribes of Israel. “Manny, you didn’t tell me that the Home employs Ethiopian refugees.”
Mitch quickly looked at Ell. Their eyes met and immediately confirmed a mutual understanding not to say anything.
“No,” Molly said, smiling sweetly at Mrs. Shapiro. “Amina is Moslem. The Home actually employs three Moslem women, two CNAs and one Licensed Practical Nurse.”
The Orange Tree Page 21