She grasped my arm. Just the elbow, really.
I saw in her eyes the look of one who, seeing the end, needs to be listened to. A silent, naked desperation. I knew that look from others I had met in the Yiddish Writers’ Club. Like the others, she’s well into her tenth decade .
I started to tell her, as lightly and charmingly as I could, how frightening it had been to perform in her presence, the presence of a woman who had visited over 150 countries and had sung and danced on stage in almost all of them. I had meant it as a compliment, of course. Not that it was any less true.
But she cut me off.
“Let me tell you something, tayerinke.” She paused.
“Seventy-five years, I’ve been on the stage. It’s always the first time.”
Her eyes locked onto mine and she breathed again, knowing that she had been heard.
“And another thing: If you have no fear, if you can just jump on stage and sing and dance without a thought, it means only that you have no talent at all.
“You did good, tayerinke.”