Chapter VI: Part 6

“‘Sam is as charming as always. He’s still unmarried and lives alone since his sister died. Need I say more? I still believe propinquity is the best matchmaker.

“‘Shortly after dinner, when we were about to sit down to a game of canasta, Jennie whispered to me, “I can’t find my bridge!”

“‘“Your what?” I asked.

“‘“My denture. I couldn’t stand the pressure—that steak, I guess.”

“‘What a night! We were too embarrassed to tell Sam and C.B. why we ransacked the house. Along about midnight, I thought of the garbage! Jennie and I lifted that five-foot can, dragged it down the cellar steps and emptied its contents on the cement floor. There we found it, neatly wrapped in her monogrammed handkerchief, safe and snug among the coffee grounds and tea bags!’”

John was laughing. “Only your mother would think of the garbage!”

“Honestly, John, I don’t see how Father puts up with Mother’s passion for doing good! Think of all those remote cousins, aunts, and uncles, content and accustomed to family indifference, suddenly recalled from oblivion—and the inevitable letter, inviting them to leave the hot city, come down for a week end—”

Minna smiled in spite of her serious misgivings. “But these people must bore Father and her too. She abuses her health. Father ought to put his foot down!”

John merely shook his head. “Your father adores your mother. He thinks these successive waves of self-torture are an endearing weakness and so plays along. It’s a gift—to be so selfless, doing kind and gracious things—actually enjoying doing them.”

When for ten days after the climb up Maroon Peak there was still no letter from “home,” Mrs. Lurie became anxious and put in a long distance call. Her mother tried to sound cheerful but Minna could detect her anxiety. “Father didn’t wish me to write that he was ill.... He’s doing nicely.... Yes, he’d love to see you, but he wouldn’t want you to leave until the Season is over.”

That night the Luries had a conference and made a quick decision. Mrs. Lurie and Judy would leave Aspen as soon as they could get plane reservations for New York. Mr. Lurie, because of his commitments, must wait until the official closing of the Music Festival, then he would follow by train with most of their luggage.

Little Percent Taxi, which had blossomed into a travel bureau, secured the necessary plane tickets from Denver to New York. In two days Minna and Judy would leave, travel over the famous Independence Pass to Denver, conveyed there by a Little Percent Taxi. “The charges for the ride,” John cynically observed, “were far from little.”

Minna began to pack. There were frequent interruptions, last-minute interviews, and conferences about the coveted appearance in New York.

Judy too had things to do—her farewell appearance at camp—the library book to be returned and, with the dollar deposit, purchase the gift for little Willie. She paid a hurried visit to Uncle Yahn with the hope of seeing Karl. It was an almost unbearable disappointment that Karl was nowhere in sight and she had to be content with his uncle’s easy assurance that he would give him her message.

The morning before their departure, Judy and her mother were in the kitchen packing the remaining utensils.

“This pressure cooker weighs a ton, Mother. Why do you always take it with you?”

“I wouldn’t know how to keep house without it, so don’t drop it,” her mother answered, looking up from her own labors. Her eyes rested on her daughter.

“Goodness, I’ll have to get you some new bras as soon as we get home. You’ve developed a bosom in these two months!”

Judy was flattered by this reference to her budding curves, but she looked at her mother, “Is my body the only thing that has developed?” she asked hopefully. “There is such a thing as mind as well as matter.”

Mrs. Lurie tried to repress a smile. “You’ve developed in other ways, matured. Perhaps it was the regular duties at camp and its responsibilities.” She looked thoughtfully at her daughter. “Anyhow, whatever the reason,” she said with unwonted tenderness, “it was good to have you with us this summer. And when I was ill—I don’t know how we’d have managed without you.”

Mrs. Lurie was undemonstrative. She knew herself to be reserved almost to a fault, and she secretly envied the mothers who could display their affection. She now added a little self-consciously, “I hope, Judy, that you liked being with us as much as Father and I loved having you. It’s been our first summer together in years.”

“Yes, it was nice, Mother, much nicer than I expected.” Her mother looked disappointed. Her eyes seemed to say, “Is that all?”

“Let’s sit down and rest for a little while?” Mrs. Lurie suggested. Judy pulled up a stool while her mother sank into a chair.

“Then you are glad you came with us?” her mother asked again.

“Of course,” Judy answered quickly, thankful for the interlude in the drudgery of packing and the chance for a talk with her mother. “It was fun,” she went on, her arms hugging her knees, “to be included in everything, or nearly everything you and Father did. I love Aspen and things here are exciting. You just breathe and music seeps in, like some pleasant, contagious disease! I think I’ll go back to my piano—” There was an imperceptible pause. “Now especially, that—”

“I’m so delighted,” her mother broke in, too pleased at this admission to notice her daughter’s emphasis on the “Now especially,” or the revealing smile that accompanied it.

“Father will be as happy as I am—Go on, dear.”

“What more can I tell you? It was because of you and Father that I came to know Lynne and Allen and I love them dearly. They’ve been so wonderful to me. But, Mother,” she paused and said shyly, “don’t you think that—er—er—Karl had something to do with my maturing, as you call it?”

“Karl?” Her mother raised her eyebrows in surprise. “It was very pleasant to have him around.” Noticing her daughter’s reproachful glance, she went on briskly, “He’s a fine boy, hard-working and very talented.”

Judy nodded vigorously, her eyes glowing with pleasure.

“Yes, he’s wonderful, isn’t he? If only you knew him as well as I do! But surely there’s something unusual ... something special you must have noticed—”

“Unusual?” Mrs. Lurie who rarely smoked, lighted a cigarette to gain time before replying. Her face clouded as though she resented Karl’s being introduced into a conversation that concerned only themselves.

