puffy lips capped by a mustache that bristled.
“Danusia, here is Mr. Catlin, piano teacher of good student, Jadzia Bokovska.” She was also the obnoxious show-off daughter of our next-door neighbor. Mother pointed at Mr. Catlin. “You are paid after,” she announced and disappeared through the draperies.
Mr. Catlin flung his bulky briefcase on the ornate coffee table that Mother always warned, “Never touch! Delicate!” Plunging his hand into the depths of the briefcase, he pulled out a wooden box about the height of the kitchen’s giant peppershaker. “Meet Captain Metronome, on duty for every practice and every lesson.” Mr. Catlin positioned the little dictator on the left side of the piano, right above the keyboard.
Again he dug into the briefcase and brought out a worn red and white booklet, John Thompson Series, Book 1, Level 1, For Beginners. Mr. Catlin opened its earmarked pages and shoved the book against the music ledge. One more time he reached into the briefcase. This time, he ceremoniously withdrew a cigar box as if it were a rare treasure. On its cover was a sexy dark-haired woman with big bosoms. Above her head, bold black letters spelled out Havana Delights, Made By Hand. In smaller script at the bottom, Genuine Cuban Cigars made in Venezuela.
With gusto, Mr. Catlin flipped open the lid and surveyed the contents. His thick fingers fluttered over the cigars as if they were waiting piano keys. He selected one and raised it up to his nose. He held it between his teeth, reached into his pocket, and withdrew a gadget that clip-clipped the tip of the cigar. Then Mr. Catlin lit up the first cigar I’d ever smelled and would never forget.
Even my big imagination couldn’t have invented the way Mr. Catlin transformed into Maestro of Doom. He loomed over me, shouting drills, spewing billows of cigar smoke into a toxic fog that enveloped the Maestro, the piano, and me.
The precise moment the grandfather clock struck 5:00 p.m., Maestro of Doom roared at me, “By next Wednesday—practice, practice, practice!” while he carefully packed away his beloved cigar box. He snapped shut his bulky briefcase and yanked it across Mother’s precious antique table. Then, puffing his cigar, Maestro of Doom disappeared between the blue draperies. As soon as I heard the front door slam, I flung open the heavy drapes. Like a flapping penguin, I ran around the living room, trying to force the toxic residue into the hallway. My head ached, my eyes watered, and I dropped to the carpet and gulped in what I hoped was cleaner air.
On practice days when the living room was completely smoke free, the piano exercises were easy for me, and my career as a concert pianist seemed possible. I even relished telling Mother, “I’m on my way to practice the piano!”
“Finally you do something useful, instead of you silly drawing all time.” If Mother ever gave encouragement, she cloaked it in criticism.
Week after week, Maestro of Doom and his cloud of smoke came on Wednesday afternoon, for one hour. I took shallow breaths and tried not to cough. But my chest tightened, my head throbbed, and my throat burned. I was getting sicker and sicker. Finally the day came when the Maestro went too far. The grandfather clock struck 5:00 p.m., and he flicked ashes across Mother’s oriental carpet as he exited.
That did it! Holding my nose, grabbing my stomach, and ready to vomit, I staggered into the kitchen. “Mamusia, you must—” I faked a coughing fit.
Mother’s attention shifted from me back to the massive pot of kapusta with kartofle.
“Mamusia, you must listen to me!” I shouted out between coughs. “It’s Mr. Catlin. His awful cigar smoke is making me sick—really sick.” Moaning with desperation, I shifted tactics. “I love playing the piano—and I’m good at it.” Then I plopped myself into a chair, forced tears flowing down my cheeks, and positioned my hands into fervent prayer mode. “Please, Mamusia, will you find another piano teacher for me?”
Dead silence from Mother.
Even though I was bent over, scrutinizing the floor, I had to check Mother’s mood. Things looked bad, very bad. She stirred like mad, long wooden spoon circling so fast I thought it would jump right out of the pot.
“No! What is good for Jadzia Bokovska is good for you.”
The next day I had such a bad sore throat that I went to the school nurse. She sent me home, where Mother immediately shoved me into the Packard. “We go to Doctor Jacobski!”
The doctor poked and swabbed, took my temperature, and shook his head at Mother, who was sitting in the examination room. “Donna must stay home from school,” he said. “She needs complete bed rest for one full week. Nothing else.”
As ordered, I stayed home. My raw throat was so sore I couldn’t possibly swallow Mother’s lumpy cooking. For a week I ate only ice cream, and I recovered.
Maestro of Doom never returned. No other piano teacher replaced him. My dreams of becoming a classical concert pianist evaporated. But there was one happy thing—shoving Captain Metronome into the trash barrel.
Pretty Things
After Maestro of Doom left, The Imposter arrived. One day I came home from school, shut the front door, and heard sounds of a Polish shouting match coming from the kitchen. Instead of running upstairs to shed my ugly school clothes, I headed to the kitchen. On the table sat an enticing plate of Kazanowski’s fresh babka, my favorite Polish coffee cake filled with raisins and glazed with sugar. But the kitchen was clouded with cigarette smoke. Horror had descended upon 360 Fairfield Avenue!
“Danusia, I want you give big hug Auntie Geynia,” Mother ordered. “Nice surprise, she is come from Poland to stay our house.”
No way she was a genuine aunt, because none of Mother’s true family had survived the Bolsheviks. Auntie Geynia, The Imposter, was one of the Polish immigrant women Mother impulsively absorbed into our lives. Right away I didn’t like this wire thin, fake auntie whose arms moved like wooden sticks.
Reeking of cigarette smoke and settled in like she already belonged, Auntie Geynia grabbed and hugged me. “You must come to Poland,” she thrust up a skinny arm for emphasis, “to learn best Polish accent from daughter Krystyna.” She puffed up with pride when she bragged about her daughter back in Poland being “bardzo ladna.”
I didn’t care if her daughter was a “very pretty” person or not—precious Krystyna was of zero interest to me.
Overnight I became servant-to-Auntie-Geynia. As soon as I got home from school, Auntie Geynia’s commands started. “Danusia kohana, come here!” she said. I cringed each time she called me her “dear.” “Danusia kohana, you find pillows for my aching back.” “Danusia kohana, turn on Polish radio station.” “Danusia kohana, find my cigarettes.”
I handed her matches. I followed her with ashtrays as she walked through the house flicking a trail behind her. I ran for the Hoover and vacuumed like mad, trying to clean the stinky residue before I went into a smoke spasm.
On weekends, I ran errands for her. She even sent me out to buy a second copy of Novy Swiat because Dad was too slow reading our home-delivered copy. I expected she would eventually give me a nice compliment—it never happened.
During the eternity of the three months she stayed with us, Auntie Geynia never missed a chance to criticize America. “You are eating corn in this country? In Poland, corn is for pigs only,” she insisted. While all along, she kept putting on fat from eating so many big portions of American food. “Hartford, ach! Where is kultura here? A city only for … How you say? … too many insurancing peoples.”
To build up a stash of American dollars, Auntie Geynia took any job: cleaning lady, waitress, leaflet-passer. And she stole my babysitting jobs. When I was upstairs doing homework, Auntie Geyna would dash to answer the “boarders no use” telephone. In butchered English she’d filter the calls. If it was someone calling me to babysit, she’d lie, “Danusia no home, but I very good to come.”
One day, Mother told me that Auntie Geynia was going back to Poland. The Impostor’s last day was going to be one of my happiest. So I thought. The morning