THE SECRET KEEPER
By
Julie Thomas
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Julie Thomas on Smashwords
The Secret Keeper
Copyright © 2011 by Julie Thomas
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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To Vicky, her passion for classical music was inspirational, to my Mum for her unconditional support and to my musical friends and family for showing me that anything’s possible if you work hard enough and want it badly enough.
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CHAPTER: THE OVERTURE
BERLIN
FEBRUARY 1935
“I wish we were poor!” Rachel Horowitz exclaimed suddenly, as her father’s black Mercedes-Benz rolled to a stop at the top of a blind alley off the Friedrichstrabe.
“What would you wish that for?” Simon Horowitz was often bewildered by the strange logic of his nine-year-old sister and today was no exception.
“‘Cause then we could ride on the trams, like Lisel’s family do, when they go to tea with her grandmother.”
Simon scrambled out of the huge car in his little sister’s wake. He couldn’t see why the twins were even there. This was a violin excursion and the twins weren’t usually part of violin excursions. Sometimes his older brother Levi came with them but today he’d gone ice-skating with the girl who lived next door. That was something else Simon couldn’t understand, why would you choose ice-skating with a girl when you could come on a violin excursion? The twins got bored when Papa played the violin. Mama said they were too young to appreciate the family treasures. However the promise of an afternoon tea treat in the Esplanade Hotel’s restaurant had lured them along.
“You should be very careful what you wish for, young lady, it might come true.” Her father clasped her small hand in his and guided her down the narrow street. Simon and David, her twin brother, trailed behind. At nearly fourteen Simon felt years older than the twins and he wanted to make that difference clear. He slowed and let the group go on ahead.
It was mid winter and the shop windows were bursting with colourful and tempting fare. Books, magazines and crayons in one, glistening gold and diamond jewellery in another and delicious cakes and pastries on round wooden stands in the third. He could remember as a small boy standing with his nose pressed to the glass watching the gingerbread house being built. And then he came to his favourite, “Amos Wiggenstein’s Music Shoppe”. The window was full of violins and violas, nestled on bright green satin, with sheet music spread artfully between them. A stocky boy in a dark blue wool coat that was just too small for him, with his black curls cut short, a plump face ending in a deeply cleft chin and watchful, liquid brown eyes, stared back from the glass at him.
Finally he tugged the heavy door open and slipped inside. The chimes connected to the door mechanism made a tinkling, silvery sound, like cascading water. Violins and violas of all sizes hung from metal hooks in the ceiling and were inserted into slats on the wall-mounted shelving that lined the long, narrow shop. The smells rose in clouds to meet his twitching nostrils, spruce, varnish, maple, bees’ wax and dust. Rosin hung thick in the air and the filtered sunlight formed golden shafts that bounced off the bodies of the instruments.
Simon turned his attention to the nearest violin; it was a rich orange-brown with lighter coloured purfling around the edges. He ran his finger over the body. The wood felt cool and smooth to the touch, yet welcoming and eager to share the music. He felt a stab of the familiar longing to just pick it up and play. Beside it hung a half size completely covered in gold paint and further along the row he could see a viola that was almost black. Slowly he was drawn down the cluttered aisle, carefully avoiding empty violin cases and music stands as he went. The wood shavings on the floor crunched beneath his feet. Passing the huge pigeonholed shelving, with its cleaners, strings, polishes and chin rests stuffed into every available crevice, Simon hesitated in the doorway to the back room. Over in the far corner old caricatures of famous violinists and composers were amusing the twins.
Amos’s gangly teenaged assistant, Jacob, was bending over the silver saucepan of hide glue on the stove, stirring it gently and observing the two men cautiously. Amos and his father stood at the workbench surrounded by the tools of the luthier’s trade, chisels, jack planes, scrapers, files and gouges. Amos held the violin up to the light.
“As magnificent as ever! A true masterpiece,” he whispered, seemingly oblivious to everyone else.
His old fingers were gentle with the instrument, loving, reverential. Simon was used to this; he’d seen many adults hold the Guarneri that way. The intense oil varnish seemed to sparkle like new in the soft artificial light as Amos turned it over and over.
“I know that, Amos. But can you do it? Is it possible?”
Simon could hear an unfamiliar note in his father’s voice, impatience, agitation, uncertainty.
“Possible? Yes, certainly…advisable, I’m not so sure,” the old man said slowly.
Benjamin Horowitz stiffened. Simon knew that response well, his father was slow to anger but the violin was always able to rouse him.
“When I want advice I’ll ask for it. If you can do it, then do it.”
A question was forming in Simon’s mind, a dark feeling of uncertainty and concern. Before it reached his lips Rachel slammed into him and grabbed his hand.
“I want to know which violin you want. Let me show you the prettiest!” she demanded breathlessly.
She dragged him back towards the shop, her black plaits bobbing violently against her scarlet coat. He looked over his shoulder at the two men, unconscious to the world, bent over the violin that now lay on the green covering of the workbench.
“Come on Si, I want the gold one!”
“Alright, alright, I’m coming.”
Jacob followed them, took a violin down from its hook, picked up a bow and handed them to Simon. He played a few notes and adjusted a couple of the pegs. Then he played a snatch of music. The twins watched, delight on their faces. He fiddled with the pegs again then played some more, feeling suddenly excited as the clear, sweet sound of Bach cut through the rosin filled air. Amos and Benjamin emerged from the backroom.
“He’s a talented boy, this son of yours,” Amos murmured.
Benjamin smiled fondly at Simon.
“He’s a good boy, he practices hard.”
“Maybe so, but he has soft hands and a natural sense of rhythm and that’s half the battle won already.”
Simon stopped playing and handed the violin and bow back to Jacob. He could feel the blush rising in his cheeks.
“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.
Amos took down a box from the rack behind him and held it out to the boy.
