He wondered why this kindly old gentleman in the queer dress should fiddle in the great palace across the way; he, so rich and powerful, doing for fun what the poor little Yiddish boy did as a task. When Yakov could play he wouldn’t live in a palace, but would try to get a job in a theatre orchestra. His mother answered his query, “What is a cardinal?” with a vague, “Oh, he is a sort of high rabbi,” which didn’t tell her son much. He was brought up in the orthodox faith, went to Shool--the synagogue--and was careful to eat no food that had not been prepared in Kosher fashion. This last practice brought him into conflict with the boys of his class at the public school around the corner. They were American born, though many of foreign descent. That made no difference, for, as much as they quarrelled with one another, they were a unit as to the undesirability of the Jew. Their teacher had scolded, had even punished them, but uselessly. They were sarcastic, were these boys of Italian, Irish and German parents, calling aloud, “Micky,” “Dutchy,” “Guinney,” “Wop,” but for Yakov and his like--in the majority at the school--they had choicer terms: “Sheeny” “Kike!” “Mekmek!” Yakov didn’t much mind the nicknames. He only feared the suddenly delivered punches at his back, the vise-like grip of “Jimmy the Brick” (self-christened) on his neck, and the hateful grin with which a ham sandwich would be thrust into his mouth. This last was the supreme insult. If he did not complain to his teacher, it was because he feared reprisals. So he only told his mother, with tears in his large, dark, expressive eyes, and she comforted him. She said it was the glory of his race, this badge of suffering, these insults from the Gentiles. He must not fight back, but meekly endure. Jehovah would watch over him. She was a decent widow woman, who had a small dressmaking business in her house and barely supported herself and child, also giving him a musical education. Oh! to see him a great violinist! She loved music, and as she worked her sewing-machine she hummed to its rhythms. Once, many years ago, she had heard in Lemberg, her Galician birthplace, the greatest violinist in the world, Joseph Joachim, and one of her race. She was unmarried then, yet she made a silent vow that if ever she had a son.... She had Yakov now, and his father was gone. She always said to him--dead. But she knew better. He had deserted her for another woman, left her without a dollar, and she had been fighting for ten years to keep their heads above water. Living in this humble yet genteel court behind the Cathedral, she dreamed of Yakov’s future, and she cried with joy when the teacher at the conservatory grudgingly admitted that the boy had talent and might--he coughed his reservations--with hard work make a fair musician. Yakov went to school and in the afternoons practised. The weather was warm, windows were opened, and he attentively heard the fiddle of the Cardinal.