Read Online In the Claws of the Eagle by Aubrey Flegg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aubrey Flegg
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Vibrato: too much. Intonation : good except in pizzicato. ‘No time to slide about looking for the note, is there?’
As she went on, adding glowing comment to glowing comment , her voice softened. Her prowling slowed. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you this, but you know that the Konzerthaus is part of the University?’ Izaac nodded. ‘Well, the Professor of music heard you and suggested to me, after your performance, that you should enrol at the University and study with me there.’
‘But I’m only nine!’ Izaac said, his jaw dropping.
Helena reached forward and raised his chin. ‘You’ll still have to go to school, but well done, my little wonder. Now give the old dragon a kiss. I deserve it. We can talk vibrato later.’
CHAPTER 8
The Face in the Ivy
Erich was doing his homework while his mother painted. He liked the smell of turpentine as it mixed with the piny smell of his pencil parings. She was relaxed, singing quietly to herself, Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot …They were like two overlapping circles, each with their own centre but each aware of the other. Erich didn’t understand her paintings, splashes of colour and criss-cross lines, but he liked cutting out pictures of ‘real things’ from her monthly magazine and pasting them on to the walls of his room. He would imagine walking into the pictures and having adventures.
He looked up. Grandpa Veit was resting, and Father was still at his work. Erich could see his mother over the top of her easel. The light falling over her right shoulder was catching the curtain of fair hair across her face. Grandpa called her a Rhine maiden , so Erich thought Rhine maidens must be the most beautiful people in the world. Yet there was something in the way that Grandpa said it that made Izaac feel protective and possessive about her. People said that he looked like her. Once, when Grandpa had him on his own, he had pushed Erich’s shoulders back and lifted his chin, and had told him he was ‘good Aryan stock’. Erich had no idea what this meant but, like most things Grandpa told him, he kept it to himself.
That evening after work, Mr Solomons, the owner of the timber yard, knocked on their door. They were all there,Father, Mother, Grandpa and Erich, about to have dinner. Though there was little enough food, Mother, impulsive as always, invited Mr Solomons to join them. He refused politely but stood there awkwardly, a book under one arm, twisting his hat. Then he explained that he had been in Munich on business . While there he had gone to an exhibition of modern art. Knowing Mrs Hoffman’s interest, he had taken the liberty of bringing her the catalogue of the exhibition, if she would be so kind as to accept it.
Mother’s face lit up. ‘Oh, how kind, how wonderful.’ In a moment, forgetting all about dinner, beckoning them to her, she said, ‘Come and look, everyone!’ She began turning the pages of the catalogue, exclaiming over the pictures with cries of delight. ‘Oh look: Picasso, and Matisse, that’s Miró surely …’
As his mother was excitedly turning the pages, Erich felt Grandpa’s hand on his shoulder, biting in and drawing him back from the others. When he had been pulled to a safe distance Grandpa Veit bent and whispered in his ear.
‘Mustn’t let you get contaminated, boy.’ He made a dusting gesture at Erich’s front as if Erich had rubbed up against something dirty. Confused and embarrassed, Erich tried to move away but Grandpa Veit held on to him. ‘Notice that he wouldn’t eat with us?’ Erich supposed he meant Mr Solomons. ‘Because we’re not kosher … we’re unclean, might give him pig.’ The old man’s stale breath blasted in his ear. ‘He’s poisoning her now with all that rubbish – modern art – it’s a conspiracy , son! All cut-up people, and nudes that nature wouldn’t recognise; it looks like kid’s art, but it’s corrupting; all part of their plan.’
‘Whose plan, Grandpa?’ Erich
As she went on, adding glowing comment to glowing comment , her voice softened. Her prowling slowed. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you this, but you know that the Konzerthaus is part of the University?’ Izaac nodded. ‘Well, the Professor of music heard you and suggested to me, after your performance, that you should enrol at the University and study with me there.’
‘But I’m only nine!’ Izaac said, his jaw dropping.
Helena reached forward and raised his chin. ‘You’ll still have to go to school, but well done, my little wonder. Now give the old dragon a kiss. I deserve it. We can talk vibrato later.’
CHAPTER 8
The Face in the Ivy
Erich was doing his homework while his mother painted. He liked the smell of turpentine as it mixed with the piny smell of his pencil parings. She was relaxed, singing quietly to herself, Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot …They were like two overlapping circles, each with their own centre but each aware of the other. Erich didn’t understand her paintings, splashes of colour and criss-cross lines, but he liked cutting out pictures of ‘real things’ from her monthly magazine and pasting them on to the walls of his room. He would imagine walking into the pictures and having adventures.
He looked up. Grandpa Veit was resting, and Father was still at his work. Erich could see his mother over the top of her easel. The light falling over her right shoulder was catching the curtain of fair hair across her face. Grandpa called her a Rhine maiden , so Erich thought Rhine maidens must be the most beautiful people in the world. Yet there was something in the way that Grandpa said it that made Izaac feel protective and possessive about her. People said that he looked like her. Once, when Grandpa had him on his own, he had pushed Erich’s shoulders back and lifted his chin, and had told him he was ‘good Aryan stock’. Erich had no idea what this meant but, like most things Grandpa told him, he kept it to himself.
That evening after work, Mr Solomons, the owner of the timber yard, knocked on their door. They were all there,Father, Mother, Grandpa and Erich, about to have dinner. Though there was little enough food, Mother, impulsive as always, invited Mr Solomons to join them. He refused politely but stood there awkwardly, a book under one arm, twisting his hat. Then he explained that he had been in Munich on business . While there he had gone to an exhibition of modern art. Knowing Mrs Hoffman’s interest, he had taken the liberty of bringing her the catalogue of the exhibition, if she would be so kind as to accept it.
Mother’s face lit up. ‘Oh, how kind, how wonderful.’ In a moment, forgetting all about dinner, beckoning them to her, she said, ‘Come and look, everyone!’ She began turning the pages of the catalogue, exclaiming over the pictures with cries of delight. ‘Oh look: Picasso, and Matisse, that’s Miró surely …’
As his mother was excitedly turning the pages, Erich felt Grandpa’s hand on his shoulder, biting in and drawing him back from the others. When he had been pulled to a safe distance Grandpa Veit bent and whispered in his ear.
‘Mustn’t let you get contaminated, boy.’ He made a dusting gesture at Erich’s front as if Erich had rubbed up against something dirty. Confused and embarrassed, Erich tried to move away but Grandpa Veit held on to him. ‘Notice that he wouldn’t eat with us?’ Erich supposed he meant Mr Solomons. ‘Because we’re not kosher … we’re unclean, might give him pig.’ The old man’s stale breath blasted in his ear. ‘He’s poisoning her now with all that rubbish – modern art – it’s a conspiracy , son! All cut-up people, and nudes that nature wouldn’t recognise; it looks like kid’s art, but it’s corrupting; all part of their plan.’
‘Whose plan, Grandpa?’ Erich
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