Part 5

“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.

7 A FAMILY ARGUMENT HAPPILY RESOLVED

Mrs. Lurie mounted the sagging steps of their villa, which she cheerfully if a bit resignedly called her Victorian relic. Elated that she had managed to finish her classes and her teaching ahead of schedule, she was particularly pleased with herself at having resisted the temptation to rehearse her aria.

“No,” she had said with a faint tinge of regret. “I have a date with my daughter. We’re going to the Pool. She’s been looking forward to it for weeks. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

The front door of the house was unlatched as was the trusting custom of all dwellers in Aspen. “Judy!” she called. There was no answer. Even the piano was silent, the warm sunny day having apparently won the battle between the students’ struggle, duty versus pleasure.

Mrs. Lurie was annoyed at not finding Judy at home, but she knew she herself was to blame. In the argument over the camp this morning, she had overlooked telling Judy she would try to be home early. It was only two-thirty. There was ample time, she reflected. She would, in the meanwhile, get ready: put on her yellow sunback cotton, long reserved for this occasion, her yellow and gold sandals. She lightly brushed her brown hair, yellow where the sun had bleached it. She was grateful that nature had provided her with hair that fell in soft, natural waves. Mrs. Lurie was far from vain, but she was pleased at her image reflected in the mirror.

Another trip to the sidewalk and still no sign of Judy! Mrs. Lurie re-entered the house, laid out Judy’s shorts and sleeveless blouse. This was a slight risk she felt impelled to take. Her daughter had for years made a fetish of selecting her own things and rebelled at any infringement of her rights. Mrs. Lurie had encouraged her to do this. But time and again she wished Judy’s taste wasn’t so lurid. That skirt, for example, she wore this morning—not even shortened. Mrs. Lurie glanced at the clock and concluded this was no time to think about such matters. The car that was to fetch them to the Pool would arrive in ten minutes.

She made her third trip to the sidewalk, scanning the street as if by sheer wishing she could conjure up Judy into appearing. At last! There she was, dawdling along at a snail’s pace, walking with an abstracted air as if in another world.

As soon as Judy was within hailing distance, her mother called in a voice that would have roused a Valkyrie from her mountain fastness.

“Hurry, Judy! You’re late!”

Judy looked around, startled at the familiar voice, then seeing her mother, she quickened her steps to a run. There was no thought or remembrance of a visit to the Pool. Her mother was home. She would tell her about Karl. The need to talk was overpowering.

“Mother, I want to tell you something exciting!”

Mrs. Lurie tried not to show her annoyance. “Judy,” she interrupted. “I made such an effort to get home early. Mrs. Freiborg and her daughter will be here in less than ten minutes. Go in and wash up quickly. I’ve laid out your things on the bed. Brush your hair. We can’t keep them waiting.”

But Judy wasn’t listening. Her face was still glowing as she followed her mother into the house. “I’ve got to tell you something quite wonderful that happened. I met the nicest boy—”

“Boy?” Mrs. Lurie turned to her daughter. “What boy? Where?” There was a perceptible note of sharpness in her voice.

“We ate our lunch together at the Chairlift. He’s a music student and studies the violin.”

“That’s nice, dear,” Mrs. Lurie interrupted, giving Judy an indulgent smile. The boy, thank goodness, wasn’t some nondescript. A music student had an open sesame to Mrs. Lurie’s regard.

“But now, hurry, dear,” she said brightly. “You’ll tell me all about him later.”

“Later, always later,” Judy grumbled to herself, her high spirits dashed for the moment. “You know, it only takes me a few minutes to change.”

“And,” Mrs. Lurie added, following her own train of thought, “please don’t wear that skirt again until I’ve taken inches off the hem. It’s bad enough without trailing your ankles.”

Mrs. Lurie gave a noncommittal grunt as she packed bathing suits and caps into a zippered bag. Judy put on the shorts and blouse without any audible objection and stood near the mirror.

“In this sort of thing you’ll have to admit, Mother, everyone looks alike. But a skirt like my plaid gives one a certain air—personality!”