“That’s a French violin, made in 1810…Here son, have some rosin. Don’t stop practicing and one day you may be very good indeed. Then we hear you play your Papa’s Guarneri. Did you know the master himself described her sound as like the tears of an angel?”
As they left the shop Simon touched his father’s arm anxiously.
“What’s he doing to it, Papa? Why have you left it there?”
Benjamin laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder as they waited for the twins to pass them and half skip, half run up the sidewalk towards the waiting car.
“Just a minor alteration, an…improvement. You’ll see for yourself when I collect it next week.”
CHAPTER ONE
NEW ZEALAND
FEBRUARY 2008
The auditorium was in total darkness. You could’ve heard a pin bounce on the wooden floor, the air was alive with anticipation and the collective holding of 5000 breathes. Suddenly a large circle of light fell onto the front centre of the stage and Daniel Horowitz, fourteen years old, stepped out of the darkness into the middle of the white light. He wore a well-cut black suit and white shirt, complete with small black bow tie. In his left hand he held a full sized violin and in his right, a bow.
For a long second he blinked vigorously to adjust his eyes and steady his nerves. All he could see were rows of mysterious shapes in the darkness but somewhere out there his father sat, his heart beating as fast as Daniel’s. A bead of sweat ran down his face and he brushed it away with the cuff of his shirt as he took a few deep breaths to control the butterflies doing a wild jig in the pit of his stomach. The stage lights came up to reveal a full orchestra seated behind him, the tall, imposing figure of the conductor on the podium, his baton raised. The atmosphere in the hall was charged as every ear strained for the sound.
With one dramatic sweep of the baton the orchestra burst into the first note of Paganini’s “Allegro maestoso”, the first movement of Violin Concerto 1 in D minor. For over a minute the boy waited and then he gave the screw at the end of the bow one last twist, put the violin to his left shoulder and raised the bow above the strings. The bow swept down and a strong, confident note rang out. His eyes closed and his body relaxed as the nerves vanished. The long fingers flew over the ebony fingerboard and the smooth arc of the bow was mesmerising. Oblivious to everything but the music, his slender frame swayed slightly, more dipping and rising than swaying, as the sound climbed and fell in cascading waves. The conductor was half turned towards him and watched him almost constantly. Towards the end the orchestra was silent and he played the intricate music, trill after complicated trill, as the emotional journey built towards its climax.
Then seventeen spellbinding minutes later it was over. The last note was a flourish, his head went back, he dropped his arms to his sides and bowed from the waist. For a second there was a stunned silence and then the audience rose as one, broke into loud applause and shouts of “bravo!”
Daniel stood in the wings watching the orchestra accompanying a young woman on her violin. It was finals night at the Samuel J. Hillier Foundation International Competition and Daniel was the youngest competitor by at least four years. He was from Newbrick, Illinois, one of three Americans who’d made it to the semi-finals stage, but the only one to progress on to the final. His fellow finalists were Russian, Korean, Chinese, Australian and Canadian.
The competition was over seventy years old and held in a different country every year. It worked on an annual rotation around piano, violin, cello, viola, flute and guitar and this year was the turn of the violin. Steeped in tradition and prestige, as well as a very good first prize of $20,000US, it usually went to an up-and-coming musician on the verge of solo stardom. The first prize was regarded as an important step towards international recognition and Daniel knew he was far from being at that stage.
He was an only child, an American Jew of German extraction. He loved to play baseball, watch basketball and football on television, go fishing, ride his bike and hang out with his friends. In the ninth grade at junior high, he excelled in maths, languages and social studies and his dream was to be a performance music major at college, then a professional musician, who also played baseball.
He was tall for his age, with long arms and legs and a mop of black curls that fell into his eyes when he needed a haircut. Women adored his dimpled chin, his large brown eyes and long black lashes and “fussed” over him, saying he’d be “just gorgeous” and a “heart breaker” when he grew up. He sometimes wished he looked more rugged and wondered if a broken nose or a small scar would make him look older and meaner.
In many respects he was just an ordinary kid, until you heard him play the violin. His father had first put a tiny violin into his hands when he was four, continuing a male family tradition that went back over a hundred-and-fifty years. His great-great-grandfather, his great-grandfather, his grandfather and his father had all played the violin, starting in childhood. But none of them were ever as good as Daniel already was, or so his mother told him. His grade marks in practical and theory had been amongst the highest in the country and when he played at his local hall, with just a piano to accompany him, women wept and men nodded in silent agreement.
Twelve months earlier his school music teacher, who’d also been his violin teacher, had told his parents that Daniel now played better than he did and he could teach the child no more. He suggested that they allow Daniel to audition for the Hamilton Bruce Institute of Music in Philadelphia. He was younger than they usually considered but his talent was so obvious. If they didn’t accept him some other prestigious teaching institution would, so they made an exception and welcomed him with open arms.
This meant a new life, living in a small apartment with his mother, away from his friends and his father, going to a private junior high school and the Hamilton Bruce Institute, both on a scholarship. There were daily violin and piano lessons, weekly recitals and musical studies and after six months the faculty had allowed him to participate in chamber music and orchestral work, although he was the youngest in the groups by far. It was hard work, on top of all his other studies, and sometimes he got very tired and homesick, but he loved it and playing always seemed to re-energise him. Even the practice was fun and being immersed in a musical world gave him the confidence to express his opinions and dreams out loud. His violin teacher, former Italian concert violinist Maestro Alberto Vincelli, had decided to enter him in the Samuel J. Hillier because if he made the last 40 it would be great experience. The semi-finals had seemed highly unlikely; let alone a finals place amongst the best young violinists in the world, but life can be highly unlikely sometimes.
He couldn’t see them but he knew the judges were out there, five of them, sitting in the middle of the front row, listening to every note and watching every movement. The tight knot of tension turned over in his stomach and he took a swig from his water bottle. It wasn’t cold anymore but it did wet his mouth.
“Hello there.”
