“My name’s Karl. I’m a violin student. I’ve been listening to the

rehearsal. Please come along. I don’t want to get locked in here.”

[Illustration: uncaptioned]

“I just closed my eyes for a minute,” Judy said as she followed him down

the balcony steps.

“It was a long minute, closer to thirty,” he laughed. “I saw—or rather

heard you—as you lowered that seat—sort of crash landing.”

“I know. I was petrified when it fell. A broken spring, I guess.”

They neared the entrance door. The music stands were folded and the

players were talking and laughing among themselves. Judy and Karl left

unnoticed and ran swiftly down the two long flights of stairs.

“They’ve stopped practicing!” Judy said, surprised at the silence in the

halls.

“Of course, lunch time. Most of the students eat at the houses, you

know, the dorms where they live.”

“You too?”

Karl shook his head. “I came weeks before the Music Festival started. I

live with my uncle.”

They stood for a moment. The sun felt warm and pleasant after the

mustiness of the Opera House. They looked at each other curiously.

“Well,” the boy smiled, about to leave.

“Karl,” Judy said hesitantly. She didn’t want him to go, not just yet.

He was nice—didn’t treat her like a child.

“Karl,” she said with a little more confidence, “where are you going to

eat your lunch?”

“Anywhere,” and he shrugged his shoulders as he tapped the pocket of his

coat bulging with a yellow bag.

“I have my lunch along too. The Chairlift is where I nearly always go.

There are benches and one can buy something to drink right there.”

“O.K.,” Karl said. “It’s one of my favorite spots too.” They started

walking.

“By the way, what’s your name?”

“Judy.”

“Judy,” he repeated. “I once knew a girl who was called Judith.”

“You did? What was she like?”

“It was a long time ago when I lived with a family abroad,” he said

quietly and quickly changed the subject.

“How did you like Bartok? Or didn’t you hear any of it?” he said with a

good-natured smile.

“Of course I did!” Remembering how little of it she had really heard,

she went on carefully choosing her words. “I found it difficult to

understand—to—”

“You’re right,” he interrupted, much to Judy’s relief. “I’ve heard it

now five times and each time I discover something new in it. It’s great

music. Like Milhaud and the other moderns, you’ve got to hear them again

and again. I came especially to hear Bartok’s piece because I’m studying

it. I can’t wait to hear it again on Thursday night.”

“Oh, yes, Thursday night.”

“Expect to be there?” Karl asked.

“Naturally,” Judy answered. “My parents count on my going.”

Her recent resolution flashed through her mind. “Wild horses wouldn’t

drag me here again!” But it was different now. Now there was Karl!

6

KARL

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.

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.”

“Hi, Lynne!” A man was walking toward them accompanied by Mrs. Lurie,

Mrs. Freiborg, and Anne. “Lynne, aren’t you coming in for another swim?”

“I’ll join you later, Allen. Judy and I want to rest for a while.

“Allen’s my husband. Don’t you think he’s handsome? And he’s wonderful!”

Lynne’s eyes sparkled. “Don’t think I’m prejudiced. Everyone loves him.”

Judy’s eyes followed the tall, powerful, dark-skinned figure. “He must

be very strong,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

“And sweet and considerate and talented! Don’t get me started on the

subject of Allen!” However, she went right on. “He helps me at the camp

too. Twice a week when rehearsals are over early, he comes over and

plays baseball with the little ones. They adore him! Can you imagine

those tots hitting the ball with a bat bigger than they are and racing

for bases? It’s a riot!”

The sun, even as the afternoon was drawing to a close, was still warm

and glowing. Lynne turned on her side, her face close to Judy’s.

“Let’s go back to what we were talking about. No day camp can hope to

offer the things you speak of, Judy. Our children are young—”

“That’s my real objection, Lynne. I met Anne today. She’s supposed to be

one of the older campers. Maybe she’s eleven or twelve, but she seems so

much younger—”

“Yes, I’m surprised you noticed it. Anne’s shy besides being a little

immature in some ways. With some children the process of growing up

takes longer,” Lynne said thoughtfully. “I won’t go into all the reasons

for it, but in Anne’s case, she’s finding herself. She’s very talented

in singing and acting. Our little camp has done a lot for her already.

She’s going to come through fine.”

“Lynne,” Judy said hesitantly, “I hope you won’t mind my being awfully

frank with you. I really can’t see myself as a camper with such

youngsters. Now if I could help in some way—I get along with children—”

“What did you say?” Lynne interrupted excitedly. “You’ve given me a

terrific idea! I think it was taking shape inside me all afternoon while

we was talking.” She stared at Judy appraisingly. “You could become my

helper! You’re intelligent and for fifteen—”

“Nearly sixteen,” Judy interrupted.

“So much the better,” Lynne smiled happily, “I don’t expect you to

understand these children and their problems. That isn’t necessary.”

Lynne paused, expecting Judy to say something. But the girl was so

surprised by the sudden turn of the conversation that she wasn’t sure

she had understood Lynne correctly.

“As a matter of fact,” Lynne went on, completely captured by her idea,

“I’ve been trying to get someone to replace Claire. She has to return

home next week. You’ll be perfect. Claire has been responsible for songs

and stories, arts and crafts for the younger ones. Your mother told me

you’re rather good at that sort of thing. What a blessing for me! Arts

and crafts—that’s where you could fit in. What do you say, Judy?”

“I love to paint and make things, but I couldn’t teach anyone, honestly,

I couldn’t.”

“There’s no need to teach,” Lynne said reassuringly. “The children

create. We only direct them how to use their tools. If you come while

Claire is still with us, you could watch how she makes things out of

wire and puppets out of papier-mâché. And in the meantime you will get

to know the children. I have a feeling you’ll do well.”