Her mother shrugged her shoulders. She knew it was useless to argue, but she couldn’t resist saying, “I think you’re more appropriately dressed as you are now, for a warm summer day. As for that skirt which you chose against my better judgment, all I can say is that it rivals the crazy quilt on your grandmother’s Colonial bed.”

An impatient honk of the horn ended the argument as Judy and her mother hurried to the walk just as the dusty blue sedan pulled up in front of the door.

Judy sat in the back seat next to a pale, freckled-faced girl with straight honey-colored hair. Her large hazel eyes were continuously fastened on her mother.

“This is Anne,” Mrs. Lurie smiled at both girls. “I know you’re going to like each other.”

Mrs. Freiborg, a slight, distinguished-looking woman whose manner reflected the importance her husband had achieved in the music world, also turned and said affably, “I’m glad, Judy, you and Anne will get acquainted at last.” Immediately both mothers were engaged in an animated conversation and promptly forgot the existence of their daughters.

The girls sat in strained silence. Judy wondered why her mother was so sure she would like this girl. With an effort she broke the silence.

“I’ve never been in the pool as yet, have you?”

“Yes,” Anne said in a flat voice, reluctantly shifting her eyes from her mother’s back to Judy’s face. “I take swimming lessons.”

“I’ve been swimming for ages,” Judy said with a slightly superior air, “but I would love to learn how to dive.”

“I used to be so scared of the water,” Anne confided, “but I’m not anymore. Mother says lots of girls are afraid—”

“Did she? I guess I belong to the foolhardy type. You still scared?”

“No. I find it easy in the pool. I wonder why it’s so different from the lake where I just used to sink.”

“If the pool’s salt water, that would explain it.”

“What difference would that make, being salty or not?” Anne asked with a puzzled look.

“Because in salt water, you’re buoyant, that is light. If you ever tried swimming in the ocean, you would immediately see the difference.”

Anne shook her head still uncomprehending. Judy tried to remember the explanation in her science book. “You—er—that is, the body displaces less water when it’s salty. You sort of float, being so much lighter.”

She tried to elucidate her point more clearly. Science, she knew, wasn’t her strong point. Then she dismissed the subject with a shrug.

There was no further conversation, scientific or otherwise, and the girls seemed unfeignedly delighted to part company at the parking area.

As they walked toward the hotel, Mrs. Freiborg discovered several acquaintances. She stopped with each, just to say a word, but the minutes lengthened and added to Judy’s impatience.

“Mother, must we wait for them? Can’t we go ahead?”

Mrs. Lurie unexpectedly agreed and tactfully informed Mrs. Freiborg they would meet later.

Entering the hotel with her mother, Judy felt considerably more at ease than on her previous visit.

The sunny terrace dotted with tables and gay umbrellas was a lovelier sight too than she remembered. To her surprise everyone seemed to know her mother. Their progress toward the pavilion was a sort of slow triumphal procession. “Come back and sit with us—” “We’ve saved room for you at our table.” Again and again they were stopped and Judy introduced. There followed the kindly inquiries, “And how do you like Aspen, Judy?” And as usual, before the girl could think of a reply, the talk drifted into other channels.

At last they reached the pavilion. Dressed in their bathing suits, they stepped gingerly on the wet, slippery stones of the pool. Instead of the longed-for plunge into the water, Mrs. Lurie suggested they first get a good sunburn. “Besides,” she added mysteriously, “someone’s coming here especially to meet you.”

Judy slumped down on the thick carpet of grass near her mother’s table. She gazed at the water, enchanted by the azure color that was achieved, as she learned later, by the paint on the bottom of the pool.

At an adjoining table, two women were playing Scrabble with fierce concentration, but their absorption in the game didn’t prevent their cross-table conversation with numerous friends.

“How did you like the concert, Minna? I admit there’s no one who can conduct the way Izler Solomon does—”

Judy was left with her own thoughts. She barely noticed her mother leave her seat to meet a young girl coming toward her. But she looked up sharply when she heard her say, “Lynne, I’m so glad you were able to make it. I almost gave up!”

So that was Lynne! Judy watched as they stood talking. She’s pretty, and very young looking, Judy admitted grudgingly. Yes, for once, her parents were right. She was beautiful! Judy admired the slender, graceful figure in the black skin-tight bathing suit. She noticed the coal-black hair and how Lynne wore it in a chignon low on her neck.