“Yes,” she said at last in a quiet, judicious voice, “remarkably dependable. I think you can feel proud, considering how young you are, that Karl has chosen to make you his friend.”

Judy’s face darkened. She resented the calm, dispassionate voice of her mother, her ignorant appraisal of how much Karl meant to her.

She answered heatedly, “Friend! Suppose I was to tell you that I love Karl!”

Minna put down her cigarette. “You’ll be in and out of what you call love a dozen times before you’re much older,” she spoke calmly, but was now thoroughly roused. “What can you know about love or speak of love at your age?” she added more sharply.

“Why not?” Judy asked bristling. “Grandpa was in love with Grandma when he was eighteen and she was only fifteen and they’ve been happy all their—”

“Things were different in those days,” her mother interrupted. “Women had no careers or rarely did. Because your grandmother married so young, she never went beyond her freshman year at college. You certainly want to go to college!”

“Did I ever say I wasn’t going to college? I intend to go, although I’ve heard you say dozens of times that Grandma is better read and better informed than most college graduates you knew. And what about Abe Lincoln?” she hurried on. “What schooling did he have and everyone knows that his speeches are considered—”

“Look, Judy, what are we arguing about?” Mrs. Lurie said wearily. “I’m only saying that you are too young to think of Karl or anyone else seriously. You’re only fifteen!”

“I’m practically sixteen—or will be in a few months.”

“Come, dear, let’s forget the argument. How about a cup of tea?” Mrs. Lurie said, anxious to restore the good feeling between them.

Judy glumly assented. Mrs. Lurie went to the stove and put on the kettle. “I guess people will be coming in droves tonight,” she said pleasantly. “Oh!” she interrupted herself, “I just remembered. Karl phoned last night when you were at the drugstore. I completely forgot to tell you.”

Judy muttered to herself, “Forgot to tell me and I was unable to sleep a wink last night, worrying.”

“Did he leave any message?” she asked tensely.

“Yes, he did. I think I remember his exact words.” Unconsciously Mrs. Lurie mimicked the halting words of the boy. “There will be a moon tomorrow night. I’d like to take Judy for a walk so that we can say good-bye to Aspen together.” She laughed good-naturedly. “It was so deliciously young!”

With an angry cry the girl faced her mother, “You’re heartless! What’s more, you haven’t a shred of feeling—no soul!”

Minna felt outraged. She turned her puzzled gaze upon her daughter. “What did I say to bring that on?” Her lips tightened. “Since you get so wrought up about trifles, so emotional over nothing, I think it will be just as well if you said good-bye to Karl right at home. After all, the moon will be just as visible from our porch.”

“You mean to say that I can’t go out with Karl tonight? Our last night together!”

“That’s exactly what I do mean.”

“I intend to go and you can’t stop me!” Judy’s face was flushed, the tears falling unheeded. She rushed from the room, “I hate your dominating ways!”

Mrs. Lurie’s anguished eyes followed her daughter. “No, she couldn’t mean that—she couldn’t—what’s become of the little girl I adore so?” she asked herself miserably as she paced the floor. “She looks upon me as an enemy! Until a year ago she was so easily managed! So content with her grandparents—It wasn’t our tours! They’re never long. Besides, I’m entitled to live my own life,” she told herself defensively. “I have my career!” She sat down dejectedly, her head in her hands. “It is my fault. I haven’t tried enough. I must find a way to reach her—but I must protect her against her foolish, extravagant ideas of romance—” She went back to the stove, mechanically turned out the light, stood there staring bleakly into the empty cups.

Tempers cannot remain at fever pitch all day. Judy was sorry, ashamed of her outburst. If her mother had only understood how much Karl meant to her! To forbid a last walk together—she would appeal to her father. No, that was useless. She knew her parents always supported each other—family discipline!

Mrs. Lurie too had second thoughts. Why had she been so stern, so unfeeling? Could one experience love at fifteen? or sixteen? If she had met John at that age, would she have felt as Judy did about Karl? These thoughts harassed her all day whenever she paused in her work.

That evening Karl came dressed in his city clothes. Judy watched him as he talked with her father. He’s so handsome! She watched his face light up with a smile, then become serious. The ill-fitting suit couldn’t hide his strong, broad shoulders. Clothes don’t make the man!

Her father beckoned to her. As she joined them, he said, “Karl has some very exciting news—”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell Judy myself,” Karl gently interrupted. “We’re going for a walk—”

“I’m not so sure about the walk,” Judy said uncertainly.

At her father’s look of surprise, she said with an attempt at lightness, “According to Mother, I’m supposed to be doing penance tonight. I’m not to move off the porch while Karl gives me a lecture on astronomy.”

Her father smiled. “Sounds pretty dull. Doing penance for what?”

“Something I said. I was furious about—never mind!” She glanced at Karl, not wishing to go on.

“Let’s go over to speak to Mother. There she is next to the punch bowl.” He piloted them to where Minna was serving refreshments.

“Minna,” he began, as he drew his wife to the comer where Judy and Karl waited, “I understand you’ve forbidden the time-honored custom of two youngsters taking a walk by moonlight.” He smiled, “Any crimes committed of which I am ignorant?”

“No crimes, unless impertinence, defiance—” She stopped and looked at her daughter’s eyes, pleading. Was Judy solely to blame for the scene? As her mother, wasn’t she being a little ridiculous? The girl had asked for sympathy and understanding and all she had given her was logic and cold reasoning! The wisdom and tenderness of her own parents during her adolescence flashed through her mind. Why wasn’t she like them? Instead she was following the pattern of Grandmother Fannie, Judy’s great-grandmother! She recognized herself with a start—she had always admired the grim strength of that remarkable old lady and yet with what delight she had heard her mother tell how she had been brought to terms!

