  They walked on, Judy matching with ease Karl’s long stride. One block, then another. She gave him a quick sidelong glance. He was much taller than she was. His appearance was all that she could have wished. His eyes—well, she had noticed them from the first, blue and dreamy. Even his chin came in for some scrutiny. Her grandmother had often summed up a person. He’s got a weak chin, vacillating, will never amount to anything—or he’s got a strong chin, shows character. Karl’s, she thankfully noted, was of the strong variety. So absorbed was she in her appraisal of Karl that she was scarcely aware of the silence between them. When he began to whistle, a sad, plaintive melody, she realized at once that she must say something. Silence could be devastating! How often she and her friends discussed this very problem! What to say to a boy you hardly know, especially when dancing, when it takes all your ingenuity to keep your mind on those intricate steps, or when walking, as at the present moment. She must say something—anything, if only something brilliant or clever came to mind. “Er—Does your uncle live around here?” she asked brightly. “No,” Karl said, leaving off his whistling. “If we were walking in the opposite direction, I could have shown you his place on Main Street. He has an apartment over his business. Maybe you’ve seen it? It’s called the Swiss Shop.” “Yes, I think I have, if it’s the one with the window full of carved peasant figures, gnomes and cuckoo clocks!” “Yes, that’s it!” Karl interrupted. “I arranged that window display myself,” he added with a touch of pride. “Really?” Judy tactfully refrained from saying how ugly she had thought it. “I’ve passed it many times. Does the name Swiss Shop mean that your uncle imports these things from Switzerland?” “Yes, and lots of other articles besides; jewelry and scarves, sweaters for skiers and mountain climbers. Of course, cuckoo clocks are his real hobby.” “I can’t imagine who would want to buy a cuckoo clock,” Judy ventured to say. “No, neither could I, at first, but they do. Tourists, lots of them, especially from Texas—they’re our best customers. Personally, I think they’re a nuisance, a mechanical bird popping at you every hour. It can be quite annoying when you practice.” The jinx of silence was broken for the moment. Judy knew she had to keep the talk flowing. The subject of clocks could be pursued. “The kind of clocks I like best,” she said, “are the antique ones from our American Colonial days. My grandmother collects them. She has one on every mantel, over every fireplace in her house! They’re really beautiful, usually of mahogany, with delicate pointed spires, like a church steeple. Of course, none of them work. When you really wish to know the time, you have to dash into the kitchen to look at the electric clock fastened to the wall.” “Well, what’s the good of them—just ornaments?” “Grandma says they can be made to work if she ever got around to finding a really dependable clockmaker,” Judy finished, rather crestfallen. The subject of clocks was definitely exhausted. It was while they stood at a crossing, waiting for some cars to pass, that Karl, as if struck by some original idea, said, “How do you like Aspen?” Judy frowned, summoned up all her dramatic fervor, and in deep, reproachful tones declaimed, “Et tu, Brute!” Karl turned to her, a puzzled smile on his face, then he laughed outright. “Why do you spout ‘Julius Caesar’? What do you mean?” “Because that’s all anyone has asked me ever since I came to Aspen! Nor do they ever bother to listen to an answer.” “So, I’m in their class!” Karl gave her a quick look. “You’re a queer duck!” His pleasant and forthright manner, above all his acceptance of her as a companion, put her at ease. The ice was broken. They reached the Chairlift, found a bench, and ate their sandwiches. Judy shared her malted milk and consumed most of Karl’s chocolate bar. The empty chairs of the lift went monotonously skyward, unnoticed by the girl and boy. Judy, now uninhibited by any barrier of self-consciousness, pursued her usual method of satisfying what she termed her inquiring mind. She asked questions and Karl spoke freely. She learned he would be eighteen in October and would enter his last year at Music and Art High School in New York. That he had private instruction in violin and in theory and practiced three hours a day, week ends longer. “What will you do after graduation?” the young inquisitor went on. “I don’t know—I can’t say. College, perhaps? It’s a