Moshe Page 3

of an hour deliberating between Taiwanese toffee, Liu's Licorice and Dragon Gumballs.

  When he'd finally made a decision, Moshe carried his purchase to the counter. Seeing him approach, Mrs. Wing looked at him and smiled.

  "Mooshee (this was how she pronounced his name), long time, no see. How you been?"

  "Very well, thank you, Missus Wing."

  "You only get the gumball today? Here, take some licorice too. No pay for the licorice. You a good boy."

  The boy's eyes lit up as he graciously accepted a package of Liu's Licorice.

  "You come again soon, eh?" she said, taking the one dollar bill Moshe held out and giving him two quarters for change. "We miss you."

  Moshe nodded and returned her smile. "I only get my allowance once a month. And sometimes I spend it at the pictures."

  Mrs. Wing smiled knowingly. "You boys. Always going to the pictures. Our son do the same. But you shouldn't watch too much. You know, it make you blind one day."

  Moshe's face took on a concerned expression as he wondered whether what Mrs. Wing had just told him might actually be true. But there was no chance to ask as a young woman with a baby strapped to her chest, and clearly in a hurry, rushed up behind him and placed a quart of milk on the counter.

  "Bye, bye Moshe, see you next time," said Mrs. Wing, giving the young mother a reproving glance.

  "See you next time, Missus Wing."

  Further along Somerset were a variety of shops and eating establishments. There was Arnold's Music, June's Pottery, Mrs. Abigail's Odds and Ends Shoppe. Of particular interest to Moshe was Lenny's Gym. The place had opened less than a year ago and Moshe liked to kneel on the bench at the window and watch the boxers inside. Skipping, hitting bags, performing push-ups. There was always someone doing something. Today the boxers were numerous and Moshe's eyes moved towards a coloured man who was busy pounding away at a speedbag. There was a comfortable rhythm to his movements and the boy marveled at the boxer's ability.

  A short distance from this man, two adolescents were engaged in a spirited sparring session and Moshe watched, mesmerized, as the two young boxers danced, jabbed, and blocked.

  The thought of joining Lenny's Gym and learning to box had crossed his mind before, but he wondered how he'd pay for his membership - and if he had to pay for lessons on top of that? His allowance certainly wouldn't be enough to cover those kinds of fees.

  Somewhat disappointed, Moshe watched the boxers for several more minutes before turning and slowly making his way to Hong's Drycleaning.

  - 3 -

  Summer dragged on. Slow and scorching. Entire days would pass with Moshe sitting on the balcony, watching the cars and people below. Other days, when it was too hot, the boy simply sat inside, the curtains drawn and the fan whirring steadily.

  Marthe Silverstein would watch him while doing the dishes or the ironing, questioning why her son appeared so unhappy and wondering what she could do about it.

  One afternoon, while having tea at Mrs. Braunfman's downstairs, an idea came to her: violin lessons.

  Hepzibah Braunfman had a brother in London who was an accomplished violinist. Normally Marthe had no patience for the woman's bragging about such and such a relative who owned a store in New York or a mining company in Brazil, but today she was all ears. For Hepzibah's brother Baruch had recently been accepted into the London Symphony Orchestra and was quickly making a name for himself across England.

  "And even zo Baruch still vases the anti-Semitism," she explained in her heavily accented English, "he gets on very well. Makes a lot of money," she added, rubbing her fingers together.

  "When did he start playing the violin?" asked Marthe, the wheels turning in her head. "Does it take many years to learn?"

  "Oh," Hepzibah said, sighing and taking a sip of her tea, "father got him a viola when he vas seven or eight. Then he began to receive zee lessons from a neighbour...vat vas his name...Herr Schweizer! Herr Schweizer," she giggled, clearly recalling a memory, "he vas a very funny man. He used to vear zees trousers zat ver up to his chin practically. Oh, Herr Schweizer, he vas so funny. But, yes,” the plump woman summarized, wiping a tear from her eye, “he used to teach my brother zee viola."

  "And how about the violin?” Marthe asked, growing impatient. “When did Baruch begin to play the violin?"

  Hepzibah looked at the ceiling as she thought about it. "I believe he was about nine…maybe ten years old…yes, ten I zink…when he began to play the violin. At this time he vas playing vith zee school orchestra."

  Moshe's only eleven. Perhaps it isn't too late.

  "Any idea how much it costs to buy a violin?"

  Hepzibah Braunfman giggled and threw her hands in the air. "God, I have no idea, Marthe. Vat does a woman like me know of such things?"