“What was it you asked me, John?” Minna asked, recalled to the present.

“The youngsters want to take a walk. Any valid objection?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said lamely.

She turned to her daughter. “I guess I was just putting myself in your great-grandmother’s shoes. She had very definite ideas about—life. Sometime I’ll tell you about her. But,” she added with a smile, “I don’t measure up to her, nor do I really wish to.”

Judy looked at her mother. “Thanks awfully. You know I didn’t mean any of—”

“I know, dear,” her mother spoke gently. She turned to Karl. “Only don’t stay out late. Remember, we leave very early tomorrow morning.”

18
A DREAM IS CRYSTALLIZED

“Cute, aren’t they?” The woman smiled indulgently at the man standing beside her, as she watched Judy and Karl make their way through the maze of guests.

The man nodded. “I’ve seen them together many times—those who’ve forgotten call it ‘puppy love.’ It’s a beautiful time! Wedekind calls it ‘Spring’s Awakening.’” The man looked thoughtful. “It can be desperately serious too. I’ve never forgotten my first—”

The boy and girl couldn’t help hearing the whispered words and tried to look as if they hadn’t heard.

They stood on the porch a moment. The sky was heavy with stars brightened by the crescent moon. It was so wonderful to be together away from the prying eyes of others. They walked arm in arm down the silent street, absorbed in their thoughts.

Judy wondered about her mother; her recent turnabout, her surrender. We love each other. Why do we hurt each other so often? She glanced at Karl. His face was serious. Had it anything to do with the news he wished to tell her?

When they reached the Chairlift, Karl’s face brightened. “Let’s sit here. This is where we ate our first sandwich together.” He smiled. “Remember?”

They sat close, their arms and hands interlocked.

“It’s too bad you have to leave so soon—”

“I know. I just hope Grandfather’s illness isn’t serious. It frightens me!”

“It can’t be so bad, otherwise your grandmother would have telegraphed.”

“I guess you’re right. He was never sick a day until that attack four years ago. A walk with him or a talk was an adventure.” She stopped, embarrassed. “You must be tired hearing me speak of him so much.”

“You know very well that isn’t so. Actually since I’ve known you and have heard you talk about grandparents, aunts and cousins, I’ve had a longing to be part of a big, interesting family.”

Judy nodded. “It is fun when the clan gets together. Grandmother’s house can expand like an accordion. My cousins and I usually beg to sleep overnight. Couches miraculously open into double beds, cots are hauled from the attic. It’s bedlam, really, but we love it. On Thanksgiving Day two turkeys are necessary to feed the hungry mob. The Seder, the Passover Feast, is unforgettable—dignified and joyous. The story of the Passover, the Exodus from Egypt is especially interesting today—the songs are fun and such food—until you could burst!” She smiled at Karl.

“You’ve been to a Seder, haven’t you?”

“Not for a long time. Not since—My mother is sad at such times.”

“Next year you and your mother will come to us,” Judy said with warmth. “We’d love it. After all, a table that seats twenty-five can just as easily have two more.”

After a moment she said, “A big family’s pretty wonderful but when you come down to it, it’s your own parents that matter. You have to live with them!” She smiled, “and they with us! I’ve discovered in the last year or two that parents don’t understand their children, at least in the growing-up stage. I’m not speaking just for myself. Girls at school have talked to me and they admit there’s a sort of undeclared war between them and their parents.”

“What do kids that age have to complain about? I think you exaggerate. Small tensions exist everywhere. Parents are only human.”

“I don’t exaggerate, Karl. Believe me, there’s always something to argue about! If it isn’t clothes, and their taste is awful, then it’s money! You’re either a spendthrift or a miser. If you happen to hate math, they think you should make a special effort and deliver A grades. Your reading is either childish or far beyond your years. They disapprove of your best friend and look aghast when at the age of fourteen you wish to go to a party to which boys are invited!” Judy shook her head solemnly. “I tell you, either they interfere and make your life miserable or ignore you altogether!”

Karl laughed. “You can’t be serious. Your father is terrific and so is your mother. You don’t know how lucky you are to have such parents.”

“Yes, I do,” Judy said, on the defensive at once. “I love them. I’m proud of them, but I don’t understand them. I used to think that Father was always making fun of me. But now I’m beginning to enjoy his brand of humor. This summer at Aspen has really made a big difference. He and I are pals. But Mother is different. It could be funny if it weren’t so irritating. She treats me like a subject in one of those child-study books she used to read.” Judy shook her head. “She hasn’t the faintest idea what goes on in my head, or of my feelings. At least so it appears sometimes—”

For the first time Karl looked sympathetic. “I guess that’s true of all mothers. I’m in that sort of jam myself.”

“You?” Judy said incredulously. “You’ve said your mother lives only for you!”

“Yes, that’s just the trouble,” Karl said gloomily. “It all started since Mr. Werther came into our lives. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your father knows, from what Uncle Yahn told him the night we were at your house and what I’ve told him since.”

“I remember overhearing some things your uncle said—and that your mother met Mr. Werther through some—”

Karl nodded. “Mr. Werther calls it fate ... my mother, the hand of God.”

“Tell me the rest,” Judy urged.

“Mr. Werther asked many questions about me. Need I tell you that she plunged into the subject with enthusiasm! She showed him my photograph, the prizes I had won—” He shrugged his shoulders. “In short, she gave it as her unbiased opinion that I was a budding genius! Being pressed for more details, she admitted we were poor and with few friends.”