hope, but a dim one. If I’m to pursue music as a career—things are a bit mixed up just at present.” He paused, as if weighing the matter. “You see,” he said in a serious voice, “I owe it to my father to become a fine musician, if possible a great one. That’s my mother’s dream. It’s mine also.” Judy shook her head. It all sounded very dull and depressing. “Then all your life is just school, music lessons, and practicing. You never have any time for any fun—for sports, for nothing except work!” “No, perhaps not,” Karl said cheerfully. “But it all depends on what you want to do—to accomplish.” He went on. “But I don’t lack for exercise, if that’s what you mean. I have a bicycle and a newspaper route. I get plenty of fresh air. I even have a pupil. Maybe I’ll get another,” he said hopefully. “The money will be very useful.” “Money!” For the first time Judy was critical of her new, much-prized friend. Idealists didn’t worry about money. “Is that all that matters? Money?” “Yes, money is important,” Karl said emphatically. “My mother works at a music shop. She spends two hours and more each day traveling on the subway. When she gets home at night, tired as she is, there’s dinner to prepare, things to do in the house, people to see—a few friends. Concerts, of course. Someone I should hear—always my interests guide her. So it’s up to me to do well in my studies, in my music, and earn a little money to justify her sacrifice. She doesn’t call it sacrifice. She loves what she’s doing and is buoyed up by her ambition, her certainty of my success.” Karl had spoken with considerable heat, but now he added quietly, “So you see how important are the few dollars I earn, to pay part of the cost of my lessons.” “You didn’t understand me, Karl,” Judy said humbly. “Money is important to us too. But what I meant is that there are other things that don’t cost anything and are important too.” She spoke diffidently, trying to formulate thoughts she had never seriously considered but accepted as the air she breathed. “There are books—and friends—and art.” Still struggling to express herself, she raised an arm to the mountains. “And nature!” Karl nodded his head in agreement. “Of course, I like all those things. Who wouldn’t? I love to read, although the only time I have is usually late at night when I should be asleep. As for friends, I would be untruthful if I didn’t admit I miss having close friends, even one. At first, even though I could speak a little English, I was considered a foreigner.” At Judy’s exclamation, “That’s so narrow-minded!” Karl calmly said, “That all passed in a year or two. I’m friendly with boys in my class and I know a few of the girls. But they’re just as busy as I am, in different ways, perhaps. There are some in the class, of course, who don’t take their future careers seriously and they look down upon those of us who do. They manage to have a good time, sports, girls, movies, everything!” He shrugged his shoulders. “I have to go my own way. Someone has said that to be lonely makes one strong. I’m not so sure. One misses an awful lot.” For once Judy was at a loss for words. She was touched by Karl’s simple, unaffected words. To think that she had complained of being lonely! Her mother and father led busy lives, but she knew she was never far from their thoughts. They filled the house with gayety. Yes, they worked, her mother and father. “What about your father, Karl? Doesn’t he....” “I thought you understood,” Karl interrupted her sharply. “He’s been dead for eight years. He died four months after he was liberated from a concentration camp.” “Oh!” was all Judy could say. The floodgates of memory were loosened. “He was a great violinist.” The boy’s face was transfigured by a passionate devotion. “He had made a great name for himself. My mother told me of his triumphs. And he could have escaped in time as he advised others to do, but he refused to leave until he succeeded in getting my mother and me out of Austria. Then it was too late. He was picked up with others and sent to the Polish border—” “But you say he was freed, taken from that—that camp—” “Yes, for three, perhaps it was four wonderful months we were together. But he was a shadow, thin, emaciated, sick. But his spirit was exalted. Something I couldn’t understand, being the child I was. But I felt his excitement, that poured itself out in his love for me. I could feel his eyes bore into me as he talked. His faith was something unbelievable. In spite of all he had gone through, he believed in the goodness of people, the mercy of God. While he was in there, in daily expectation of—you know—he wrote a piece of music—for himself and for the others waiting to die. He sang that piece to me. He played it over and over. ‘Some day,’ he said, ‘it will be the theme of a larger work for the land of our hope—Israel!’ He was only thirty-five when he died.” “I didn’t mean to bring back all those terrible memories. I’m sorry, Karl,” Judy’s voice trembled. “There’s nothing to be sorry about any more. What happened to my father was the fate of six million others! Just because they were Jews and other brave ones who dared to risk their own lives to help them!” He turned to Judy as if to brush away these thoughts. “Even my mother could not dwell on her miseries. When Uncle Yahn asked us to come to America, we were glad. I was even happy.” He got up, then sat down again. “I never talk about that which has happened. One cannot forget. The present is to be lived—the future lies before us. I believe as my father did that a better world is at hand.” He paused. “I have told you more than I’ve told anyone in the seven years we’ve lived in America. So, enough about me!” He seemed determined to change the subject. “What are you studying in Aspen, Judy? What instrument do you play?” “Instrument?” Judy repeated. She found it difficult to make the transition from his tragic story to her own self. “I’m not a music student. I’m just here because of my parents. I did study the piano for years, but I didn’t enjoy the drudgery of practice.” Then seeing the disappointment on Karl’s face, she went on, “I love music and I like to play for my own pleasure. But, you see, there’s enough music in our house and some to spare! Father’s a violist and Mother’s a singer. I thought I would round out the picture and try something else.” “Such as what?” Karl asked smiling, but persistent. “If you promise not to laugh at me, the fact is I can’t make up my mind! Sometimes I want above everything to become a writer. I love everything about books, biographies, history, poetry, plays and novels, of course. My teacher at school has been very encouraging.” She paused, her brow furrowed in thought. Some instinct warned her not to speak of her more recent passion for acting. “But for the last two years,” she went on, “I’m mad about painting! Last summer and on all vacations I sketch with my grandfather. He says I have talent. Maybe he only says that to make me keep on painting. I asked him for his advice, which shall it be? Do you know what he answered?” Karl was interested. “What?” “‘You’ve got a big appetite. Go ahead, do both! There’s no law to prevent an author from illustrating his own stories!’” Judy shook her head. “You see, darling as he is, he doesn’t take me seriously either.” Karl laughed. “I like that grandfather of yours. He just wants you to make up your own mind. You still have lots of time to decide. But it’s a long, hard road. A true artist lives only for his art.” “That’s just the trouble with it. There’s so much I want to see and do, not just be a person dedicated to art! Take my mother and father. They live for their art!” Judy grimaced, “Some day when father’s old, forty-five or fifty, perhaps he’ll get recognition! Everyone says Mother has a wonderful voice. She has engagements all year. But is that enough? No! She has to study languages, acting, and her singing. Lately her manager suggested she take up dancing! Did you ever hear of anything so crazy, at her age!” “Some fine singers go into operettas and musicals.” “But she hasn’t time as it is, ever to enjoy herself! At least Father once or twice a year takes off a week end and goes on a ski trip or a mountain climb. But Mother, no! She’s either too tired or must rehearse or the house has been neglected and she wants the chance to catch up on it, or her—well, it’s always something! Even here at Aspen, which she tells everyone is simply idyllic, she works and worries.” “Worries about you?” “Me? Of course not! She’s worrying about the concert at which she’s to be the soloist. I couldn’t bear such a life!” Karl was deep in thought, analyzing, as was his nature, all that Judy so impetuously revealed. “I don’t think you really understand your mother, Judy,” he said. “She possesses that inner fire that drives her on. She’s probably far happier than you think. I’m willing to say, without knowing her, that excepting her family, singing is the biggest thing in her life.” Judy seemed unimpressed. “What are your parents’ names?” he