He turned at the sound of his mother’s whisper. Even at his age he knew his mother was very beautiful, he noticed the way almost every man she met looked at her and it caused a confusing mix of pride and the urge to protect his father. She was wearing her favourite dress, the ‘lucky’ dress they called it, a strapless green silk evening dress, and she clasped his violin case with two arms across her body.
“She’s very cold, don’t you think, Amy Funston?” she asked.
“But she’s so great, technically. It’s a real hard piece.”
She squeezed his shoulder and he leaned back against her. She kissed the top of his curls.
“Just Pomakov to go,” it was a statement, not a question.
“He was awesome in the semis.”
“Not as awesome as my boy!”
The girl finished with a long soft note and the audience responded with subdued applause. Cindy and Daniel moved out of the way quickly as a short, thickset Russian teenager scowled at them and strode towards the stage.
CHAPTER TWO
NEW ZEALAND
FEBRUARY 2008
Almost an hour later the six finalists milled around backstage, moving to keep the tension at a level they could cope with. They spoke in hopeful whispers to their adult companions and avoided eye contact with each other.
Rafael Santamaria Gomez, the conductor and Chairman of the judging panel, shook each hand as he walked past them towards the stage. He was extremely tall, clean-shaven, with kind, smiling brown eyes and his huge hand engulfed Daniel’s. The prizes were donated by the estate of Samuel J. Hillier and presented by the old man’s grandson, Grayson Hillier, who followed Gomez onto the stage. Daniel couldn’t see them once they disappeared through the black curtains but he could hear the deep Spanish accent.
“Ladies and Gentleman, it remains just for me to tell you the result. I know you are all waiting for it, thank you for being so patient!...in third place, the very talented Canadian, Amy Funston.”
Applause broke out in the auditorium as a dark haired young woman squared her shoulders, kissed her teacher on each cheek and walked out from the wings. Curiosity overcame Daniel and he moved to where he could see what was happening on stage. The conductor had his hand extended towards her.
“Well done, it was a beautifully played piece.”
“Thank you, Maestro.”
Daniel watched as he guided her gently towards Hillier, who shook her hand stiffly and handed her the envelope without actually looking at her. She put her arm diagonally across her chest, with the slender hand at the base of her throat, and curtseyed deeply to the audience who clapped even harder.
“Wonderful!...and now for the second position. It goes to a most impressive young man from Moscow. Ivan Pomakov!”
A ripple of surprise ran through the crowd; obviously they’d expected Pomakov to win. For a moment the Russian stood absolutely still, he looked stunned, but then the backstage staff pushed him towards the gap and he walked uncertainly into the light.
“Congratulations…you played superbly.”
“Da…ah, khorosho… spasibo…ah, thank you.”
He seemed to glide past the conductor and on to Hillier. At the announcement of Pomakov’s name the other four finalists jiggled a little, as if a bolt of lightening had passed through them. The hot favourite had come in second and that meant the winner was one of them. Daniel sucked in his bottom lip and stared unseeingly at the cables snaking across the wooden floorboards. He could feel the tension radiating from his mother’s body beside him. Gomez’s voice cut in over the applause and the Russian stopped bowing to the crowd. Even though he could see the conductor side-on he sounded a very long way off and Daniel strained to hear what he was saying.
“…so exciting to be able to announce this winner. He is the youngest winner this competition has ever had, in any category…one of, I believe, the youngest winners of any of the major classical music competitions anywhere in the world…from the United States of America, Master Daniel Horowitz!”
Half way through his mother had cried out, “Oh my God!” and started to hug him tightly. Her body was quivering. He felt suffocated. Suddenly hands pulled him away from her as she was kissing his cheeks and he was spun around and pushed towards the stage. His legs felt weak but he kept going, one step after another.
“Go”, a voice hissed in his ear, “to the stage, now!”
The lights seemed very bright and the applause was deafening.
Once again his hand was swallowed in the man’s right hand as the other hand came down gently onto his left shoulder.
“Well done, Daniel! Muy buneo! Such passion and maturity in one so young!”
Everything he and his mother had rehearsed had gone out of his head and he was reacting instinctively.
“Um…thank you, sir.”
“This way, come, meet Mr Hillier”.
The conductor stooped to whisper in his ear.
“And don’t forget, yes? To thank him for the money.”
Daniel shook Grayson Hillier’s hand and stared directly into his stomach. The white envelope was thrust into his hand.
“Thank you very much, sir…for the money. It’s a great competition, sir.”
He turned to the auditorium and bowed. The house lights came up and suddenly he could see that the crowd was on its feet, still clapping and cheering. A rush of adrenaline surged through him and he smiled. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Russian’s pinched white face and blank eyes. He bowed again, more deeply.
A young woman came from the wings with a huge bottle and a massive bouquet of flowers. She hesitated, then put them into his arms and kissed him on each cheek. There were cellophane and roses and ribbons all around him and the bottle felt so heavy! The bottom of the bouquet reached past his knees and he struggled to see over the vast spread of flowers. Then they were gone, someone had taken them from him and he was free to bow again. Still the applause continued. He glanced towards the side of the stage and could see his mother, clapping and smiling and crying, and he couldn’t resist giving her a little wave.
Then he looked up at the beaming face of Rafael Gomez and smiled back shyly. The conductor nodded briefly and he felt strangely thrilled. Of all the people here, this was the man who mattered most to him. This was the man on the CD covers in his bedroom, the man posing with Joshua Bell on the poster pinned to his wall, the man whose autobiography he’d read countless times. He looked down at the judges, the curly head of Itzhak Perlman and the dark figure of Madam Francesca du Bouliver, then back to Maestro Gomez. Wow, this is seriously cool! Wait till I tell the cubs about this! As the thought exploded in his exhausted brain he knew they wouldn’t understand, but tonight, he didn’t care.