Judy was overwhelmed and a little frightened. Yet, she was already

seeing herself telling Karl about this new, this fantastic thing, a job!

“You’ve never seen my camp?” Lynne asked.

Judy shook her head, still immersed in an imaginary conversation with

Karl.

Lynne took no notice of Judy’s abstraction and lovingly described the

camp site, an immense corral that belonged to a farmer who leased it to

her for the summer. “There are cows and a few horses who graze at a

comfortable distance. The children love the animals.”

Judy was now listening, hanging on every word.

“There are two ponds with ducks and every morning there is a regular

ceremony of feeding them with chunks of bread donated by the local

bakery. On the sandy beach of the pond the children have their sings,

which they grandly call concerts. When the singing is over, Claire tells

them a story and encourages them to act it out.”

“That must be fun,” Judy said.

“Twice a week I take a group of the children riding. They love the

stables and the horses and the ride over the dirt road into the open

country. While I’m away, Claire is in charge.”

“How long are you gone from camp?” Judy asked worriedly. The words “in

charge” had serious overtones.

“Just a little over an hour. There’s a shed with tables and benches that

we use as an art room, and a hayloft houses our much overworked

phonograph and the costumes for our playlets.”

“It sounds like a very busy morning,” Judy said, a little dubious of her

ability to carry on such a varied program.

“Not really,” Lynne said. “At twelve-thirty we are all ravenously hungry

and we spend the lunch period in our grove of aspen trees. It’s a cool

and restful spot, a lovely end to our morning. At one o’clock we drive

the children back to their homes.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Judy said breathlessly. “I think I would like to

try it.”

“Good. Let’s start tomorrow. And, Judy,” Lynne said with that dazzling

smile Judy loved, “I don’t expect to exploit my young helper. While I

can’t pay you a salary, your mother will not have to pay any tuition for

you—or she can pay and you receive it back as a bonus. That’s the

arrangement we have with Claire, except that she lived with us and was

able to take advantage of music events—and dates! Judy, you’ll get good

experience as a junior councilor-in-training. Do you like the idea?”

“I think it’s absolutely terrific. I never dreamed of anything like

that. I can hardly wait to tell Karl.”

Lynne looked a little bewildered. “Karl? Who’s he?”

“He’s a boy I met, a music student. He believes that everyone, I mean

boys and girls, should help the family earn money.”

“Oh? And at what tender age does he suggest one starts?”

Before Judy could answer, the swimmers returned, dripping pools of water

around them and demanding that Lynne and Judy join them for a last swim.

Lynne got up and addressed the little circle, calling them by name,

“Allen, Mrs. Lurie, Mrs. Freiborg, Anne, I have an announcement to make.

I want to present a new member of the Festival Day Camp staff, Judy, our

new junior councilor.”

There was a faint gasp from Mrs. Lurie. Then everyone applauded and went

joyfully to the pool for that last dip.

8

SMUGGLER’S CAFÉ

It was undeniably rewarding, Judy discovered, to be suddenly elevated to

the position of junior councilor. She received the congratulations of

her mother, still in a mild state of shock, and an enthusiastic pat of

assurance from her father.

But one thought clouded Judy’s satisfaction. When would she be able to

see Karl? How was she to tell him her news about camp? If she didn’t let

him know at once why she could no longer meet him for lunch at the

Chairlift, he might think she’d forgotten. Worse still, that she didn’t

care!

In a novel she had picked up and eagerly devoured, the word “tryst” was

prominent in the story. In fact, all the harrowing events that pursued

the unlucky heroine were the result of her not keeping a certain

appointment. As Judy sat brooding over this knotty problem, her eyes

fell on the telephone—of course. Her mother was busy in the kitchen

preparing dinner. Her father was out for the moment. Now was undoubtedly

the perfect time. She looked up the number in the directory and called.

Karl himself answered the telephone.

“It’s me, Judy.” The great news was conveyed. “Wonderful! Good for you!”

Judy hurried on to the crux of the matter. “I can’t ever make it for

lunch any more—What’s that? A customer? I should come to the Swiss Shop

after camp? Yes, I can. All right, we’ll decide then—”

The next two days of Judy’s apprenticeship were rather a let-down. It

wasn’t only that Claire was as beautiful as a Greek goddess, and withal

so capable! Judy watched her as she transformed a bit of wire into an

amusing figure. With what patience she encouraged the little ones to

fingerpaint while at the same time, with exasperating ease, she gave

casual direction to those busy with their puppets!

It was small consolation to know Claire was eighteen. But the real hurt

was inflicted by the children themselves. They either ignored her or

made unflattering remarks.

“Your hair’s not nearly as nice as Claire’s,” one pretty little innocent

observed.

“It’s cool this way,” Judy said, apparently unruffled, but she touched

the offending pony tail with a mental note to attempt something more

sophisticated.

Willie, whose affection she believed she had won by bestowing much labor

and many smiles upon his daubs, moved his head closer and closer to hers

with fascinated interest. At last he pointed to her teeth, “It comes out

at night when you sleep, doesn’t it?”

Judy gave an embarrassed laugh. She had forgotten the existence of the

small wire brace she wore over a recalcitrant tooth to keep it from

protruding.

“Don’t be silly. When you grow up and one of your teeth is crooked,

you’ll have to wear a brace like mine, maybe a much larger one.”

“Does it hurt?” he persisted.

“No, it doesn’t.” She closed her mouth with a snap. Otherwise the words

“little brat” might have been audible.

Claire was still there, kind and helpful, but a trifle unconscious of

the children’s studied indifference.