Karl went on. “Mr. Werther is rich. He’s married, but has no family. Music is still his passion and is bound up in his love and remembrance of my father. He offered almost at once to become my patron. You know what that means, Judy?”

“I guess so. A sort of benefactor?”

“Well, yes, a patron is a lover of arts who has money and wishes to encourage some struggling musician or artist. It’s not a new idea. In medieval times it was the Church that commissioned paintings, allowed the artist to flourish. Sometimes it was the government or a nobleman who provided this encouragement. Today Foundations do the same.

“Anyhow,” Karl went on. “Mr. Werther became fired with this idea. My mother was quite carried away by his generosity. Both agreed I should be consulted. My mother wrote all this in her letters. She was careful to add that after all the offer was made on impulse. He wished to speak to his wife and that we must not count on it too much. I was interested but I gave it little serious thought. It was something for the distant future, if at all.”

Judy’s face was downcast. Karl asked, “Do you really want to hear all this?”

“Of course. Please don’t stop every minute.”

Thus prodded, Karl continued. “Last week Mr. Werther came again, this time with his wife. He had made all the necessary inquiries and had a definite program. He goes to Europe every year on business. Next year, after I graduate in June, he expects me to go with him. No more talk of consulting me. The plan is ready. I go to Europe, study in Paris and so on—”

“And does your mother now object?” Judy asked, suddenly hopeful of an unexpected ally.

“Far from it! Judging from her letters, the sooner, the better!”

Judy’s face was now as gloomy as Karl’s.

Fumbling for words, Karl tried to explain this change in his mother. Loyal as he was, he could not conceal his resentment. “She doesn’t care that I’m to be uprooted again or separated from those I care so much about—” He looked yearningly at Judy. “It’s only my career that matters to her now!”

“But wasn’t that always uppermost with her?” Judy asked, trying to be fair.

“Not the way it is now. Happiness was a goal as well as one’s ambition. We worked hard but we both loved what we were doing—for each other. She’s changed, I tell you. She’s possessed by this—glitter of my success.” He sat there thinking.

“When I wrote to her about the wonderful friends I made in Aspen, your parents, you, Fran and Marian, she wrote with such happiness, grateful that I had such warm friends. But after Mr. Werther came with his golden promises, her letters became enigmas. New words, new phrases—‘single-mindedness of purpose, friends must not be allowed to take time from hours needed for study or practice,’ a whole philosophy on how to become the great and successful musician!”

Judy’s heart ached for Karl. With amazing intuition she understood that his anger was less directed at his mother than at himself and the choice he must make.

“I don’t want to be pushed,” he said finally. “I have my own ideas. Maybe I could get a scholarship and go on as I have, take my chances. I admit that at first I thought it a pleasant thing to have Mr. Werther obligingly in the wings, like a good fairy, until I gave the signal. Now it is he and my mother who give the signals.”

Judy felt crushed. Her beautiful dream of love and romance was disintegrating into thin air. How could she combat the forces against her? Karl’s mother, her own, Mr. Werther—and Karl? Was he so sure of himself? Wasn’t he glad at first? What really mattered was Karl’s future! It was hard to look at the question objectively, as if it were someone else, not one about whom she cared.

Karl took a letter from his pocket. “Maybe I haven’t done justice to my mother or her reasons,” he said, with a tinge of self-reproach in his voice. “She’d gladly keep on working all her life. It’s only my good she wishes.

“This came yesterday. Will you hold this flashlight so I can see.” He turned the pages. “I’ll read part of it to you.

“‘... Karl, my son, there are hundreds of talented boys who may or may not be as gifted as you. Everyone cannot get scholarships. There just aren’t enough. To be able to study with the best teachers, to do this without worries about money or part-time jobs—the freedom from such responsibilities often makes the difference between a mediocre player and a great one. And later one must be heard. Where is the money to come from in order to play before the right audiences? Write to Mr. Werther that you accept his generous offer.

“‘Put away your childish thoughts. Running up and down mountains! Friends are not so important. That can come later when you have the time for it.

“‘The few years ahead may be lonely, for me certainly, but I do not hesitate, nor must you—’”

Judy’s hand shook as she held the light. “Your mother is brave!” she said feelingly, for the first time forgetful of her own unhappiness.

Karl folded the letter, put the flashlight back in his pocket.

“I must write to Mr. Werther. But what? He’s waiting to hear from me. He doesn’t know me. He’s never heard me play. Suppose I don’t live up to his expectations—and all that money wasted!” He touched Judy’s hair, no longer the thick pony tail, but hanging soft and luxuriant on her neck.

“Here I am bothering you with my troubles and uncertainties.” He shook his head. “Although you’re a kid as years go, you’ve lived all your life with musicians. You must have heard some of their problems discussed. Tell me, how does all this strike you?”

“I’m thinking, thinking hard, Karl.” She stared in front of her. She must be honest. Suppose this chance had come to another boy, not to Karl, not to the boy she loved. What would she say? She was remembering her mother and father speaking. Why had this friend not taken the position in the orchestra he had wanted so much? Was it because he didn’t feel good enough? No, it was money! He just couldn’t afford to wait the six months or more before the position came through. His family needed money. He took a job with a musical show instead.

“These men,” her father had said, “never get back to the playing they’ve been trained for and really love.”

But Karl with Mr. Werther’s help can get to the top! She pressed her hands together as if seeking some inner strength. “It’s a wonderful opportunity, Karl!” She was surprised at her voice, its fire and enthusiasm. “You shouldn’t hesitate. Such a chance may never come again!”

The flame in her eyes kindled his. “That’s what your father said to me tonight.”

