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Updated: May 7, 2025
No nonsense! Quick quick " With a deftly manoeuvered round of good-bys, a grip-laden dash for the door, a throbbing moment of turning back when it seemed as though Sarah Kantor's arms could not unlock their deadlock of him, Leon Kantor was out and gone, the group of faces point-etched into the silence behind him. The poor, mute face of Mannie, laughing softly. Rosa Kantor crying into her hands.
I won't have them breathe on me. Do you hear me? Now! Now! Now!" Risen also, her face soft and tremulous for him, Mrs. Kantor put out a gentle, a sedative hand upon his sleeve. "Son," she said, with an edge of authority even behind her smile, "don't holler at me." He grasped her hand with his two, and, immediately quiet, placed a close string of kisses along it.
Listen how they're shouting it's for you Leon darlink go!" In the center of that vast human bowl which had finally shouted itself out, slim, boylike, and in his supreme isolation, Leon Kantor drew bow and a first thin, pellucid, and perfect note into a silence breathless to receive it.
Our Leon, who could so easily have been excused, not even to wait for the draft." "It's not too late yet please Leon " "Our Roody and Boris both in camp, too, training to serve their country. Why, mamma, we ought to be crying for happiness. As Leon says, surely the Kantor family, who fled out of Russia to escape massacre, should know how terrible slavery can be.
By which Abrahm Kantor, in smiting mother tongue, branded his offspring with attributes of apostate and ne'er-do-well, of idiot and thief. "Abrahm!" "Schlemmil!" repeated Mr. Abrahm, swinging Leon so that he described a large semi-circle that landed him into the meaty and waiting embrace of his mother. "Take him! You should be proud of such a little Momser for a son!
"Play that new piece, Leon the one you set to music. You know. The words by that young boy in the war who wrote such grand poetry before he was killed. The one that always makes poor Mannie laugh. Play it for him, Leon." Her plump little unlined face innocent of fault, Mrs. Isadore Kantor ventured her request, her smile tired with tears. "No, no Rosa not now! Ma wouldn't want that!"
Take him, and here you got back his birthday dollar. A feedle! Honest when I think on it a feedle!" Such a rush of outrage seemed fairly to strangle Mr. Kantor that he stood, hand still upraised, choking and inarticulate above the now frankly howling huddle of his son. "Abrahm, you should just once touch this child! How he trembles! Leon mamma's baby what is it?
Even Sarah Kantor, who still brewed for him, on a small portable stove carried from city to city and surreptitiously unpacked in hotel suites, the blackest of soups, and, despite his protestation, would incase his ears of nights in an old home-made device against their flightiness, would often times bleed inwardly at this sense of his isolation.
Do you want to let your papa and his excitement in on you?" The son of Sarah Kantor obeyed, leaning his short, rather narrow form in silhouette against the closed door. In spite of slimly dark evening clothes worked out by an astute manager to the last detail in boyish effects, there was that about him which defied long-haired precedent.
At twenty-one, when Leon Kantor played a Sunday-night concert, there was a human queue curling entirely around the square block of the operahouse, waiting its one, two, even three and four hours for the privilege of standing room only.
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