“Let me help you,” Judy said time and again, only to be rebuffed.

Less than a week later Claire left amid a scene of tears and

heartbreaking farewells. She had scarcely left the camp premises when

the children of their own accord turned to Judy, ready to transfer their

affection to her. How could they forget their adored Claire so quickly!

Judy wondered if she had even been so callous or so lacking in loyalty

in that faraway time when she was seven or eight years old.

When she saw Karl at the Swiss Shop, he made light of her complaints.

“All kids are like that.”

The shop was empty. Uncle Yahn was taking his siesta. “All Europeans

take an afternoon nap. Besides, he gets up at five o’clock every

morning.”

They sat down at his improvised desk on which were spread sheets of

music.

“I’ve been trying to enlarge that little melody of my father’s. Write it

for violin, piano, and oboe, as a start—I want to make something fine

out of it. I will—some day! But I don’t know enough yet about other

instruments.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe I’m just sentimental.”

“No, it’s a wonderful melody,” Judy said, surprised at her own

vehemence. “You can make variations on it, like Paganini did on his

beautiful theme. Why don’t you talk to my father about it? He loves

composing.”

“Your mother says it’s all right for me to come?” Karl asked.

“Of course,” Judy said, painfully aware she never did get the chance to

tell her mother she had invited Karl for dinner.

“Seven o’clock all right?”

[Illustration: uncaptioned]

“Or before,” Judy said with decision. She felt certain that her mother

would put no obstacles in her path now that it was a “fait accompli,”

another expression from that same, much-prized novel.

At home that evening she avoided discussing the less happy details of

her day at camp and artfully turned the conversation to the Juillard

Concert.

“Which reminds me, Minna,” her father said, “I have two extra tickets. I

wonder whom we can ask?”

“I—er—asked Karl to come with us,” Judy said haltingly. “He has his own

student ticket, but I asked him to have dinner with us so that we could

all—”

“Karl?” her father asked. “You know him, Minna?”

Mrs. Lurie shook her head. “And why to dinner?” she asked, her eyebrows

raised.

“You remember, Mother. He’s the music student I told you about. Studies

the violin. He lives with his uncle who owns the Swiss Shop. I tried to

tell you—” Judy said, almost in tears.

“That’s all right. Only I wish you wouldn’t be so impulsive. However,

since you’ve asked him,” her mother added with a smile, “there’s nothing

more to be said.”

“I’ll bring in the dessert,” Judy volunteered, happy to escape any

further discussion.

“I suppose there’s no harm in having him, especially as Judy has already

done the inviting. We’ll have the uncle too,” Mrs. Lurie added as an

afterthought. “It might be interesting to meet a native Aspenite.”

Judy, standing at the kitchen door, listened breathlessly to this

exchange.

She entered immediately carrying the bowl of stewed peaches. “Oh you

don’t have to invite the uncle,” she said, forgetting she was not

supposed to have been within earshot.

“May as well be hung for a sheep as a fowl,” her father said

enigmatically. “Your mother is asking them both.”

“Karl will be glad. He didn’t want to leave his uncle before dinner,”

Judy said, suddenly convinced she had the most understanding parents in

the world.

On the night of the concert the guests arrived in good time. Karl seemed

completely overshadowed by his large, ruddy-faced relative. After the

uneasy introductions, Uncle Yahn singled out Judy and handed her a

prettily wrapped parcel.

“This is for you, a little present.”

“What is it?” Judy asked, her eyes glistening with anticipation.

“Open it and see for yourself,” Uncle Yahn smilingly ordered.

It was a small cuckoo clock! She swallowed hard to conceal her

disappointment, and with a mischievous glance at Karl’s glum face said,

“Isn’t it adorable!”

Uncle Yahn beamed. “You see, Karl, I told you she would find it most

admirable.”

Mr. Lurie and Uncle Yahn seemed to take to each other at once. There was

a lovely sunset, just perfect for their cookout. Both were hovering over

the crude stones of the grille, watching the steak but more intent on

their talk, skiing and music.

Mrs. Lurie, relaxed and comfortable in a reclining chair, was

entertaining Karl.

“There I was, announced in all the papers and posters as the great lyric

soprano,” she smiled. “You know the extravagant language of those

billings—and my accompanist had broken his wrist an hour after we got

off the plane. The manager combed the city for someone to accompany me.

We decided to cancel the engagement when at the very last moment a noted

pianist, just returned from his tour—”

Judy had heard the story. Her attention wavered as she caught snatches

of the conversation between her father and Uncle Yahn. She heard Karl’s

name and moved a little closer to them.

“It looks as if Karl will have an unusual opportunity, that is, if he

proves himself worthy.” Uncle Yahn wagged his head mysteriously.

“What opportunity?” her father asked.

“It’s a little too early to talk. Nothing is definite, but my

sister-in-law’s letters in the last two weeks are filled with this

miracle, as she calls it.”

Mr. Lurie was interested and Uncle Yahn went on to explain. “A close

friend of my poor brother managed to escape to America before it was too

late. It was my brother who insisted that he get out. He was unmarried,”

Uncle Yahn went on, “and could take the risks and he did. After many

hair-raising experiences, he reached America and because he knew someone

in Chicago, he went there. He got a job as a waiter in a restaurant. The

rest is like a fairy tale. He met a man, a customer in the restaurant.

They became acquainted, drawn together by the love of music. This

stranger offered him a job. No, not as a musician but as a worker in his

plastic factory. Now comes the fairy tale. After ten years, he is now a

partner and rich! A few months ago he came to New York on business. He

stopped in at Ditson’s to buy some music. Karl’s mother works there.