The post-concert gala was an outdoor affair. The hot summer air was very clear and a million diamonds twinkled in the black velvet of the sky. Women in elegant gowns and men in tuxedoes stood sipping Taittinger and gossiping. Every so often they broke from their conversation to take a new glass or an elegant canapé from the waiting staff. A string quartet played quietly in the background, competing with the lapping of the waves on the nearby lakefront. Huge snow-capped mountains glistened in the moonlight like brooding guardians.
Daniel sat at a round table by himself. He’d snuffed out the heavy gold candle and was tracing patterns of melted wax onto the stiff white cloth. The bouquet lay across the table and closer to him stood the magnum of Taittinger Collection Brut, 1981. It was a black lacquered bottle covered with intertwined golden violins, a collector’s bottle designed by the French painter and sculptor, Arman.
His parents were standing a little way off, in conversation with a small, animated man who kept gesturing towards Daniel and was obviously trying to make a point to them. As usual his father was quiet and his mother, vocal and shrill, still too excited. He sighed and took a gulp of coke. Why wasn’t anything cold in this country? Hadn’t they heard of refrigeration? It was still hot. His jacket was on the chair beside him and, despite his mother’s protestations, he’d untied the horrible bowtie and undone the top two buttons of the shirt. Now that the adrenaline had finally left his system, he was really hungry, tired and bored and he wanted to go back to the hotel. Most of all he was ready to go home.
“Daniel?”
He looked up as Rafael Gomez pulled back a chair.
“May I join you?”
He sat up straight.
“Yes please, sir.”
“No more of the sir! How are you feeling, now?”
“Fine…thank you.”
Rafael lowered himself onto the chair and put his champagne flute on the table.
“A little tired maybe?”
“Yes, a bit.”
“So you should, it’s late, and you’ve worked very hard all the week.”
There was a moment’s silence. Rafael turned the bottle around and read the label.
“This is a nice touch.”
Daniel shrugged.
“I’d rather have a case of coke,” he said without a hint of humour.
Rafael suppressed his smile.
“I’ve just been re-reading your notes. Do you…like Maestro Vincelli?”
“He’s a great teacher. That’s what my Mom says. He sets me special challenges, a new composer every quarter. He loves Mozart!”
“But what do you say about it? Do you like him?”
“Yeah, he’s fun sometimes and he still plays real well.”
“Oh he certainly does. You know I conducted him once? Years ago and when he was a concert violinist and I was just a raw novice, not really knowing what it was that I was supposed to be doing.”
“He told me. He said you were the best conductor he ever had.”
Rafael smiled softly.
“I think he’s employing, how do you say it?, selective memory. But I’ve been reading what he says about you. He thinks you’re the most talented pupil he’s ever had.”
Daniel could feel the blush rising in his cheeks.
“Um, thanks,” he said, taking another swig of coke.
“No, don’t thank me! I didn’t say it; although I’m sure he is right in what he says. What’s the best thing of all, do you think, about being a violinist?”
Daniel hesitated. The man didn’t rephrase the question to make it easier, he just waited while Daniel formed his answer. He knew the boy had understood him. Daniel really liked that.
“I think…when you take a new piece…and first you learn the tune? How it goes?”
Rafael nodded and it was obvious to Daniel that he was concentrating all his attention on him.
“Then, when you get that, you explore why, what it means. What the composer is saying to you and how to put the…feelings in. Suddenly the music 197uthie…” he broke off and looked up at Rafael who still waited patiently, “I don’t know how to say it, sir…sings to you. Sort of makes sense.”
“Absolutely right! And do you know why that is so, Daniel? Because it’s in two languages, first the language of the brain, all the notes in the right order and the timing and key and so on and so on…then second, the language of the heart! This is most important and the distinction is what separates all musicians…Some speak the language of the brain perfectly, and so they sound, you know, technically correct…but the heart, it is a complete mystery to them! They don’t understand the message, the passione!...When you do, it’s like a revelation and every time you go back to a score you will find something new you didn’t see before. I’m over 50, ancient to you I know, and I’m still a student!”
Daniel was entranced.
“So who’s your favourite? Composer?”
“I don’t know, to tell the truth I haven’t got a clue. All the time journalists ask me that. I love very much Verdi and Puccini, but also I love Beethoven and Schubert and Bach and sometimes I feel like a little Wagner! What about you?”
“Vivaldi. Although I love Tchaikovsky and some Paganini…and Mendelssohn.”
“Yes, all of those and what about Maestro Vincelli’s little Wolfgang…and we mustn’t forget Shostakovich and Brahms-.”
“Oh yeah, the Concerto in D minor!” Daniel exclaimed.
Rafael laughed heartily.
“See, you’re a lot like me, you can never choose between your heroes! What about the future, Daniel, what do you want to do?”
“Play in an orchestra. Or maybe, play baseball and some violin at the weekends!”
“What? No solo career? You’re not thinking about being a concert violinist?”
Daniel could hear the surprise in his voice and it made him feel guilty.
“Sometimes. I…I don’t know.”
“Do you know who that man is? The one who keeps badgering your poor parents?”
Daniel glanced at the man who was still talking. He had spiky, streaked hair and dark glasses sticking out of the pocket of his jacket instead of a handkerchief.
“No,” he answered uncertainly.
“He’s an agent. A powerful and thoroughly…you know…err, disagreeable little man. He is trying to persuade your parents, he wants to help them to…guide your career, and your life. And he is just the first. They’ll come flocking to you now and they’ll want to put you in front of an orchestra, onto the concert stage and then maybe into the recording studio. And you know, you must always remember it is not you that they care so much about, it is themselves and the money you will make.”
Suddenly Rafael thumped the table with his hand. Daniel gave a little start.
“In August I have a young artists’ symposium at the Kennedy Centre. Musicians from all over the world, singers, pianists, cellists, flautists, violinists, some trumpet and clarinet players, a liquorice allsorts of music! I will talk to your parents and tell them to sign nothing and go with no one. All the best agents will hear you first. You must play, in the stringed instrument concert, O.K.?”
