“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope you’ll forgive me,” she said, speaking barely above a whisper.
“You didn’t keep us waiting at all,” Mr. Lurie said. “We had lots to discuss. But now, my dear, we’re ready, if you are.”
Minna took up her position at the piano. Her husband tapped his bow and the opening measures were begun. Minna was given her cue to start. She sang a few bars, then stopped as if displeased with the tone.
Mr. Lurie held up his bow. “We’ll start again. We play five measures, Minna, then you come in.”
The opening bars were repeated. Minna came in at the appropriate beat. She sang three bars, then another. She opened her mouth for the next high note. There was a hoarseness, a thickness, then nothing. Finally a heartbroken whisper broke the strained silence.
“John, I can’t sing—I’ve lost my voice—”
In the confusion that followed, Judy only remembered the terror in her mother’s eyes and her father’s gentleness as he calmed her.
“Karl,” Mr. Lurie said quietly, “Dr. Keene lives down the block. No use telephoning, his wire is usually busy at this hour. Go quickly and tell him to come.”
The musicians left, murmuring their sympathy. Mr. Lurie carried the inert and almost helpless Minna to her bed. She was suffering now from a chill and Judy, without having to be told, fetched the hot water bottle and extra blankets.
She returned to the parlor and stared at the empty chairs, the shining music stands, the blaze of lights. She began pacing the tiny room. All these weeks she hadn’t given a thought to her mother, thought only of Karl. She murmured an inarticulate prayer—“Oh, God, don’t take away her voice. She’ll die if she can’t sing.” Her mother’s words spoken weeks ago beat upon Judy’s memory. “Struggle to get this far—” Judy knew now that it took a great deal to make an artist, hours, days, years of work.