“Now it was winter. A stinging cold had set in, and as Reuven went out to the woodpile with a wheelbarrow to load up with logs for the stove, he had to blow on his hands to keep them warm. Had the calluses, he wondered, insulated his skin? It was certainly true that the wood felt rougher. He paused and looked at his hands. They were no longer the hands of a violinist. Odd, he thought, how those thick patches of rough skin that made it so easy for him to finger the strings with just the right pre...ssure could vanish, and yet the music still lingered in his head. In the beginning, his family questioned him. But Reuven was unwavering. Soon they stopped asking him if or when he would play again. It didn’t matter, however. For they didn’t have to say anything out loud. They asked a thousand times a day in their own way. His father would pull out his watch every afternoon at the time Reuven had gone to Herschel’s for his lesson and then look from it, as if to say, Why are you still here? His mother, who was not exactly musically gifted, had taken to humming disjointed snatches of the pieces she had remembered Reuven practicing.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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