Daniel looked at his parents. His father had been watching and winked encouragingly at him. He wondered how Maestro Gomez would react if he asked how far the Baltimore Orioles’ home ground was from the Kennedy Centre.
“I’m sure they’ll let me, if you ask them.”
Suddenly Rafael pulled himself to his feet.
“So buenas noches, Daniel. Well done and we’ll meet again soon.”
“Good night, sir…and thank you.”
But the conductor was already halfway across the room.
CHAPTER THREE
ILLINOIS
JULY 2008
“How tall is Sean Marshall?”
The four boys lay on their stomachs in the long grass beside a deep swimming hole. The relentless sun had dried the cooling water on their backs and now their skin felt prickly. A fly droned somewhere close by and the air was heavy with the rich smells of summer, sunbaked grass and ripe fruit on trees. The question came from Aaron. Daniel rolled over onto his back and squinted at the cloudless blue sky.
“Six foot seven, tallest in the whole squad.”
“He’s a cool pitcher, for a rookie” said Tony as he, too, rolled over onto his back.
Billy sat up.
“You can keep the rookies, give me “the man!”
Daniel flicked a piece of grass off his face and reached for the water bottle by his side.
“Did you know there’s a mathematical property named after Sosa, McGwire and Maris?”
“A what?” Tony asked in obvious bewilderment.
“A mathematical property…two numbers form the Maris-McGwire-Sosa pair if they are consecutive numbers such that when you add each number’s digits to the digits of its prime factorisation, they’re equal! 61 and 62 have it, and Sosa and McGwire both hit 62 home runs. And that passed the record of Maris-“
Billy scrambled to his feet.
“Who cares? Last one in carries the towels home!”
They all jumped up, followed him to the edge and splashed into the water. Daniel was the last to surface. Tony and Billy were already wrestling, pushing each other under. Aaron was nearby.
“Who had scored 61,” Daniel said.
Aaron was treading water, his head bobbing up and down.
“What?”
“Maris’s record was 61, and the others scored 62 in 1998.”
Aaron launched himself at Daniel, spraying water in his face.
Tony, Billy and Aaron were Daniel’s three best friends. They called themselves “The Cubs”, as both official fans of the Chicago Cubs and also a group of youngsters bound by the fierce friendships of childhood, and this was their den. The long summer holiday was a chance to strengthen the bonds after months apart. They spent hours together doing the things that really mattered, playing baseball, swimming, biking, fishing in the river that fed the swimming hole, playing computer games and talking about the lives that stretched ahead of them.
During the holidays Daniel returned to his parent’s home in Newbrick, Illinois, half way between Peoria and Chicago. His father owned a hardware store and they lived on a flat two-acre block on the outskirts of town. The house was cedar, the colour of burnt umber, long and low slung, with a porch and wide bay windows. The property backed onto a patch of thick forest that led to the river and swimming hole and was surrounded by other pieces of farmland that had been cut up into residential blocks.
The Horowitzs were part of a thriving Jewish community, as was Daniel’s best friend, Aaron Shieff. They observed the basic food rules but didn’t keep a strict kosher house, went to Shule most Saturday mornings in the small local Synagogue and celebrated Shabbat, but not in the orthodox style and David was a member of the local Jewish businessman’s association.
As an only child himself, David understood how important it was for Daniel to have close childhood friendships. He’d grown up in New York and then Vermont, the son of a German holocaust survivor and an American born mother. His father had tried hard to become “American” and adopt the passions of his new homeland but it always seemed to David as if he was trying to block something out, replace horror and evil with confidence and light. The young boy heard the nightmares and arguments through the thin walls of the apartment and grew to dread the times when his father became withdrawn and silent.
Music was their common bond until David reached high school and sport, girls and good times became more important than the violin. He’d gone to work in a lumber yard and eventually gained the American dream, his own hardware store, a beautiful wife and a son. Although they’d tried for years there were no more. He looked more like his Uncle Levi than his father, tall and remarkably strong for his slender build, a good looking man, with a quiet and thoughtful disposition.
His wife, by contrast, was best described as vocal. Cindy Horowitz came from a large family and she knew that to get what you wanted you needed to make yourself heard. Life taught her other lessons with surprising speed, she may have opinions and goals, but what people saw first was her physical appearance. Her blonde hair was thick and glossy and her large baby blue eyes knew how to flash, her long body was blessed with feminine curves and when she walked into a room, heads swivelled. Everything fell into place without her even trying, she was the favourite of her parents, cheerleader and Homecoming Queen, married her handsome childhood sweetheart and watched him buy his own hardware store in a lovely part of the country, had a beautiful son…and then discovered he had a world class talent. At last it was about something other than her, the way she looked, the way people expected her to act. At last she had an outlet for all those frustrated dreams of achievement.
The boys stood their ground in the face of the opposition. They were spread out all over the diamond and Tony stood on the pitcher’s mound, eyeing the batter. He made a tiny gesture to Billy, who was playing catcher, and the boy nodded. The batter was that Ritchie kid, tall, rangy and fair, with a powerful swing. He stood over the plate, bat at the ready, gaze fixed on Tony’s hand.
Out in the field Daniel was on third base watching every gesture and response and anticipating the outcome. He loved this game with a grand passion and was driven by a deep desire not to let his team down.
Tony wound up and unleashed and Ritchie connected with the top of the ball, sending it bouncing into the outfield. A fielder swooped on it and, with one motion, picked it up and threw to first. Aaron tagged Ritchie before he reached the safety of the base. An infectious cheer swept round the field and pure joy flooded through Daniel. One more, just one more!
The next batter walked but Tony struck gold against Carlos and his second attempt was a poor bunt towards third. Daniel scooped it up in his glove and threw the ball to Aaron with all his strength. His friend caught it one handed, high above his flaming red hair, landed on the base, stretched out and tagged Carlos. The boys rushed towards the dugout, falling over each other with exuberance and adrenaline.