They met. You can imagine the scene! He insists upon providing for

Karl’s musical education. He says it is only justice!”

“And now?” Mr. Lurie asked.

“If Karl will put his music before everything else, put himself in Mr.

Werther’s hands, his future is assured! He will have the best teachers,

study abroad.”

“But why abroad?” Mr. Lurie interrupted. “We have the finest schools and

teachers right in America.”

“That is true,” Uncle Yahn conceded, “but Mr. Werther received his

training in Vienna. He feels that with the stamp of European approval,

Karl will achieve recognition so much sooner.” He smiled and shrugged

his shoulders. “The decision need not be made for a year, perhaps two.

Karl finishes high school in a year. Then it will be up to him.”

The steak was finished and placed on a platter. There was laughter and

anecdotes and beer. Judy mechanically chewed a piece of steak, her eyes

staring at some far-off place. Why did this busybody of a rich man have

to come and snatch Karl away just when she was getting to—she hesitated

to name her feeling—like him so much.

She glanced at Karl. He looked untroubled and was enjoying himself. So

was Uncle Yahn. She was worrying needlessly. It was only talk—Isn’t that

what Uncle Yahn said? The decision need not be made for a year or two.

So much could happen! Karl might prefer to go to the Curtis Music School

in Philadelphia or David Mannes right in New York. Anything was better

than having an ocean between them!

If she studied like mad, she could be through with school and college in

six years—be equipped to teach—earn money—six interminable years! And

why college, she argued with herself. Many clever people never—

“You’ve hardly touched the good meat on your plate,” Uncle Yahn

observed, gently nudging her. “Dreaming instead of eating! That’s not

what makes a nice, plump young lady.”

Nor did she fall asleep during the two hours of chamber music of the

Juillard Quartet. She was too excited. Karl sat next to her, his fists

under his chin, his body thrust forward, his eyes glued to the players.

An occasional smile and a well-directed poke from his elbow helped her

to listen.

During intermission she told Karl she liked Bartok better, hearing the

music a second time. “And I love seeing the red and gold opera house

again. But,” she added laughing, “the music can’t compare with the

thrilling play I dreamed up about Baby Doe and Horace Tabor when you

woke me up.”

After the concert, the Luries decided to prolong the evening’s pleasure.

They would go to Smuggler’s Café for refreshments and talk. Uncle Yahn

excused himself, “No night life for me.” But Lynne and Allen joined the

party and Judy’s cup of delight was full. They too would meet Karl.

Candles dimly lit the room. A boy played the guitar and sang. When he

left off strumming and singing, someone started the jukebox. Wonderful,

exciting jazz! Allen and Karl were discussing the merits of their

instruments, where they were bought, how many thousands of dollars it

took to own a really good violin or viola—Lynne was talking camp—Judy

was filled with a vast content and smiled at everyone.

The sputtering candles in the dimly lit room, the singing and guitar,

the jazz still throbbing, waiters hurrying by with ice cream floats

dizzily topped with whipped cream—Lynne and Allen, her parents, gay and

carefree—above all, Karl! This was Aspen life! At last she was part of

it!

9

A SMALL TRIUMPH

Judy’s days seemed to speed on wings. Since she had joined the camp

staff, she was given a wider scope for her talents as Lynne recognized

her interest in stories and her flair for translating them into dramatic

episodes.

All camp activities now centered upon the coming exhibition for Parents’

Day. Old sketches were reworked. A new one, its selection and production

left in Judy’s hands, was now in rehearsal. Examples of the varied arts

and crafts ornamented the walls of the shed. Judy made a lively poster

of a boy and girl dripping rainbow-hued paint from their attenuated

fingers pointing to the words, “See What We Made.” The repertory of

songs and dances was played endlessly on the wheezing victrola and

rehearsed with zest. Allen came as frequently as possible to coach his

diminutive baseball team and then stayed to hammer away, improvising

props and sets. It was work but lots of fun, and the children were eager

to stay an extra hour to perfect their show.

Yet there was hardly a day that Judy didn’t see Karl. After the children

were driven to their homes, the camp bus dropped her at the Swiss Shop.

The hour, sometimes two, spent with Karl cemented what was now a close,

a tender friendship. They recommended their favorite reading to each

other and exchanged books. Sometimes they argued about world affairs,

about which neither was too well informed; or religion, a subject that

Judy suddenly discovered as being important. Karl knew someone in the

Israeli Symphony Orchestra and there was much talk and speculation about

that little country. Judy found Karl’s ardor and interest in Israel

contagious, and the remembered discussions in her grandparents’ home

took on new meaning.

Judy was happy, unspeakably happy, until for four days her well-timed

visits to the Swiss Shop had been fruitless! Karl was nowhere in

evidence. She was surprised and hurt, but too proud to mention anything

to Lynne. Like the heroines in her literary world, she put aside her

personal grief and rehearsed her little troupe with fanatical zeal. The

words frequently heard in her home, “The show must go on,” were

frequently in her thoughts.

At last everything was in readiness. Figures of wire dangled in the

breeze over the entrance and the puppets sat on the shelves ready for

their part in the show. Behind a screen were the props for Billy the

Goat. The set for Peter and Wendy was hauled out of the shed. There were

only twenty campers, but all twenty were eager to shine.

It was a perfect day. The parents and guests arrived at ten in the

morning and would stay through lunch. They sat on the hard, backless

benches in the hot sun of the compound and watched the program with

enthralled interest. When it was over, the applause was terrific.

Lunch time was a mad scramble. The children rushed to extract their

individual lunches from the heap of lunch boxes, all singularly alike.