Judy saw her mother nodding in her direction. “They’re talking about me. Mother’s probably telling her all my shortcomings and my latest—that I don’t like the idea of going to a camp—that is, her camp. Probably asking her to give me a talking to.” Just as Judy feared, her mother returned to her table and Lynne came directly to where Judy sat scowling.

“Hello!” said Lynne, sitting down next to her on the grass. “I’m Lynne and you’re Judy, the girl who doesn’t want to go to my camp. Is that right?” she asked with a delightfully disarming smile.

Judy found her anger dissolving at Lynne’s unexpected warmth.

“I don’t especially care about a day camp,” Judy said lamely.

“Why? Did you ever go to one?”

“No,” Judy said, surprised at Lynne’s directness. “But I’ve friends who went and were bored.” Judy knew she would have to defend her opinion if she was to escape. “I feel as they do,” she went on. “I like to paint when I feel like painting, swim or read or do any activity when I’m in the mood, not just at certain set periods.”

“I see,” Lynne said, with just a suspicion of a smile on her lips. “You’re afraid of regimentation. But don’t you find that unless one plans to do a certain thing at a definite period, one never gets around to it at all?”

“I do,” Judy said, but even as she spoke, she was conscious of the many things she never managed to get around to doing. “Of course, I’d feel very differently about going to a sleep-away camp,” Judy went on with more confidence. “Sometimes you go on canoe trips and long, exciting hikes, mountain climbs and spending nights in a hut, preparing your own meals—things you can’t possibly do by yourself.”

“That’s true,” Lynne agreed, “but no one could recommend such a program for very young children. Those are the ones we try to reach. They can live at home with their parents and yet for part of each day have companionship of other children and do interesting things.”

“A lecture instead of a swim,” Judy groaned inwardly and yet she couldn’t help being interested in spite of herself.

“You see,” Lynne went on, “children of professional people, musicians especially, frequently have long separations from their parents—tours, long or short, recitals, rehearsals at all sorts of inconvenient times. They miss their mothers and fathers. And I find that it’s just as important for the parents who want their children with them when it’s at all possible. Here at Aspen our camp serves such a purpose.”

“Yes,” Judy said. “I guess it’s wonderful for young children, but I don’t fit into that picture. I’ve always had my grandparents in such emergencies and when I don’t, I manage all right by myself.” Her eyes wandered to the pool.

Lynne touched her shoulder. “Let’s get our swim now. We can finish talking later.”

Lynne gave a few deft twists to hair, tucked it under her cap and went swiftly to the diving board. Judy watched as she ascended the high board. There was a splash as her body, taut and graceful, hit the water. A few seconds later, Lynne coming up from her dive called to Judy to follow.

Judy shook her head. “I can’t dive.”

“Then fall in or use the ladder.”

Obediently Judy went to the ladder, holding the rail firmly as she descended the slippery steps. With her back to the pool, she braced herself for the shock of cold water as she cautiously reached for the last rung. Wildly trying to grasp the receding rail, she fell in, hitting the back of her head with a resounding smack. With a few strokes she came to the surface only to find Lynne laughing.

“That’s what you call a perfect take-off. How’s the head?”

“The head’s all right, but the water! It’s warm! It’s like swimming in a bathtub.” Judy grimaced with keen disappointment. Her eyes were burning and her nose was itching. “And it’s full of chlorine,” she added indignantly.

“You’ll get used to the chlorine and the temperature is divine. We ordinary folks love it. Come on, you polar bear, I’ll race you to the end of the pool.”

They enjoyed the swimming, but Judy soon tired. “I can’t understand it, Lynne,” she said, breathing like a whale, “I usually can swim a half-hour without feeling it. Now after only ten minutes, I’m pooped.”

“So am I,” Lynne said cheerfully. “It’s the altitude in Aspen that makes breathing difficult, especially swimming or mountain climbing. I’m gradually getting used to it, and so will you. Let’s go out. I have a big bath towel and we can stretch out on the grass and dry in the sun.”