He took her hands in his, pressing them until they hurt. “I feel as if a stone has been lifted from my shoulders. I didn’t know how much I wanted you to say just that.”

“And you’ll leave in June?” Her voice was small. Her heart, now that it had spoken, felt like lead.

And Karl, in his unexpected feeling of relief, noticed nothing of the effort it had cost Judy to speak so honestly. “We have months before us—fall, winter, spring! And after I leave, long letters to and from each other across the ocean. This is not the end for us, Judy, only the beginning of something wonderful—”

Judy shivered. Karl took off his coat and placed it on her shoulders. His arm tightened, holding her close to him.

“Autumn comes early in the mountains.”

His head was close to hers. “I can’t put into words what you’ve meant to me. I’ve found the sweetest, the most wonderful girl in the world. You’ll wait for me, Judy—You must! You’ll be going to college—” Their lips met.

A burst of harsh laughter made them draw hastily apart. Two boys, not much older than Karl, came from their hiding place and stood before them jeering.

“You call that a kiss? Need any help? Give her a good squeeze—that’s what the kid’s asking for!” They laughed uproariously. There were more jests, unpleasant—the boys came closer.

Judy tried to hide her face on Karl’s shoulder but he got up and advanced toward them.

“Beat it,” he said sternly, “and be quick about it.”

“Look, Romeo’s looking for a fight!”

“Aw, come on,” the other said, “let’s leave the smoochers alone!”

They ambled off, looking back every few steps to laugh, to whistle, until they were out of sight.

“Thank heaven, they’re gone,” Judy whispered. “I was frightened.”

“The movies must be over,” Karl said absently, as he sat down and put his arm protectingly around Judy. “Last year, I went with Uncle Yahn to Hanover, to help him on some business matter. Late in the afternoon we went to a movie. The place was crowded with college students. At every love scene there were catcalls—they pelted the screen with peanuts. I couldn’t understand why they did it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Nor do I understand them,” and he motioned to the two figures disappearing down the street.

“Don’t think about them,” Judy whispered. She wanted to hear again the words so lovingly spoken, words so full of promise for their future. But the tender mood was gone. Karl stood up.

“Come, Judy, it’s time for us to go.”

They walked back slowly, their bodies pressed close, wishing they could walk on and on. They forgot the inevitable separation, the drive and ambition of the most devoted of mothers. A sweetness enveloped them, a confidence in their future they could neither understand nor explain.

Karl stood before Judy’s home as if he couldn’t bear to break away. “I’ll telephone to you as soon as I return to New York.”

“Mother and I will be staying at my grandparents’ for a week, maybe two. I gave you their address and telephone number, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” He stood there awkwardly. “Good-bye, Judy. Say good-bye to your mother for me. I’ll see your father every day, I guess. Good-bye again—” He bent down and kissed her on the mouth, holding her tight. Without another word he rushed down the path.

As in a trance, Judy walked into the house. The guests were gone. Only the hall was lighted. She climbed the stairs to her room.

“Is that you, Judy?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I was just beginning to worry what was keeping you so late.” Her mother spoke evenly but Judy could detect the annoyance in her voice.

“Get to sleep quickly, dear.”

Judy lay huddled on her bed, her clothes negligently tossed on a chair. She murmured to herself, “He loves me—thank Heaven, he loves me—” She closed her eyes to live over again this last wonderful hour.

Between half-consciousness and sleep, she saw Karl bowing before a great audience in Carnegie Hall, a Stradivarius under his arm. She, looking beautiful and elegantly dressed, sat in a stage box. As the wife of the newly acclaimed artist—her lips trembled, overcome with joy.

A hand lightly touched her forehead. “Feel all right?” It was her mother. “I got up to get a blanket and saw the light on in your room—”

“Forgot, I guess,” Judy’s eyelids flickered for a second. She turned on her side to continue dreaming.

Mrs. Lurie, sighed, shook her head, and turned off the light.

19
FAREWELL TO ASPEN

Pale and apathetic, Judy waited on the porch for the Little Percent to take them to Denver. It was cold. A mist hung over the valley. The elation of the previous night was gone. Through the open door she could hear her parents talking. What can she know of life ... hardship ... disappointments ... give her stability, direction—They mean me, she thought bitterly. Then her father’s comforting words about Grandfather—

The car swung briskly before the house. Fran jumped out, picked up the suitcases from the porch, and hurriedly whispered to Judy as he passed, “Sit up front with me. You don’t want to sit with them,” indicating with a nod the other passengers in the car.

While Fran stowed away the luggage, the Luries stood at the curb. John kissed his wife and helped her into the car. Judy still gazed at the mountains, overhung with low clouds. She sighed heavily. She felt her father’s hand. He started to say something about Karl. Instead he took her in his arms. “Clouds have a way of disappearing,” he said gently, “just as yours will.” He wanted to see her smile. “You’ll soon get a glimpse of the two characters on the back seat. They’re smothered in robes and scarves all set for a polar expedition.” He chuckled. “The ladies may be young and beautiful, but who can tell?” Judy returned his smile.

Mrs. Lurie was already seated with the two characters—caricatures would more aptly describe them, Judy thought. Yet they looked vaguely familiar.

“Would it be all right, Mother, if I sat up front with Fran? This little straight-back seat doesn’t look too—”

“Of course, dear. You’ll be more comfortable.”

The car rushed forward in a cloud of dust with Mr. Lurie’s voice trailing it, “Don’t forget to send me the wire when your plane reaches New York.”

