A Castle in Brooklyn(34)

Zalman shuffled his feet uneasily and wet his lips with his tongue. His eyes remained downcast when he finally spoke.

“I have plans. I’ve been thinking of going into partnership with a friend of mine, and if not, maybe I’ll go back to the farm if the rabbi still has a place for me. Until then, there is an apartment in Brooklyn I can rent. We’ll see.”

Esther’s voice dropped an octave.

“Yes, we’ll see, I suppose,” she repeated. But then she remembered something he had told her a few months earlier.

“You have a girl back in Minnesota, the farmer’s daughter, who you’ve been writing to. Now I see. Well then, Zalman, whatever you decide to do, I wish you luck.” She took a step forward, only slightly, to express her sincerity by sealing her wishes with a kiss on the cheek but thought better of it.

Zalman’s eyes moved upward to look at Esther, seeming to take in her eyes, her face, her whole being. And then, without a word, or even an embrace, he went upstairs, where he remained for the rest of the night.





FOURTEEN


Zalman


She persuaded him to stay one more week. Only one week so they could all get used to the idea of him leaving. What harm could it do? Even as he continued to pack his bag, Zalman could hardly contain his excitement. He had arranged a special evening for Esther, a going-away present. Leopold Stokowski was conducting at the Philharmonic that Thursday evening, and he had managed to get two tickets. Jacob heartily approved of the idea and promised to arrive home early that evening, in time to take Gary to Little League practice. Besides, he had no interest in listening to old-fashioned music.

Zalman led the way down the aisle as Esther surveyed the hall, wide eyed.

“Here we are,” he said, pointing to two seats in the center of the mezzanine section. “Row D. Not too bad, eh?”

“Not too bad? Why, Zalman, this is marvelous!” she responded, sinking down in the plush seat.

Zalman couldn’t suppress his laughter. She was just like a child entering a toy store for the first time. He opened his program, instructing her to do the same, as he leaned toward her, pointing out the list of the musicians in each instrumental section, the names of the symphonies they were about to play.

“I’m sorry, but there’s no Debussy tonight.”

“Oh, that’s fine, Zalman. You know how I love all music. It’s going to be wonderful, just wonderful!”

Yes, he thought, sitting back, it was going to be wonderful.

For the next two hours, the two sat quietly as they let the music envelop them, creep inside of them, transport them. The rapid drumbeats seemed to lift them out of their chairs, and when the violinist played her solo, Esther was so moved that she grasped his arm. Zalman closed his eyes. He had never felt so happy.

The last strains of the orchestra signaled the intermission, but the two remained in their seats, unable to move, sharing the silence that now seemed unusual. When they finally rose to their feet, it was as if coming out of a dream.

“Is it like this always?” she asked.

“Well, I’ve only been to Lincoln Center twice before. The music is always beautiful. But this time, I guess it does seem more special.”

“Yes! I just can’t believe I’m here. Thank you, Zalman!” Impulsively, Esther reached over and gave him a hug. He turned from her as he felt a flush rise to his cheeks.

During the second half, as they listened to one of the lighter, merrier concertos, Zalman pointed to the movement of the conductor’s arms, explaining the meaning. She leaned closer and, in a whisper, asked about the different sections of the orchestra or asked the year when a symphony had been composed. Although Zalman couldn’t answer all her questions, he found himself enjoying his new role as teacher. Before they realized it, the waves of music swelled to a great crescendo. When the final commanding note had been played, Esther was among the first to get up as the audience stood. The applause, which seemed interminable, subsided, and the musicians took up their instruments for an encore. The applause was repeated as they completed one last rousing number by Beethoven. When Zalman glanced at Esther, she had the look of someone who had just gotten off a roller coaster.

Once outside, as they made their way toward the subway station at the corner, the two couldn’t stop talking.

“I really loved so many of the numbers. Which was your favorite?” she asked.

He responded quickly. “It was the violin solo.”

“Yes, it was quite moving. I noticed her fingers moving so quickly, so adept. How long do you think it takes one to acquire such a skill?”

“A long time, I’d guess. What I most enjoyed about the solo was how it reminded me of home.”

Esther considered his words for a moment, the two linking arms as they walked down the stairs into the station.

“Zalman, did you love your mama and papa very much?”

He glanced at her and nodded his head. “Well, yes, of course. Why would you ask such a question?”

She looked down at the platform, strewn with Hershey wrappers and cigarette butts. “Oh, it’s just that every now and then you mention them. You must miss them a great deal.”

“I do. I try not to think about them or my brother too much. But when I hear certain melodies like the kind we heard tonight, or I listen to you play the piano, I’m always reminded of my family. Our home was always filled with music. When Mama wasn’t playing the Jewish songs on the piano, my father would put on the phonograph, and we listened to everything from Chopin to Sinatra. Often, we would find ourselves—even my brother, who spent most of his time with his head in a book—humming along. When I hear a song like that violin solo, I remember that. That and the sizzle of my mother’s potato pancakes in the pan, the rustle of the newspaper as my father settled into his favorite chair. But I try not to think about any of it. They were taken so suddenly. It was a different life.”