“We won! Again! Champions of the diamond-”
“Fluke, wait till the next time, you’ll eat our dust.”
“No chance man, you suck!”
Daniel looked at his watch.
“Thanks. Gotta go,” he said to Aaron as the boy handed him a coke.
“Practice?”
“Lesson, Mom’ll kill me if I’m late, see ya tomorrow.”
He wandered over to his bike, stowed his gear in the saddlebag and rode off across the back of the field to the road, in a cloud of summer dust, swigging the coke as he went.
CHAPTER FOUR
ILLINOIS
JULY 2008
Mr Dalley sat very straight in his chair playing his violin in time with Daniel. His room was plain, just a piano and stool, a stand for the music, a stereo player for recording his pupils’ work, a small table with sheet music piled high and the wheelchair. Apart from the wider than normal doorways, the lower light switches and the ramp to the entrance of the house, it was a home just like Daniel’s own.
Daniel loved coming here, both for his lesson and Mrs Dalley’s homemade scones and lemonade. As an only child he was used to being adored and didn’t really think about how much he meant to other people. He’d never asked why Mr Dalley was in a wheelchair and, with the acceptance of youth, never bothered to pity him. Daniel played an 1825 Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume French violin on loan from the Institute. It had a beautiful, rich tone and he was particularly proud of the inlaid decorations on the back and ribs and the intricately carved scroll. This was a complicated piece and Daniel stopped twice. Finally he came to the end and lowered his instrument. Mr Dalley lowered his and nodded.
“Much better. You still need to watch the timing of that last section, Mendelssohn intended you to feel the movement through the pace of the notes…your fingering for the first part is almost perfect now but don’t forget that left thumb position, it can still be too high and that pulls your fingers down. Do you want to play the Bach again or something lighter to finish with? How’s your finger feeling?”
Half an hour later there was a knock on the open front door.
“Hello? Just me,” David called from the hall.
Daniel and both Dalleys sat in the cool lounge sharing their usual afternoon tea. David winked at Daniel as he sat down on the sofa.
“Hello David, would you like a cup of tea?”
“Thank you Mrs D. Everything OK today, Mr D?”
Mr Dalley nodded.
“Very good, Mendelssohn much improved and the Bach was excellent. We can put that one to rest for a while I think and move on to another. Daniel has chosen a rather lovely Corelli Sonata, one of my personal favourites.”
“How’s Cindy?” asked Mrs D, her plump fingers fluttering around the china pot.
“Oh she’s great, thanks.”
He took the cup from her and Mrs D turned to Daniel.
“Gary didn’t collect the eggs at lunchtime because I told him you like to do it. Would you be a dear and do it for me?”
Daniel sprang to his feet; this was what he’d been waiting for.
“Cool! Is the bowl in the cupboard?”
“No, it should be on the bench all ready for you. Rouster has been very noisy too, wakes the whole neighbourhood I shouldn’t wonder, so you’ll need to give him a good talking to while you’re out there. Let’s go and see.”
Daniel grinned and followed her into the kitchen.
Thirty seconds later the men heard the door to the yard open and close.
“That should keep him quiet for a few moments. Hens have been particularly productive.”
“Do you think he’ll be ready, for the symposium?”
“Oh heavens yes! It’s a month away and he could play tomorrow. He has several pieces at performance level now, but what I really wanted to talk to you about was his finger.”
David looked up at him sharply.
“What about it?”
“He has a nasty bruise on his left middle finger and although he tried to ignore it, I could see it was hurting.”
“Its summer, he’s been out with the boys-”
“Oh, I know. He told us all about the fish he and Aaron caught, but this came from baseball.”
“More than likely.”
“David, I know he’s only fourteen and he likes his sport, but I think you should be seriously considering his future. He can have fun with his friends without playing a ball sport. Baseball could injure his fingers, has injured his fingers! If he broke a finger it might set crookedly and that’d change his whole fingering pattern. It’s my opinion that you should restrict him to watching baseball, but not playing it.
Do they know that he plays baseball in the summer? His teachers? If he had an agent he’d tell you it must stop and Maestro Gomez would say the same. This symposium is a tremendous opportunity and his hands must be perfect.”
David stirred the liquid in his cup and didn’t answer immediately.
“I first took Dan to Wrigley Field when he was five, ‘bout the same age I was when my Dad took me in New York. He wasn’t American so he couldn’t really see the whole baseball experience but he took me, his American born kid. I loved it and Dan loves it. The Cubs mean the-”
“And I’m not suggesting for a moment that he should stop going with you-”
“But playing is part of his commitment to the game! He acts out those games with his pals, just like I did. Part of coming home and being where he belongs is playing baseball.”
David looked across at the man to make sure he understood the point. The pale, narrow face was frowning and the grey eyes looked tired and full of concern.
“How does Cindy feel about it?”
“She’d agree with you, one hundred per cent. She’s the one who’s kept him to his music practice and battled with him when he didn’t feel like it, since he was four! I know she’s told him to be careful of his fingers but you can’t approach a ball sport that way.”
“Talk to him about it. He can still be a fan. All gifted people have to make sacrifices; they have to put their destiny first. He’ll see that if you explain it to him, I’m sure. You must help him to see it, otherwise you’re failing him.”
Two days later Cindy sat at their upright piano accompanying Daniel whilst he practiced. He’d done his usual selection of scales, major and minor, separate and slurred, melodic and harmonic; and now he was working his way through a lively Hungarian dance. He didn’t need to look at her to know she was watching him closely.
“Good boy!...watch that thumb…right through to the heel of the bow, give me a nice sustained sound…on the string, quite weighty, give it some strength…lovely! Nice flourish at the end."
It’d been their daily ritual for ten years, whether they were at home or in Philadelphia. He respected her knowledge and pleasing her was as important to him as pleasing his teachers. As he cleaned his violin she called him into the lounge. It was a Sunday morning and he was surprised to see that his father hadn’t yet left for the golf course. There was a strange tension in the room.