Drinks and ice cream had to be taken from the coolers and benches

carried up the hillock to the grove of aspen trees. Everyone, or nearly

everyone, helped. Mrs. Freiborg, assisting Lynne and Judy to carry one

of the benches, never ceased to express her enthusiasm.

“And,” she continued as they awkwardly struggled up the path, “I can’t

thank you enough, Lynne, for all you’ve done for Anne.”

Lynne gave a pleased smile and Mrs. Freiborg went on. “I don’t say that

Anne was the most wonderful Wendy, but that she consented to play the

role at all surprised me. It was always Peter she fancied and yet she

played Wendy with such feeling.”

“Let’s drop the bench right here,” Lynne said. “I’m too tired to carry

it any further.” She sat on it and motioned the others to do the same.

“Don’t thank me for Anne’s performance. Judy is the little wizard who

deserves our thanks. I helped occasionally with the direction. Allen and

the farmer who owns this property built Wendy’s house out of some

discarded plywood. Luckily it didn’t fall apart as it did at one of the

rehearsals. But Judy selected the sketch, cast the players, and produced

it.”

Mrs. Freiborg smiled, “Judy?”

“Yes,” Lynne answered. “She had the idea that Anne would rid herself of

the concept of not wanting to grow up by having her take the part of

Wendy, a mother image. A sense of responsibility, a maturity would

develop—gradually.”

“Lynne,” Judy interrupted, bewildered by these high-flown words, “you

know I didn’t figure it out that way! I just thought it would do Anne

good to look after someone else, like the Lost Boys—and after the first

try-out, I saw she could do it.”

“And your instinct or whatever you choose to call it was correct.” Lynne

put her arm around her young assistant.

Yes, it was a small triumph for Anne and for Judy as well. Mr. Lurie

strutted about the camp accepting compliments, he who was so modest

about his own work. And Mrs. Lurie, still sitting in the hot sun, smiled

with pride whenever she caught her daughter’s eye.

Judy was grateful her mother had come. She knew it entailed her giving

up an important rehearsal that morning and that she would have to make

it up that afternoon and again in the evening. Her debut with the entire

Festival Orchestra was only five days off. It was from Lynne and Allen

that Judy learned how much depended on this performance. Success might

lead to an engagement at the City Center Opera Company of New York! As

Judy mopped her own moist face, she thought more than once that her

mother ought to get out of that sun.

At last the picnic, the games, the excitement were over! The parents

took the children home. Allen was busy burning rubbish while Lynne and

Judy were methodically taking down the exhibits.

Judy was thankful the tension of the last few days was behind her. Now

she would have the leisure to think. Why hadn’t she heard from Karl in

five days? Had she said anything? Absent-mindedly she fingered a puppet

and threw it into the rubbish heap.

“What are you doing?” Lynne asked sharply. “Those puppets are not to be

thrown out! The children expect to take them home.”

She glanced at Judy’s troubled face, then said with her usual

gentleness, “Why are you scowling? I thought you’d be happy. Everyone

praised you—”

“It’s nothing, Lynne. I guess it’s the heat.”

“But it’s much cooler now.” Lynne’s eyes twinkled. She thought of one

subject certain to chase the gloom from Judy’s face.

“By the way,” she said with affected nonchalance, “guess who I met this

morning at the post office. Karl!”

Judy perked up perceptibly.

“I asked him where he’d been keeping himself, that I hadn’t set eyes on

him for a week.”

“What did he say?” Judy mumbled almost inaudibly.

“That he’s been busy, frightfully busy. Imagine, he’s entered a

competition, written an original piece based on some theme—he was rather

vague about it. But he’s been working on it every spare moment and

expects to play it himself. He had to get an accompanist—your father’s

idea. Isn’t it exciting?”

“Yes, it is. It’s wonderful! Did you say something about an accompanist?

Who is he, Lynne?”

“It’s a she, a very nice girl, one of the students,” Lynne said

brightly, too preoccupied with the cleaning up to notice the deep flush

that suddenly appeared on Judy’s face. Lynne went on, “He put up a

notice on the bulletin board and got an immediate response. The girl

volunteered her services and isn’t charging Karl anything.”

“Really?” Judy said, immediately suspicious.

“Yes. You see it works both ways. She’s anxious to perfect herself as an

accompanist and is interested in helping Karl at the same time.”

Judy emitted a long, skeptical “Hmmmm.” Interested in Karl, not in

helping him, she thought to herself as she tried to shake off her

mounting anguish. She tormented the wire figure in her hand. “What’s she

like?” Judy asked in a tone elaborately casual.

“I really don’t know much about her, but I gather from what Karl said

that she’s an older girl, that is, older than he is. He seems very

pleased about her.”

Judy gloomily digested this piece of information while lost in thought.

Karl had made no effort to tell her the great news—no. He had a new

confidant now, had no need for her. Only her grandfather, voicing

Hamlet’s foreboding of evil, would understand. “O my prophetic soul” now

found a sympathetic echo in Judy’s heart.

Lynne looked up and eyed Judy keenly. “Why are you looking so tragic? I

know what’s the trouble,” she said affectionately. “You’re just

overtired. Let’s drop everything and go to the pool. It’ll be cool and

refreshing and we can finish up tomorrow. What do you say?”

“I don’t know. I ought to go home.”

“Help me pull this last box of stuff into the shed. There, that’s fine.

Allen, don’t burn anything more. We want to leave as soon as possible.”

After everything was carefully stowed away, Lynne walked to the log

fence. “Let’s sit up here until Allen’s ready.”

Judy climbed up next to Lynne.