Aspen was soon left behind. From the back seat came a continuous stream of talk. Whenever her mother addressed her, Judy turned with a dull, indifferent glance. It was during one of these fleeting moments that Mrs. Lurie attempted an introduction to their fellow passengers. “This is Miss Simms and Miss Clark—” Judy, wrapped in her own thoughts, couldn’t care less.

The sun broke through the heavy mist and the two ladies peeled off several layers of covering. For all Judy’s abstraction, she couldn’t help identifying them through their formal address of each other.

“Miss Simms, that mountain is Granite.”

“Look at the map, Miss Clark, it’s Mt. Massive.”

The gray, fuzzy ringleted Miss Clark in her mouselike turban was still cheering for Granite. Miss Simms, her hair a shiny black, two spots of rouge giving her an odd, clownlike look, stoutly maintained otherwise. Suddenly Judy remembered: These were the two birdlike visitors whom she had tried to sketch at the Seminar Building.

“I see you lost your job as guide,” Judy remarked to Fran.

He nodded, “Teachers are smart but queer. Imagine, they came to the office yesterday just to find out the exact route so they could be prepared with maps and things.”

“Not music teachers?”

“No, High School. They were in Aspen three weeks and took in every lecture night and day and concerts in between.” Fran shook his head over such incredible industry. “In the fifteen minutes they were in the office they gave me advice as if I were their long lost brother.”

“About what?”

“About learning. ‘You don’t want to be a cab driver all your life? How about studying at night? Or taking correspondence courses. There are some good ones.’” Fran shrugged his shoulders. “I told them I like what I’m doing—making money, helping Mom out with the kids, skiing in winter, and I make money then too, enjoying life. They looked kind of disgusted or maybe just disappointed. ‘Where’s your ambition?’ they asked.”

The car made a turn skirting a deep precipice. Accustomed to Fran’s sadistic pleasure in scaring his passengers, Judy repressed her own impulse to cry out. Besides, there had been enough terrified “Ohs” during the last two hours.

“Will I be thankful when we get to Leadville,” Miss Clark said resignedly. “I understand we can get an excellent meal there—a restaurant famous in the old silver-mining days.”

“I’m hungry too. How much longer will it be before we get there?”

Fran turned around squarely, an old habit of his. “In about an hour or so.”

“Don’t you dare turn around like that!” came the stern rebuke. “Look, another car’s approaching.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Simms, that car’s not moving, waiting for us to pass, I guess.”

They approached the waiting car. It rested precariously on the edge of the road, part of it in the deep gully. A young man stood beside it, an anxious smile on his unshaven face.

“What’s the trouble?” Fran asked, sticking his head out of the window.

“I hit one of those rocks.”

Fran didn’t wait to hear any more. He got out, followed by all his passengers.

“The rocks must have fallen during the night,” the man went on. “I was trying to steer clear of one boulder when I hit the other. The tire blew. I guess we were lucky at that.”

A baby’s wail startled the group. “Is that a baby crying?”

The man pointed to a piece of flat ground partially hidden by scrub and trees. “My wife’s over there. The little feller hasn’t stopped yelling for an hour.”

Mrs. Lurie started toward the clearing, followed by the teachers and Judy.

“Can we be of any help?” Mrs. Lurie timidly inquired.

The young woman looked up, a radiant smile transfiguring her thin face. She was sitting on a rug untidily surrounded by cans, pots, and zippered bags.

“Awfully nice of you folks to stop,” she said, talking over the head of the screaming child. “I was beginning to think ours was the only car on this terrible road. Your driver going to help my Jim?”

“Of course,” Judy said quickly. “He’s getting the tools out of the trunk right now.”

“What a beautiful baby!” cooed Miss Simms.

“Beautiful,” echoed Miss Clark.

“I was just thinking maybe I should warm some milk. He won’t touch the nice bologna sandwich we brought along.”

Miss Simms shuddered visibly. “Maybe it’s just as well the little man refused it. Why don’t you and Mrs. Lurie see about the milk. Miss Clark and I will amuse the baby.” She firmly took hold of the protesting child.

“High-diddle-diddle, the cat and the fiddle—” on and on went the strangely sweet tones, while Miss Clark bounced the baby up and down in what even Judy knew was thoroughly unorthodox fashion. The baby quieted ... smiled.

“Judy,” Fran shouted. “Come over here and lend a hand. We’ve got to get the car squarely on the road before we can take off the tire. Lucky she’s light. You, Judy, grab the front with Jim. I’ll take the ditch side. One, two, three, heave—” The car was set on the road.

In half an hour tube and tire were patched, air pumped in, and the spare examined.

“Everything’s O.K. Where’d you say you were heading for, Jim?”

“Los Angeles. I’ve a good job I’m to take over in two weeks. A lucky break. I was laid off back in Detroit for two months.”

Mrs. Jim joined them and placed the sleeping baby into the car bed. Her bundles, neatly packed by the faithful, were beside her.

“Our only worry,” Jim went on, “is where we’re going to live. The company couldn’t promise a thing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve got to take our chances.”

“Not have a place to live—and with a baby—that’s awful!” Judy exclaimed involuntarily.

Mrs. Jim turned. “No, it’s not awful. Jim’s got a job and we’ve got our health. The rest is in the Lord’s hands. Didn’t He send you good people along?”

A few minutes later they were saying good-bye after having wished each other well. They drove off in opposite directions.

For a while something intangible silenced the energetic teachers. Perhaps they and Mrs. Lurie were weighing the possible hazards that still awaited Jim and his family.

Fran finally found his tongue. “I think it’s putting quite a strain on the Lord to expect Him to send a car along—or find sleeping quarters! Don’t you agree, Judy?”