“What’s up?” he asked, looking from one to the other.
Cindy smiled at him and patted the sofa.
“We want to talk to you.”
“Can’t it wait till tonight, Mom? I’m meeting Aaron by the bridge.”
“Going fishing?” his father asked.
“Playing ball. The guys from Stonyridge are biking over, then we’ll go swimming with them. I’ll be home for tea…it’s OK, isn’t it Mom?”
His parents glanced at each other, which meant they wanted to tell him something.
“Sit down, Dan” his father said, sounding suddenly serious, “that’s what we want to talk to you about.”
Daniel felt a prickle of unease. He did as he was told but not beside his mother, in a chair opposite her. David cleared his throat.
“When I picked you up last week I had a chat to Mr D…while you collected all those eggs. He’s worried about the bruise on your finger. He thinks you should stop playing ball-“
“No!”
It was an instinctive reaction. He was driven to his feet by the force of the statement.
“Sit down, son…nothing’s decided, we’re just talking about it. Mr D knows how good you are. He thinks you can go all the way to Carnegie Hall, be a concert violin-”
“But I don’t want to be a concert violinist! And he’s not my real teach-”
“Don’t interrupt your father, Daniel! You can’t know that yet. If you have the talent that everyone thinks you have, you must be what you must be.”
He could see his mother was losing patience and that meant an explosion was not far away. When she paused for breath David abruptly took up the argument.
“Dan, you could break a finger playing baseball. If it doesn’t heal correctly it could be crooked. Then it would change your whole fingering pattern. You know that, we’ve talked abou-”
“But I won’t break a finger! No one I know has ever broken a finger playing baseball.”
“Tony sprained his wrist and it took weeks to heal. And you know some of the boys have cuts and bruises!”
“Oh come on Mom! They told me to be careful but what I did during the holidays was up to me. Maestro knows it’ll never stop me playing the violin!”
“But that’s just the point, darling, it might. Forever! And we can’t risk that, you’re just too talented. We’ve put too much time and money into this; you won an international competition for goodness sake! What if something happened and you couldn’t play at the symposium? How would that look to Maestro Gomez?”
His father came between them and stood over him. Through his anger Daniel registered that he was sweating slightly and the vein in his temple was throbbing, a sure sign he was agitated, his eyes were focused on a spot to the left of Daniel’s face.
“So that’s it, but even though you won’t play baseball anymore, we’ll still go to the Field and watch the Cubs, I promise you that.”
Daniel slumped back and stared at them in horror. Anger and frustration and panic and loss swirled around inside him.
“Talk to me, Dan. Don’t bottle this up, if you talk to me you’ll see I’m right.”
Daniel pulled himself to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Cindy demanded.
“Out!” He spat the word back at her.
“Before you go I want your glove and your bat and your ball.”
Daniel turned away and headed for the door.
“Daniel! Did you hear what I said?”
He spun around, his dark eyes blazing and his face, flushed.
“I’m getting them, OK? They’re no good to me anymore!”
When he returned, the gear in his hands, he could hear the raised voices still coming from the lounge. He paused at the door and listened.
“He’ll cool down, David, then he’ll understand. He’s a very bright boy and music is his life!”
“Perhaps we’re putting too much pressure on him, he’s fourteen, for God’s sake.”
“Precisely! He’s fourteen and Sarah Chang was performing with major orchestras, in concerts broadcast worldwide, when she was eleven. He doesn’t have time to waste on damn baseball!”
CHAPTER FIVE
ILLINOIS
JULY 2008
Daniel was so furious he could barely bike straight. He flew through the air and came down hard on the dirt bumps. The sudden thumps jarred his body and almost twisted the front wheel sideways. He liked the sensation, it suited his mood. They couldn’t do that! They just couldn’t! He’d known he’d have to choose someday but not yet, he was nowhere near ready to give a concert of his own.
Perhaps he could appeal to Mr D, make him understand, but he dismissed the idea in an instant, he’d never see how important baseball was. His father was probably his best hope, he loved baseball too and he’d played the violin as a kid, but even he knew his father didn’t win the important battles in their marriage war. He couldn’t help feeling vaguely hurt and betrayed by his father’s decision and what he saw as collusion with the enemy. He burst out of the forest and onto the track to the road. Head down and legs pumping, he went as hard as he could, along the road and through the gates to the field. His team mates stood in a circle by the dugout. He threw down the bike and ran to join them.
“Nice of you to make it” Tony teased and Daniel gave him a shove.
“Where’s your stuff?” asked Aaron.
Daniel dug the toe of his Reebok into the dirt.
“Just came to tell you. I can’t play.”
“What! Why not?”
All eyes were on him.
“Mr D told Dad it might hurt my fingers, so I’ve got to give it up.”
“No way!”
“But he’s not even your real teacher anymore!”
“Man that sucks!”
Amongst the general sounds of amazement, anger and sympathy, one by one the boys drifted away to start the game. Soon only Aaron was left.
“Are you gonna do what they say?”
“Guess so, you know what Mom’s like.”
“Well…we can still have catches and stuff, if you like.”
“Whatever.”
“I…I better go. Come over later and I’ll whip your arse at Tomb raider. Ok?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you gonna watch?”
Daniel turned away quickly.
“Nope. See ya.”
“Yeah.”
He walked to his bike, picked it up and rode away without a backward glance. He didn’t wipe the tears off his cheeks until he had to and only then because his eyes were so full he couldn’t see where he was going.
The next morning Daniel had a rehearsal in the local hall for the youth orchestra’s summer concert, an eclectic mixture of light classical, show tunes and American favourites. The conductor, Mr Simmonds the chemist, was as enthusiastic as he was amateur. But all the kids loved him because he imparted his passion for the music and explained the stories behind the pieces. The skill levels differed widely so the odd extra note or early entrance was par for the course. No one really cared and they all ended up in the same place at roughly the same time. Daniel was the star attraction. His mother had taken some persuading to let him play and normally he enjoyed it, but today nothing could bring a smile to his face. His playing was mediocre and mechanical and he didn’t stay for the post-rehearsal coke, cookies and chat about the music.