“On Saturday,” Lynne said, “we have a beautiful, free day, no concert,

no rehearsal, no camp. For a long time Allen and I have planned to visit

Toklat. You’ve heard of the huskies, the wonderful Alaskan dogs that

live there, trained and bred by Stuart Mace.”

Judy nodded.

“I think you’ll love seeing them. Allen’s crazy about dogs and he’s been

dying to go there ever since we came to Aspen. And not a stone’s throw

from Toklat is a real ghost town, the kind you’ve been babbling about.

Ashcroft, once larger than Aspen, is still deserted after seventy

years.”

“You mean the silver-mining town?” Judy asked, interested in spite of

herself. Karl’s faithlessness receded for the moment.

Lynne nodded. “The same. And maybe we’ll top off the day with a ride up

the Chairlift.”

“You mean—you want me to go along?”

“Of course.” Pleased at having roused Judy from her lethargy, Lynne

said, “I’m glad you like the idea. It’ll be fun having you with us,

almost like having my sister Jane. I miss my family. I haven’t seen them

in a year. So you see how much I need you!”

Is Lynne saying that just to cheer me?

“Saturday? I’d love to go. It’s wonderful of you to ask me.” After a

pause she sighed, “How I wish Karl could come too—”

“Well, maybe he can—but Saturday is a very busy time at the Swiss

Shop—but I can ask him.”

“He’ll probably have other things to do besides the Swiss Shop.” Lynne

looked at Judy, understanding the girl’s troubled spirit.

“Karl or no Karl, we’re going to have a good time! Now, what about that

swim in the pool?”

“No. I’ll go home. Mother’s rehearsing this afternoon and again tonight.

She’ll be tired. I want to help with dinner.”

As they bumped along the stony road that separated the camp from Aspen,

Judy was silent. She thought of the sad things she would have to

communicate to her diary. Her happiness was forever gone! Her lips

twisted into what was intended to be a cynical smile. A broken heart? As

a potential writer she was critical of the phrase. No, not broken, but

damaged, certainly. Karl had deserted her for another!

10

A CATASTROPHE WITH A HAPPY ENDING

Dinner was long over. The dishes washed, only the burned pots remained.

While preparing the meal, Judy’s thoughts had been engaged on more

important matters. Karl’s cruel neglect! She told herself, so what? It

isn’t the end of the world! But in her heart she felt it was. Mr. Lurie,

perched on the step-ladder, was putting away into the inaccessible

closets plates and platters Judy had managed to assemble for this, her

first experiment in preparing dinner.

As she scrubbed at the stubborn stains on the aluminum, she was

thoughtful. She’d come home early, early enough to see her mother wasn’t

feeling well. Minna had sunk into a chair, too tired, she admitted, to

move. It was at Judy’s insistence that she went to bed. What mattered

that the onions were burnt to a crisp, that the creamed spinach had

emerged like green glue? The smiles and pleasantries of her parents were

compensation enough.

Minna had sat through the dinner, refreshed by her nap, the color once

more back in her cheeks. She ate little. Occasionally she touched her

throat, a gesture no one noticed. It was only when pouring coffee that

her hand trembled so violently that the cup and saucer fell from her

hands.

“What made me do that?” she asked in a troubled whisper.

“It means that you’re going right back to bed for another rest before

the boys come to rehearse.” And with a great show of assumed

indifference, he persuaded her to lie down once more.

The telephone rang. Judy, struggling with steel wool and pot, paid no

heed to the insistent ring. Her father, still perched on the ladder

trying to fit a platter into a space several inches too low for its

bulk, said, “Take the phone, Judy.”

She dried her hands on her apron and unhurriedly reached the phone. No

one ever calls me, she thought with a touch of bitterness as she picked

up the receiver.

“Hello. Who’s this? Judy?”

“Yes, it’s me, Karl,” she answered, too surprised to say more.

“Is your father going to be home tonight? There’s something I’d like to

talk to him about.”

“Oh, Father?” An unreasoning resentment filled her. So it was her father

he wanted to see—not her! Maybe it was always her father, or her mother—

“He’s rehearsing tonight, that is, Mother is,” she said dully. “He’ll be

kind of busy.”

There was a long, disappointed, “Oh!” at the other end of the wire. Judy

clutched at a straw. With a quick, turnabout gayety, she said, “Other

people are available. Maybe—”

“Do you think I could come over and listen in?” Karl asked eagerly.

“Your father said I might come sometime but we never made it definite.

Then—I could see you too.” His voice rumbled away in silence.

“Hold the wire, Karl, I’ll ask him.”

She made a wild dash to the kitchen and found her father lighting his

pipe after his kitchen labors. She asked her question.

“Oh, I guess it’s all right. I did promise—”

She barely allowed him to finish and bounded back to the parlor,

knocking over a spindly chair in her marathon.

“Father says it’s all right. Yes, eight o’clock.”

She tore back to the kitchen, picked up a dust cloth, and began to tidy

up the place. She was considering her strategy. “I’ll ask him

immediately why he didn’t take _me_ into his confidence. And who is this

girl, this accompanist? I won’t beat about the bush and I won’t act as

if I cared.” She gave the table an extra rub and with a flourish of the

cloth she swept some sheets of music to the floor.

“My goodness!” her father exclaimed as he picked up the scattered

sheets. “What an eager beaver we’ve become! Is it Aspenitis or

Karlitis?” he said grinning.

Judy felt her cheeks grow hot. “Father,” she said, “if that’s the way

you appreciate my services, making despicable jokes—”

“Oh, come now, Judy, can’t you take a bit of razzing?” He looked at her

flushed face and said with great sweetness, “I’m glad you know Karl. I

think a lot of that boy and I don’t mean only in the music field. He has

character and a great deal of talent and with hard work, I think his

future looks bright. I’m trying to help him in a small way.”