  Marthe Silverstein smiled politely and drained the rest of her mug.

  "More tea?"

  "Yes, I think it's an excellent idea, meine liebe. Moshe will play the violin."

  Friedrich Silverstein pushed himself away from the table and leaned back in his chair, a toothpick dangling from his mouth.

  "Moshe Silverstein, professional violinist."

  Moshe looked at his father. The man's face was all aglow, his eyes warm and lively. It had been awhile since he'd seen him so happy.

  "Ah, my boy," he said, returning his chair to an upright position and reaching forwards so that he could tousle his son's hair. "You know our people make incredible musicians. The best in the world!" he added, slapping a palm on the table. "You watch and see! My Moshe will be the next Jeno Hubay!"

  Two weeks later, as July drew to a close and the new school year beckoned, Moshe found himself seated in a springy vinyl chair beside his new violin teacher. Mr. Lebowski, a tall and lanky Pole who could only hear with his left ear, was a former member of the St. Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra and had been playing the violin for nearly fifty years. When the First World War broke out, he, along with his mother and sister, had fled to Canada. Now in his seventy-fifth year, Mr. Lebowski was alone in the world, his only important possessions being an old Durro violin and his oversized, lethargic cat, Alojzy.

  "And see? Now you use tremolo."

  Moshe nodded, not understanding, but not feeling brave enough to ask what exactly Mr. Lebowski wanted him to do.

  The elderly man handed Moshe the violin. "Now you try again."

  The boy grimaced and took the violin, tucking the chin rest under his chin and gripping the neck. Slowly, and without an ounce of confidence, Moshe touched the bow to the first string and began to play.

  "No, no, no! Here, let me have it! Watch again!"

  It went like this, back and forth, for an hour, Moshe glancing at the clock on the wall nearly every minute, wondering how long he'd have to endure this torture. Finally, when it seemed to Moshe as though the lesson would never end and that he would be stuck listening to Mr. Lebowski rile on about how he would “never cut it as a violinist”, the old Pole announced that the lesson was finished for the day. At this, Moshe paid him the two dollars his father had given him and left without a glance back, praying tomorrow's lesson would be better.

  Every night after a lesson, Moshe's father would ask him what he'd learned and Moshe would tell him. The boy could see the pride on his parents' faces as he explained, in as much detail as possible, what Mr. Lebowski had taught him. Once in awhile he would demonstrate on the "dummy violin" (a block of wood Friedrich Silverstein had fashioned into the shape of a violin, the end of a broom handle serving as bow) and they would watch him "play", looks of awe etched on their faces.

  "Some day you'll have a real violin, bärchen," Friedrich would say once Moshe had finished his demonstration. "And in ten years (the number of years changed each week), when you're rich and famous, you can take care of your mamma and papa. Hey, my boy?"

  "Yes, father."

  - 4 -

  The last few weeks of summer passed quickly and before long Moshe was following his mother up the front steps of Fourth Aven
ue Middle School to register for the new school year.

  "And I want you to just ignore the troublemakers this year. Okay, bärchen? Just ignore them."

  "Yes, mamma," though he felt he’d done his best to ignore Peter Carlson and his gang - to no avail.

  "This is a new beginning for you," she continued as they stepped aside for a herd of stampeding first-graders. "I know you'll fit in here."

  "Ew, smell Mushy's sandwich! Stinky, Jew bologna!"

  James Cooy, with his pudgy chin and thick arms, stood just a few feet from Moshe's desk.

  "It's beef salami," Moshe answered quietly, his voice catching in the back of his throat.

  "Stinky Jew boy's going to stink up the whole classroom!" he exclaimed to laughter.

  Fighting back tears, Moshe hurriedly wrapped up the remainder of his sandwich and stuffed it into his bag.

  "What's the matter?" the heavy-set boy demanded. "Jew boy not hungry anymore? Ate too much shit for breakfast?"

  There were several titters from the other students seated in the room and Moshe buried his face in the hollow of his desk, pretending to search for something.

  "Come on, Jew boy. I just wanna be your friend."

  "Leave him alone, Cooy," came a voice from somewhere behind them.

  "What was that Dinardo? Retardo. Is Mushy your boyfriend or somethin'?"

  Moshe wanted so badly to look up and see which of his classmates was Dinardo, but there were tears in his eyes and having the class see you blubbering on your first day was instant suicide.

  "Nah. He ain't my