His journey home took him along the main street, past his father’s shop, past his old school, down the country road for a couple of miles and then through the corner of the forest to the house. He had the violin in a leather travelling bag on his back and his music in the saddlebag.
As he reached the forest he heard the sound of conversation. He stopped and listened, they were getting closer. He recognised Ritchie’s nasal twang. Suddenly a group of six teenagers broke through onto the path in front of him. Carlos and Ritchie, old baseball foes, were the only two he knew but they were all older and stronger than him.
“Hey! Look at this!”
Ritchie walked over to him. The others followed and they formed a circle around the bike. Daniel felt a stab of impatience, he wanted to get home.
“Hi Ritchie, guys.”
“Daniel Horowitz. The big time violin player, thinks he’s too good for Newbrick now…I heard you don’t play ball any more.”
Daniel could hear the sneering note in his voice.
“Who told you that?”
“Just heard it. Last night. Baseball too immature for you now, big shot?”
“That’s crap. I missed yesterday, ‘at’s all.”
“Let’s have a look at this violin thingie, seeing as you’re here.”
Carlos reached for the bag on Daniel’s back.
“Don’t touch it! I’ll…I’ll show it to you.”
He slipped the bag off his shoulders and laid it across the handlebars of the bike. They watched as he unzipped it to reveal the black case.
“Looks old, 197uthie used,” Ritchie said.
“Can’t your parents afford a new one?”
Daniel looked up at the boy, the contempt he felt showing on his face.
“No, you moron, the older the instrument, the better the sound.”
“Don’t call me a moron, you fucking little prick! Let’s see this piece-a junk.”
The boy snatched at the open case and knocked it sideways off the bike. The violin case fell upside down on the earth. Before Daniel could get away from his bike to pick it up, the boys had it. They took the violin out and held it up. Carlos picked up the bow.
“Be careful!” Daniel demanded indignantly.
“Ohhh boys, we’ve upset him. Doesn’t look that flash to me.”
“It’s not. The flash one, the one that’s worth thousands of dollars, is at home.”
Daniel couldn’t keep the smugness out of his voice.
“Can you play it like a guitar?”
Someone tweaked the strings repeatedly with his finger. Daniel tossed his bike aside and tried to retrieve his possessions. Carlos had the bow between his two hands. He held it away from Daniel and snapped it in half. Daniel let out a howl of fury but instinct told him that punching the boy would be a mistake.
“You wanker! That costs about three grand. Your parents’ll have to pay for it.”
Carlos dropped the two bits, still joined by the horsehair, onto the ground.
“Did any of you see me do it?” he asked the rest of group.
They all shook their heads solemnly. Ritchie grabbed the violin off the boy who was plucking it, turned it over and scratched a line down the middle of the back with his car key. Then he dropped it into the discarded case.
“Come on, let’s split…forget this stuff, Horowitz, it’s for chickens. Go back to fucking baseball.”
They broke into peals of laughter as they ran into the cover of the trees and vanished. Daniel listened to the sound until it was gone. Then he picked up the two bits of bow and put them into the case. He turned the violin over and ran his finger along the surface scratch. It wasn’t deep and could be easily mended but would mean a slightly altered sound. It was his second violin, but still.
He closed the case, zipped it into the travelling bag and slung it onto his back; then he retrieved his bike and continued on his way. For a while his mind was blank, numb with shock. Suddenly the rage and frustration at his situation rose up and he let out a sustained scream of sheer resentment. The noise was lost in the wind rushing past his face but the act of making it made him feel better.
Just before the gate to his house he came to a sudden dead stop. An idea resounded through his agitated brain and he knew instantly that it was the right choice. It was so stunningly simple and logical it’d solve everything. All he had to do was find a way to tell his mother!
“I’m sorry but I can’t believe this. It’s just ridiculous!”
Daniel watched the three people sitting in a row in front of him. His parents were on the sofa and Mr D sat in his wheelchair. Daniel’s French violin and bow sat on the coffee table between them. It was very hot and ominously still, there was an impressive thunderstorm brewing, both outside and in the lounge.
“Why?” his mother’s voice was full of the controlled exasperation he knew so well.
“I told you already, Mom, a hundred times. It’s just not fun anymore, ball is fun.”
“But you’ve always loved the violin!”
“And don’t you like the lessons?”
Mr D smiled nervously at him, as if he was a disobedient toddler.
“Sure,” he shrugged.
Cindy Horowitz rose and began to pace the room. Her long legs covered the area in a few strides and her hands twisted around each other in a continual motion. He was reminded of something his father had said to him yesterday; his mother was not used to defiance.
“I’ve had enough of this stupidity, Daniel. Life is not all about fun. You’re fourteen years old and you do not decide what you do! For ten years we’ve kept you focused on this instrument, no matter what…You will practice at home and have your lessons! You will play at the symposium and you will be returning to the Institute.”
Her voice was crescendoing to something just under a shriek and the blue eyes were full of rage but he stood his ground.
“Or what? I don’t want to, Mom, and you can’t make me. I’ll just refuse and you can’t force me to hold it. I want to play ball and go to school here, like the other kids.”
“What if we ground you? No going outside this house, no friends and no more ball games?”
Daniel looked at his father who held up his hand.
“I think that’s a bit drastic, honey. If we just give him-“
“No, David! He’s had two weeks and he still refuses to pick the damn thing up! We’ve been patient long enough. If you want to be stubborn, Daniel Horowitz, I’ll show you stubborn…in ten days we leave for Washington DC. This is a huge honour, this symposium that Maestro Gomez has invited you to. You’ll take your violin and you’ll play. If anyone else asks you to play, you’ll play…do you understand me? If you refuse, we’ll…we’ll…we’ll send you to boarding school!”