entanglements because I feared the repercussions.
“You do know how boys look at you?” Bertha pressed on. “You’realmost nineteen, Lena. And most boys in the conservatory are desperate to take you out.”
I was aware of how they looked at me. Male students in the conservatory weren’t shy. I’d received my share of covert whistles and invitations to the dance hall. “Boys want to take out every girl,” I replied. “They’re always looking. I pay them no mind. I don’t want . . . complications.” My voice wavered. “Have you ever . . . done it?”
Bertha shook her head. “It’s not easy for us. How can we protect ourselves? Some boys will use prophylactics if they can get them, but it’s too risky. I am curious, though. Aren’t you?”
Was I? I wasn’t sure, or at least I hadn’t met a boy I liked enough. Perhaps I was indeed attracted to women? I enjoyed coaxing pleasure from my body with my fingers while Bertha snored. But surely that wasn’t unusual. The entire conversation made me wonder. Was there something wrong with me? Was this why I was different?
“I suppose I am curious,” I said warily.
“Well. Frau Arnoldi thinks you’re more than curious. She thinks you’re sleeping with Professor Reitz. She thinks you’re loose . And you have a way about you that doesn’t help.”
“Loose? I’ve never even had a boyfriend!”
Bertha gave me a look. “See? You flirt, you wear fancy clothes, but you’re not running about with boys. You therefore must have a man instead.”
“But it’s not true. My mother pays Professor Reitz for private lessons. I’d never be so reckless. You must believe me. He’s never made an improper gesture or remark to me.”
“Oh, I believe you. I believe you don’t notice. But if Frau Arnoldi said something, then something there must be. She said he gives you high marks. Are you improving so much? Maybe you should pay more attention the next time you go to see him.”
“ If there is a next time,” I grumbled. “If Frau Arnoldi gets her way, I doubt it.”
Bertha sighed. “There’ll be a next time. How can there not be?”
II
I went to class every day and practiced every night. I avoided rambunctious gatherings at the house, sneaking cigarettes while leaning out my bedroom window. On the appointed Thursday of my private instruction, I dressed with such modesty that I thought I resembled a nun as I left the boardinghouse under Frau Arnoldi’s baleful stare to make my way to the conservatory, where, after daily sessions, select classrooms were reserved for private use.
As I passed other students en route to their own lessons, I thought again of how ridiculous it was that anyone could think I’d take up with the very man my mother had hired to instruct me. Yet when I entered the room to find him waiting, a lean figure with tousled dark hair and ascetic features, whose most marked characteristic was his limpid gray eyes, my breath faltered. Now that I knew what had been said about us, I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands—long and veined, his fingers as delicate as stems—as he watched me practice the Abel sonata he’d assigned, tapping the cadence on his trouser leg as he paced behind me, his head tilted to detect any errors.
“No.” His voice, gravelly from smoking, halted me. “Your finger is on the wrong string. Again. And slower this time. You needn’t rush through it.”
I resumed playing, stumbling over the first chords. Catching myself, Iregained my equilibrium, hearing the sonata in my head, so that my hand on the bow and my hand on the fingerboard worked in tandem.
He did not stop me again. When I finished, lowering the instrument to await his critique, he stood silent for a long moment before he said, “You have been coming here for how long?”
“Almost a year, except during the Christmas and Easter breaks.”
“That long? Fräulein, much as it pains me, you are not improving.”
I felt a sudden drop in my stomach.
“You do know how boys look at you?” Bertha pressed on. “You’realmost nineteen, Lena. And most boys in the conservatory are desperate to take you out.”
I was aware of how they looked at me. Male students in the conservatory weren’t shy. I’d received my share of covert whistles and invitations to the dance hall. “Boys want to take out every girl,” I replied. “They’re always looking. I pay them no mind. I don’t want . . . complications.” My voice wavered. “Have you ever . . . done it?”
Bertha shook her head. “It’s not easy for us. How can we protect ourselves? Some boys will use prophylactics if they can get them, but it’s too risky. I am curious, though. Aren’t you?”
Was I? I wasn’t sure, or at least I hadn’t met a boy I liked enough. Perhaps I was indeed attracted to women? I enjoyed coaxing pleasure from my body with my fingers while Bertha snored. But surely that wasn’t unusual. The entire conversation made me wonder. Was there something wrong with me? Was this why I was different?
“I suppose I am curious,” I said warily.
“Well. Frau Arnoldi thinks you’re more than curious. She thinks you’re sleeping with Professor Reitz. She thinks you’re loose . And you have a way about you that doesn’t help.”
“Loose? I’ve never even had a boyfriend!”
Bertha gave me a look. “See? You flirt, you wear fancy clothes, but you’re not running about with boys. You therefore must have a man instead.”
“But it’s not true. My mother pays Professor Reitz for private lessons. I’d never be so reckless. You must believe me. He’s never made an improper gesture or remark to me.”
“Oh, I believe you. I believe you don’t notice. But if Frau Arnoldi said something, then something there must be. She said he gives you high marks. Are you improving so much? Maybe you should pay more attention the next time you go to see him.”
“ If there is a next time,” I grumbled. “If Frau Arnoldi gets her way, I doubt it.”
Bertha sighed. “There’ll be a next time. How can there not be?”
II
I went to class every day and practiced every night. I avoided rambunctious gatherings at the house, sneaking cigarettes while leaning out my bedroom window. On the appointed Thursday of my private instruction, I dressed with such modesty that I thought I resembled a nun as I left the boardinghouse under Frau Arnoldi’s baleful stare to make my way to the conservatory, where, after daily sessions, select classrooms were reserved for private use.
As I passed other students en route to their own lessons, I thought again of how ridiculous it was that anyone could think I’d take up with the very man my mother had hired to instruct me. Yet when I entered the room to find him waiting, a lean figure with tousled dark hair and ascetic features, whose most marked characteristic was his limpid gray eyes, my breath faltered. Now that I knew what had been said about us, I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands—long and veined, his fingers as delicate as stems—as he watched me practice the Abel sonata he’d assigned, tapping the cadence on his trouser leg as he paced behind me, his head tilted to detect any errors.
“No.” His voice, gravelly from smoking, halted me. “Your finger is on the wrong string. Again. And slower this time. You needn’t rush through it.”
I resumed playing, stumbling over the first chords. Catching myself, Iregained my equilibrium, hearing the sonata in my head, so that my hand on the bow and my hand on the fingerboard worked in tandem.
He did not stop me again. When I finished, lowering the instrument to await his critique, he stood silent for a long moment before he said, “You have been coming here for how long?”
“Almost a year, except during the Christmas and Easter breaks.”
“That long? Fräulein, much as it pains me, you are not improving.”
I felt a sudden drop in my stomach.
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