The Violin

Like a whirlwind

out spins a waltz

from the window

and winds me

against my will.

By the speckled light of fireflies,

feet slippery with dew,

I dance on the darkened lawn

to my grandfather’s violin.

To make such music

you must break

yourself open like an egg,

and dazzled,

I dance on the shell.

If Grandmama is moody and sometimes angry, Grandpapa always seems to be the same. Each morning from my bedroom window I see him walking in the orchard. He is checking every tree to be sure it got through the night all right.

If something in the pictures he paints doesn’t turn out right, he sighs and patiently paints it over.

When the pump that brings in our water from the lake breaks down, he isn’t upset. He just goes into the pump house with his wrenches and works away until we hear the gurgling of water coming from the faucets.

It’s as though he keeps himself quiet and calm on purpose.

It’s only when he plays his violin that he is a different person. He looks very calm while he’s playing, but the music he makes is exciting. When I hear it I can hardly sit still. It fills the house and pours through the windows, sending the birds flying. Grandmama gets a smile on her face and, holding on to my hands, waltzes me around the kitchen.

The song she most often asks Grandpapa to play, though, is a sad one. It’s called “In der Ferne,” “In Far Away Places.” “So far away,” she sings, “so far away. How I long to be back home.”

Grandpapa shakes his head. “You want to go back to a Germany that is no longer there. You would not like today’s Germany.”

A letter from the Roths finally arrived. It came from Berlin. Grandpapa read a part of it:

We must leave Germany and our home and everything we have. Some of our friends say it will get better, but we are afraid to take a chance. There is a soldier posted in front of our gallery. He warns people not to shop there because we are Jews. Jewish students in the universities have been asked to leave. The labor unions have been shut down. People are afraid to talk on their telephones. We will try to reach Switzerland. From there we hope to get passage on a boat to America. We thank you for your kind offer to find work for us. How hard it is to think we might never be able to go back to our home.

“It will be a miracle if they escape.” Grandpapa sighed and picked up his violin again, but the music was sad. There was no dancing to it.

There was trouble in my garden, too. It’d been one of the dryest Augusts ever. It hadn’t rained in nearly two weeks. The snapdragons were hanging their heads, the beans had spots on them, the leaves of the tomato plants were all curled up into fists. I tried to water everything, but you have to carry the water a long way, and the big sprinkling can is heavy. Besides, the sun is scorching hot. I slouched upstairs and shut myself into my bedroom so no one would see me cry.

When I looked out of my window I saw my grandfather and grandmother wearing their big straw hats. They were filling a pail and the big sprinkling can from the pump outside of the kitchen. They carried the water out to my garden. They must have made about ten trips.

After supper I went out to look at my garden. The snapdragons were growing straight up. The tomato leaves had their hands open. When I put my hand on the ground, the earth felt damp.