“Maybe.” She was thinking of her own problems now dwarfed by the recent encounter. “Faith is beautiful,” she said dreamily.

“Beautiful, but not sensible,” Fran answered with a skeptical grin.

An hour later they reached a town. Passing warehouses and unpretentious stores, Fran drove straight to a plain-looking restaurant with an enormous sign, “Welcome to Leadville and Walker’s Cafe and Bar.”

“Here’s where we eat,” Fran told the crestfallen Judy, who had envisaged a gilded palace.

Seated at a longish wooden table, each studied the oversized menu card. Next to such tempting items as sizzled hamburgers with Western trimmings, steak hunter style, and the like were pictures of once famous mines and in fine print, the history of Leadville. Judy, her appetite for the printed word unimpaired, read avidly while munching her food.

“The population of Leadville, once sixty-five thousand, has dwindled to five. Look, here’s a picture of Matchless that Horace Tabor gave to Baby Doe!”

“What, another baby?” Miss Simms innocently inquired.

Judy shrugged her shoulders.

“Why of all things!” Miss Clark eagerly turned to Fran. “Climax is only fifteen miles from here. Any chance of our passing it? It’s the biggest molybdenum mine in the world.”

“No, I’m afraid not. What kind of a mine was that you mentioned?” Fran asked, stumped for once.

“You mean molybdenum? It’s a metal used in steel. You see, being a chemistry teacher, I happen to know about it.”

If there was anything left of the glamour of the old silver-mining days, the Little Percenters got no glimpse of it. On they traveled over the winding road, seven thousand feet high, the ravines dotted with mines worked today for uranium and other strategic metals.

Barely leaving the towering peaks behind them, they drove into the shining city of Denver, as impressive in its setting of modern skyscrapers as Leadville was mean and dingy.

“We’ll soon be getting to the airport, Judy—”

“Yes, Fran.”

“I just wanted to tell you that Karl promised to write to me. Could you—that is when you have time—would you—”

“Of course, I will. It’ll sort of be a link between us and Karl.”

“Thanks. I want to ask you something else. Do you think I should study the way those teachers said?”

“It would be wonderful if you can manage. Why don’t you speak to them before they go on the train? They’re very nice and kind. They like to help people.”

“I will. One thing more. Books, the kind you and Karl go for—” He paused, then smiling sheepishly, said, “Maybe I’m biting off more than I can chew.”

“No. Books are wonderful. I can send them. We’ve shelves and shelves filled with them. And I’ll get the list from our librarian. You’d be surprised at the wonderful books there are, in the libraries just for the asking.”

“You see, I don’t want Karl to be ashamed of me—when he comes back—maybe famous.”

“When Karl comes back,” Judy’s voice shook a little, “we’ll have a grand reunion in Aspen!”

At the airport, Mrs. Lurie shook hands warmly with the teachers, whom she had gotten to know and like. To Fran she said, “You’re a fine driver and a kind and capable young man.”

Judy too made amends for her early indifference. “We’re like ships that pass in the night,” she told the astonished teachers, “friendly, helpful ships,” and she smiled enigmatically.

The Little Percent with its remaining passengers drove off.

20
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

Judy, seated next to her mother, watched as the plane raced along the runway and without a tremor felt it rise skyward. Experience had already dulled the fine edge of wonder.

The girl slumped in her seat, closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. She had to think. Her mother tentatively turned the pages of a book.

Judy’s brows were knitted, her lips moved wordlessly. Think things out—face reality! How often in the months ahead could she see Karl? She knew his demanding schedule: newspaper route ... final year at school ... homework ... violin lessons ... practice ... practice. The lone pupil anxiously retained ... concerts ... people to see ... Mr. Werther ... preparations to leave ... when would there be time for her?

She had recoiled from the thought of the vast Atlantic Ocean dividing them. But what of the hour and a half journey from his home in Washington Heights to hers in Washington Square? No more would there be the casual dropping in as at Aspen. No time for soul-searching talks, their dreams and hopes: books, America, Israel, even religion! No, nor hear him play some new, aborted little tune he’d just composed!

She recalled the romantic stories in magazines she affected to despise but frequently enjoyed. “True love never runs smooth!” The magazines, she acknowledged, had cheap, lurid covers but they tell the truth about love! Her shoulders sank even lower nor could she restrain a deep sigh.

Mrs. Lurie let the book slide from her hands. She put an arm around her daughter. Her heart ached for her and she wanted to say something. But what? I can’t tell her she’ll probably get over it like a case of measles! Mrs. Lurie blushed at her own callousness. Her fingers pressed the girl’s shoulders, each finger saying, “I love you. I want to help you. I want you to talk to me.”

Her eyes no longer pretending sleep, Judy responded to the unspoken tenderness. “Mother, did Father tell you that Karl is going away for perhaps years?”

“Yes, he told me last night.”

“And in the months before he goes, how often will I be able to see him? He’s so busy,” she said dejectedly.

“If he wants to see you, he’ll make time somehow. Nothing will stop him.”

“You think so?” A quick smile lighted the girl’s face, only to vanish a moment later.

“He’ll be in a foreign country, meeting students from every part of the world, maybe travel, get to know clever, sophisticated girls like Marian—while I remain a dull schoolgirl. What is there so special to remember about me!”

“You’re far from dull, Judy, and so much humility isn’t exactly becoming to you or in character. Remember all the things you threatened to do! Paint, write—”

She patted her affectionately. “Besides, Karl isn’t going on a picnic exactly or touring Europe in the grand manner. He’ll have to work hard, harder than ever. It isn’t only his violin technique, but studying and understanding the great music of the old masters as well as the moderns. He’ll need every ounce of concentrated effort. Since you love him and he loves you, be content with that! Have faith in each other—”

Judy pondered. Faith—that’s what Mrs. Jim has.

