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Prologue

Now that I was definitely going to the Senetsky School of Performing Arts in New York City. I asked Mommy to tell me once again what it was like for her to come to America from Russia when she was just a little older than I was now. I was hoping she would give me some secret, some special new power with which I could overcome my fears and anxieties and stop the spasms of trembling that made my spine rattle like the infamous snake-- warning warning, warning.

I'm sure it wouldn't be difficult for anyone to understand why I was afraid. I had spent all my life on this corn farm in Ohio. The moonlight always looked warm and soft and protecting to me. I was able to see the sky blazing with stars, not a single constellation washed out by streetlights and the lights of tall buildings. On a mattress of freshly cut grass. I could sprawl out on my back, look up, and feel like I was drifting into space, drifting toward the bedazzling beauty of other galaxies and solar systems. I could feel like I was part of something far greater than myself. In a city as big and overwhelming as New York. I knew you could feel insignificant.

The noises I heard outside my window every night were sounds made by owls and frogs, peepers, and occasionally a coyote or two who had wandered close by in search of prey. The symphony being played was familiar music of the night to me.

It soothed me. I drew it over me like an additional blanket, and fell asleep to the lullaby I trusted. I was never afraid to close my eyes. I was never afraid of the darkness.

However, I knew that, very soon. whenever I put my head down on my pillow to sleep, I would hear the hubbub of city traffic-- horns and car wheels, sirens from ambulances and fire engines or police cars, announcing someone's trouble and pain. There would be the continuous murmur of strange voices, an undercurrent of indistinguishable words caught in the ebb and flow of human drama. In New York City. I would see more people in an hour than I had seen in a month back on the farm. I would be a small fish in a big ocean full of dark waters, searching for the light. I was so afraid my dreams would rot into nightmares.

How had Mama managed to come from a world so similar to the world I lived in now without getting herself lost? Where had she found the courage? She and her aunt had traveled across the ocean. She was coming to marry my father, a man she had never met. The lights of the great city that greeted her surely had to have filled her with terrible uncertainty. She was so far from the voices and the smiles that had given her comfort, embraced her warmly when she was frightened, and promised her that she would be all right, promised her she would always be safe.

Mama paused before answering. I could see she wanted to tell me something important, something that would help me. Her own memories flowed in a continuous stream behind her eyes, some bringing smiles, some making her nod thoughtfully.

"I t's like being born again. Honey. Not in a religious sense. but in a more everyday sense." she began. ''Everythin' is so new and different: the odors. the sounds. the sights. colors. everything. You don't know where to look first. You hesitate to take a step. but you do. and then you take another and another. Soon you're walkin'. just like everyone around you. Suddenly, one day, you feel like you belong, No one can tell you have come from a place vastly different.

"You'll see." she said confidently, "It will happen to you. too. . She was right. of course, But I often wished she wasn't.

1 Curtain Up

How numb and panicky I felt the day Daddy. Mommy, and I set out for New York City in Daddy's new black Lincoln Town Car, It had luxurious black leather seats that still smelled as fresh as the day they were made. The dashboard resembled an airplane console with its sound system, its climate controls and GP S locator screen, and its ground positioning system.

Daddy had bought the car soon after my Grandad Forman had died. There was a great deal more money than any of us had imagined in the legacy, money buried away in interest-bearing accounts Daddy was unaware existed until the will was read. My grandad was a frugal man who believed it was a sin to spend money on anything other than what he deemed absolutely necessary.

A big, beautiful, luxurious car was certainly not absolutely necessary. but Daddy had always wanted one. and Grandad had always discouraged it. I should really say, forbidden it. Grandad Forman had been more than just the head of our household. He had ruled our lives with a stern, fundamentalist religious eye, seeing potential evil everywhere-- even. I was to learn, in his own face every time he looked in the mirror. As terrible as it was to think it, when he died, it was truly as if a heavy weight had been lifted from our shoulders. We could breathe, enjoy the fruits of our hard labor and not be afraid to laugh, listen to music, and appreciate beautiful things for themselves and not only their practical uses.

Nowhere was this more evident than in Daddy's face every time he gazed appreciatively at his new automobile. He had an expression similar to the one on his face whenever he gazed out at a field of fresh, healthy corn and knew we were going to enjoy another successful year. His heart was fall. He was proud of himself. I could see it in his eyes. He was fulfilling promises I was sure he had made to himself, and maybe even to Mommy, years ago.

Daddy had also fulfilled a promise to my Uncle Simon, and built him his greenhouse right behind the cow barn. Uncle Simon. Daddy's older half-brother, was a giant of a man who, despite his size and strength, was the gentlest man I knew. Grandad had treated Uncle Simon poorly all his life, forcing him to leave school at a young age and do hard labor on the farm. He even moved him out of the main house and into a makeshift apartment above the cow barn.

Despite his great strength and size. Uncle Simon accepted his lot in life, but put all his best efforts and love into his flowers. He nurtured them as parents nurtured children, fingered the petals as someone would handle very valuable jewels, and even talked to them. They were almost always vibrant, healthy, and very beautiful. Soon his flowers became very famous. People stopped by to see them often, and then started to offer him money for them. Eventually, with Mommy's help, he had turned his hobby into a successful little business.

Later, when I learned he was really Grandad's son, the result of an affair Grandad had had with one of his farm worker's wives, whom he later married after the worker's death. I understood better why Uncle Simon conjured lip guilt in Grandad's mind, stinging his overblown conscience, and thus why he had tried to separate him from the rest of us.

Thankfully, that had never worked.

Now, with the farmhouse itself being

refurbished. Mommy's new kitchen appliances installed, new rugs, new furniture, and bright new colors in our home all having been acquired. Daddy turned his full attention to me and my attending the well-known Senetsky School for the Performing Arts in New York City. where I had been accepted to develop my talent as a classical violinist.