She looked up gratefully. “Karl said he wanted to talk to you.” There

was much more she wanted to say but she suddenly remembered her hair,

her dress.

When the doorbell rang, a spruced-up Judy greeted the musicians and

Karl. The music stands were taken from the hall closet, the lamps moved

into place, and the men sat down busily chatting among themselves.

Judy motioned to Karl. “We can sit over here on this little sofa.” An

innate delicacy made her refrain from calling it “the Victorian

loveseat,” her mother’s term for this small, uncomfortable, but charming

little piece. “We can see and hear perfectly,” she said as they seated

themselves.

[Illustration: uncaptioned]

“I hear you’ve entered a competition for original compositions,” Judy

said, plunging right in without further preliminaries.

“Yes. I guess Lynne told you, although I did want to keep it a secret,”

he said somewhat sheepishly. “For one thing, it hasn’t been accepted as

yet. I wanted to surprise you. I’m still working on it.”

“I thought it was finished.”

“No. That’s what I wanted to consult your father about. Maybe I should

leave it with just a piano accompaniment since that’s pretty well worked

out and the accompanist plays it well.”

For one bleak moment Judy regretted she hadn’t touched the piano all

summer. If she had, maybe—Aloud she said brightly, “I hear your

accompanist is not only beautiful, but plays like an angel!”

Karl looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re driving at. Marie Hoeffer

is a fine young lady but she’s no Rubinstein, if that’s what you mean.”

Judy smiled her skepticism.

“She came to Aspen for a summer of music,” Karl went on, “but I guess

she’s chiefly concerned with having a good time,” he laughed

good-naturedly.

Judy knitted her brows. A serious musician one might respect. But for

someone to come to Aspen under the cloak of music deliberately to waylay

and ensnare a boy like Karl, that was a more serious matter!

The men were tuning their instruments and in the jangle of sounds she

remained silent. But her curiosity was sorely tried. How old was she?

Where did she come from? If from California or Maine or Alaska, all was

not lost! She would have to go back to those remote places—

“I hear she’s quite ancient,” Judy said at last, her voice drooling

sweetness.

Before Karl could gather up his forces to reply, Mrs. Lurie came into

the room. She looked beautiful but terribly pale.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope you’ll forgive me,” she

said, speaking barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t keep us waiting at all,” Mr. Lurie said. “We had lots to

discuss. But now, my dear, we’re ready, if you are.”

Minna took up her position at the piano. Her husband tapped his bow and

the opening measures were begun. Minna was given her cue to start. She

sang a few bars, then stopped as if displeased with the tone.

Mr. Lurie held up his bow. “We’ll start again. We play five measures,

Minna, then you come in.”

The opening bars were repeated. Minna came in at the appropriate beat.

She sang three bars, then another. She opened her mouth for the next

high note. There was a hoarseness, a thickness, then nothing. Finally a

heartbroken whisper broke the strained silence.

“John, I can’t sing—I’ve lost my voice—”

In the confusion that followed, Judy only remembered the terror in her

mother’s eyes and her father’s gentleness as he calmed her.

“Karl,” Mr. Lurie said quietly, “Dr. Keene lives down the block. No use

telephoning, his wire is usually busy at this hour. Go quickly and tell

him to come.”

The musicians left, murmuring their sympathy. Mr. Lurie carried the

inert and almost helpless Minna to her bed. She was suffering now from a

chill and Judy, without having to be told, fetched the hot water bottle

and extra blankets.

She returned to the parlor and stared at the empty chairs, the shining

music stands, the blaze of lights. She began pacing the tiny room. All

these weeks she hadn’t given a thought to her mother, thought only of

Karl. She murmured an inarticulate prayer—“Oh, God, don’t take away her

voice. She’ll die if she can’t sing.” Her mother’s words spoken weeks

ago beat upon Judy’s memory. “Struggle to get this far—” Judy knew now

that it took a great deal to make an artist, hours, days, years of work.

“God,” she murmured again, putting her fist to her mouth to keep it from

trembling, “help her!”

She heard the back door open and then close. That must be the doctor.

The waiting was intolerable. She put away the stands and the lamps and

chairs were back in their accustomed places. Anything to keep busy! Karl

tiptoed into the room, “The doctor is with your mother.”

Judy nodded. He made her sit down and clumsily patted her shoulder.

At last Dr. Keene came into the room followed by Mr. Lurie.

The doctor smiled a greeting to Judy and told John to sit down. “I want

to talk to you,” he said in his breezy voice.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather stand. Shall I send the youngsters from

the room?”

“No, they can stay. Perhaps Judy can be of some help and, anyhow, it

will be necessary for her to understand her mother’s condition.”

“Yes, yes!” John said impatiently. “Go on!”

“You heard me tell Minna,” the doctor proceeded calmly, “there is no

visible damage to her throat or her vocal cords.”

“I thought you just said that to prevent her worrying, for psychological

reasons,” John interrupted.

“Partially,” Dr. Keene nodded in agreement. “But I am convinced also

this will clear up in a matter of days. If it shouldn’t,” he paused a

moment, “then other measures will have to be taken. But we’re going on

my diagnosis for the present until I see the necessity of changing it.”

John gave an audible sigh of relief.

“I’ve watched Minna all summer. She’s driven herself too hard,

particularly as she continues the same pace all winter. She’s overworked

and there are other contributing causes. Luckily, she has a fine

constitution, otherwise I wouldn’t be so optimistic.”