Aloud she said, “A week ago, Mother, you spoke very differently. You dismissed me and Karl as if—”

“I know.” Mrs. Lurie hurriedly broke in. “I didn’t believe you were old enough or capable of feeling so deeply about a boy. I’ve done a lot of thinking since then. Besides, you’re not going to sit idly waiting like a lily in a pond, looking pale and wistful. In your way you’ll be as busy as Karl.”

“You mean college?”

“Yes. Major in English as you so often said, or sociology. You seem to have a curious bent in that direction, a heritage, no doubt, from your grandmother. And you said you wanted to take up your music again—now it’s sort of inevitable,” she laughed, “if only to keep pace with Karl.” Mrs. Lurie paused. “Karl will meet young people and,” she added cautiously, “so will you. You’ll have dates, have fun, and live the life of a normal young girl. With work to do and plans to make for yourself and others, the few years of so-called waiting will pass more quickly than you now think possible.”

“I hope you’re right, Mother.” Judy’s spirits lifted.

In a crisp, matter-of-fact voice Mrs. Lurie went on, “Most young people today have to endure separation before they are ready to make a life together. They go to different colleges, are often compelled to take jobs that take them far from their home moorings, like your Cousin Robbie who got his first opportunity at engineering in South America. And, of course, today young men have to serve in the armed forces, usually overseas, even in peacetime. Yet, most of these early loves endure.”

“I’m glad you say that, Mother,” Judy’s eyes shone.

Mrs. Lurie pressed the girl’s shoulder lovingly. She smiled a little self-consciously. “It wasn’t only your grandparents whose love, as the novels say, overcame all obstacles—”

“You and Father?”

Mrs. Lurie nodded.

“Funny, I never heard you speak about your romance. Why?”

“I don’t know. You never asked and we’ve been busy being happy and enjoying our work. We never think of the past. Maybe when you’re old, memories are more important. But as I look back, the years of waiting didn’t hurt us. I saw many of my friends marry while still at college, the boy and girl graduating together, sometimes with a baby on the campus. Maybe we would have liked that too, but John was studying and playing the viola in Philadelphia and getting his M.A. at the same time. I had school and was studying voice in New York.” She smiled at the recollection. “It only toughened our resolution to marry as soon as we could.”

“I think it’s exciting to know about you and Father. It makes me happy. If you could do it, so can I.”

“Of course, you can. There’s only one little difference. When your father and I went together, what you youngsters call ‘going steady,’ I was nineteen and your father, twenty-two.”

“Oh, Mother, what difference does a few years make! The main thing is that we love each other. Karl is mature, much older than his years. Why wouldn’t he be with all he’s gone through and endured? He’s not like the boys who only live for a football game or having a good time.” She clasped and unclasped her hands, then said quietly, “I want to be perfect, be all that I know Karl admires. Of course, I won’t be able to, not always. Maybe never. But I’m going to try.”

At her mother’s look of slight alarm, Judy laughed. “Don’t worry, I know I can’t live like a hermit. I’ll go places and to parties when I’m invited. But,” and she shook her head emphatically, “every boy will know in advance I’m going steady, at least in spirit!” She laughed gaily at her little joke.

It was now Mrs. Lurie who sighed, but with relief! Judy, for all her acceptance of the role of waiting for her hero to return, would be no princess locked up in her lonely castle. Her self-pity had vanished. She was ready to admit that life wasn’t finished at sixteen.

Mother and daughter leaned back in their seats, relaxed, conscious of a new closeness. Mrs. Lurie was wise enough to know there would not always be clear and easy sailing in the months and years ahead. There would be other storms, other moments of anger or dispute. But the basis for understanding between them was deep and could never be shaken.

DISCOVERY AT ASPEN

_By_ SOPHIE RUSKAY

_Illustrated by Janet D’Amato_

Judy is a young girl just past her fifteenth year. Her parents are musicians—staff members at the Music School at Aspen—and they are anxious for her to share with them some of the enchantment of the famed music festival in Colorado.

But for Judy other plans and other dreams are more important. A part in the new theatre group? Romance? Adventure? Anything but the dreary routine of piano lessons and practice. In her attempt to escape the discipline of the musician’s life, she explores Aspen and inadvertently finds herself caught up in the lore of the early mining history of that community. Baby Doe, the old Opera House, the ghost town of Ashcroft are mysterious wonders which begin to awaken in her a new interest in her surroundings. Her meeting with Karl, a talented refugee from Nazi Austria, and their adventures together on the snowy mountain cliffs help to fulfill her dreams of romantic love—an experience through which she attains not only the depth and understanding of her parents but her own maturity.

What threatens to be a dismal summer for Judy becomes a time of discovery of herself, of music and of America.

_A Wonderful World Book_

Teenage

_About the Author_

Sophie Ruskay enjoys a family life very much like the one she creates in _Discovery at Aspen_. Having raised a family of five children, she has now added twelve grandchildren, many of them teenagers who consider her their friend and compassionate advisor. She is the author of _Horsecars and Cobblestones_, a warmly received novel of immigrant life in New York at the turn of the century. The same understanding which she showed in that work, she now applies to the story of a young teenager whose problems and frustrations she depicts with deep sympathy.

Mrs. Ruskay writes of the world around her with an eager eye and a responsive spirit. The grandeur of Aspen, its natural beauties, its cultural life as well as its historical heritage—all are graphically described. It is in this setting that we see the young generation of today striving for self-realization, often in rebellion against their parents during this trying period of adolescence.