asked. “Lurie. My father’s John and my mother, Minna.” “Your father is John Lurie? I’ve heard him play. The students worship him. He’s a wonderful violist! He’ll be a second Primrose, someday.” “Tell that to Father and he’ll love you. Primrose is his hero,” Judy said airily. Karl looked at Judy and shook his head. “With such parents, to throw away the chance of being a musician!” “If everybody did exactly what their parents did, there’d never be any progress or change in the world. Shoemakers would continue to be shoemakers, plumbers would go on plumbing.” Karl burst out laughing. “Say, little philosopher, how old did you say you were? Sixteen?” For a moment Judy thought of correcting this slight error. I’m going to be sixteen, but she quickly concluded, one needn’t be too exact! She smoothed her new plaid skirt, looked at it with satisfaction. How lucky that she put it on this morning before her mother had a chance to shorten it. It certainly added distinction—even dignity. The church bell rang and Karl looked hastily at his watch. One-thirty! “I have to get along.” He got up and threw his coat over his shoulder. “Must be at the Aspen Times by two.” “Aspen Times?” Judy inquired eagerly, her eyes large with curiosity. “No, I’m not the music critic,” he said. “I have an easy, pleasant little job there twice a week. Today I distribute posters to hotels, stores, the inns, and nail some on telegraph poles. A boy I know, Fran, is taking me around on the bus.” “Fran who drives Little Percent?” “Yes, you know him?” “Mmmm. Mother says he drives like a madman. He brought us from the Glenwood station to Aspen and he certainly gave us an earful, Aspen—past, present and future.” Karl was amused. “He knows Aspen all right. Of course, he should, living here all his life.” “He missed his vocation. He should be driving a large sightseeing bus, a megaphone to his mouth—” “Nonsense,” Karl said. “I like Fran. He calls himself dumb, but he isn’t. He’s awfully kind and—” “Oh, you mean he’s got a good heart?” Judy interrupted. “I mean he’s a good guy generally. You should see him ski! He’s wonderful. He took me on. I hadn’t been on skis since I was nine years old. Before I knew it, he had me doing jumps. A late April day, the snow was perfect, like powder—” “I’m only joking. I know he’s all right. Remind him for me that I still haven’t climbed any mountains.” “O.K. I’ll give him the message. By the way, Judy, do you usually eat your lunch here?” “Yes, I do,” was Judy’s all too prompt answer. “Then, if I don’t see you at the concert Thursday night, I can find you here sometimes.” “Not see me at the concert?” she swiftly considered. To listen to Bartok with Karl would be pleasant. Without him.... “Why don’t you come to dinner with us Thursday night?” she said. “Then we can all go together.” She smiled, not a little pleased at her brilliant inspiration. “I don’t like to barge in on your parents. They don’t know me—” “That doesn’t matter. Mother adores me to have company. You see, we never fuss.” “Well, if Uncle Yahn doesn’t feel deserted, it’s a deal. I’d love to know two such artists as John and Minna Lurie!” When he was long out of sight, Judy recalled she didn’t even know his name or his uncle’s. She thought how she would inform her mother. “I’ve asked Karl whose uncle owns the Swiss Shop to have dinner with us.” “Karl who?” her mother was sure to ask. “Oh, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” Judy’s solution to any vexing problem. She went back to the bench. There was still an hour or more before her mother would arrive home. With considerably less enthusiasm than usual, Judy took out pen and paper to continue the letter to her grandparents begun the day before. She was filling pages, so she imagined, but the pen remained quiet in her hand. Her thoughts were of Karl. What was his life like, living with strangers who took him in out of pity? And his father! She shuddered. She knew something of those vague, unbelievable horrors of the Nazis. But it was all so long ago. Nobody seemed to remember any more. Why? She folded the still unfinished letter and put it in her bag. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would write a real letter to them—tell them about Karl. They will understand his sufferings. They will love him. They will love him! Why only “they”? Why not—“There I go letting my imagination run wild.” And smiling to herself, she collected her possessions and walked leisurely toward her home. |
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