At last John seemed calm enough to sit down. “You’re right, of course. I

should have seen this thing coming. She’s taken this concert too

seriously—and her teaching and her own lessons—to say nothing of helping

students who should be on their own.” He spoke disjointedly. “She never

spares herself.” He shook his head. “Then there’s the house, the meals,

and she worries about Judy. I should have put my foot down,” he said

reproaching himself.

“No, John. There’s nothing you or anyone can do about a person who has

this excessive drive. Without it a great talent often peters out.”

Dr. Keene paused to light his pipe. “John, your wife needs rest, bed

rest, and she is absolutely forbidden to use her voice, even to whisper.

Whatever she requires or wishes to communicate must be written down.

With good, light, and nourishing food, plenty of fluids, and the

complete rest of her vocal cords, she will be all right.” He smiled

reassuringly at Mr. Lurie. “She’ll sing at the concert. I gave her my

promise and I mean to keep it.”

“Doctor, you can really promise—”

Dr. Keene nodded. “Unless something unforeseen—but I don’t anticipate

any complications. I’ve come across this condition several times,

particularly with pianists and singers. It is aggravated by too much

exposure to the sun, later followed by a chill, exactly as was the case

with Minna.”

The doctor looked thoughtful. “I would like to suggest you have a nurse

except that I know that one is impossible to be had. Our Pitkin County

Hospital is understaffed. Who’s going to help you, John? I know you’ve

got to teach. Classes must go on—”

“Private lessons can wait or be postponed. It’s the music school that

bothers me and—”

“Father,” Judy broke in, “you’re forgetting me. Dr. Keene said I could

help.”

“And I’ll take your place at camp,” Karl said eagerly. “It’s only

mornings and I can arrange it, if you wish, Judy.”

Dr. Keene got up. “That settles everything nicely. Judy, you and your

father will relieve each other. Remember again, absolute silence on your

mother’s part in her cure. I’ve given her a sedative and I advise you

and your father to go to bed.”

Mr. Lurie accompanied Dr. Keene to the door and Judy followed with Karl.

While the two men were exchanging some final words, Judy said, “I can’t

thank you enough, Karl, for offering to help at camp. But I’m worried,

too. You need every hour of practice.”

“Haven’t you enough on your mind without taking me on too? I’ll manage,”

he said cheerfully. “Besides, I want to help. I’m doing very little

really and Uncle Yahn won’t mind. He admires your family so much.”

He held Judy’s limp hand. “Don’t you understand how much your family

and—you have meant to me this summer?”

Dr. Keene motioned to Karl and said, “Come on, young man, we’ve got to

let these people get some rest.”

For four days Minna Lurie’s room was in semidarkness. No one rang the

doorbell and no one was permitted to telephone. The music students came

quietly, played with unusual softness and left just as unobtrusively.

When Judy saw the first one arrive, she was alarmed and hastily

inquired, “Shall I send the young Paderewski away?”

Minna wrote with a still unsteady hand, “No. Like hearing piano.”

Preparing three meals a day might have taxed an even older girl than

Judy, but her confidence was undaunted. No worker in a scientific

laboratory studied instructions with more meticulous care than Judy

lavished over the fine print on boxes of jell-o, cream of wheat, or

custard puddings.

The doctor smiled and told her a nurse couldn’t have been more

efficient. On the following day Minna was permitted to sit in a chair

for a few hours, the sun allowed to filter into the room.

Judy stood at the window, enjoying the play of the sunshine on the

trees. She turned as she heard the gentle tapping of the pencil. Minna

held up her pad. “I want you to go outdoors for a breath of air. Take a

long walk.”

“No, Mother. Father won’t be home for hours. I won’t leave until he—”

“I’m staying with Mother and you’re to go out,” Lynne said breezily as

she greeted them.

Judy warningly touched her lips. Lynne nodded, “I know the rules. I’ll

do all the talking. I’ve so much to tell Minna—Now run along. I only

have an hour and a half.”

As she followed Judy into the hall to speed her on her way, Judy asked,

“How’s Karl making out at camp?”

“Not badly, but nothing sensational. He has too much on his mind. Three

days were quite enough—I can manage for the rest of the time until you

get back. Now go! To use your own overworked phrase, ‘tempus fugit!’”

Judy stood on the porch, hesitating. Where? Her feet led her unerringly

to the practice room where she knew Karl would be working. She smiled

joyfully as she heard his violin. She could recognize that tone no

matter how many violins were playing! Hmmm, and that must be the

accompanist, Marian. She stepped inside and sat down unnoticed. The

playing went on. At a propitious moment of silence, she cleared her

throat noisily. Karl turned, saw her, a smile lighting up his face as he

waved his bow. The rehearsal went on. Talk—repetition of parts—more

talk. Judy sat wondering if she should leave. Then Karl’s voice, “Hold

it, Marian—”

He strode over to Judy. “It’s just wonderful to see you! I know your

mother’s coming along great. Your father and Lynne told me.” He looked

pensively at her, “You look peaked—”

“I’m all right, now that I know Mother’s going to be able to sing—How’s

the piece coming along?”

“Slowly. It sounds so wonderful in my head, but when it comes to setting

it down—it takes so much time and I feel so pressed for time—”

“I know. Sometimes I think of a story—everything seems so right until I

come to writing it down.” She looked at him smiling, “But you have a

wonderful basic theme. It has power to move one—nothing can spoil that.

Folk tunes could be introduced, you know, the way Dvorak did in his ‘New

World Symphony.’”

He shook his head approvingly. “I can clarify things just by talking

them out with you. I miss you, Judy—so much!”

“Me too,” the budding author sighed, throwing grammar to the winds.