Julia Richman High School - Spotlight Yearbook (New York, NY)

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I SPIRATIII The fiddler leaned his violin against the curb and wiped his forehead. The street was empty except for two men who now turned out of sight at the comer. The blistering heat of the summer day showed in every muscle of the man who was trying to bring beauty to a dirty street-a street that wanted to remain stretched out in the sun, in its smells and cries, and with the per- sistent sun beating down upon a people who had long since been conquered. High above the same street, a young man in shirtsleeves sat listlessly at a desk on which was a typewriter, and an abundance of crumpled: papers. His handsome face was unsmiling and his eyes were without expression or hope. A letter that was lying near the edge of the desk, once more caught his eye, and again he scanned its contents. It contained his first assignment for a large magazine. His story was due on the following day, but he could not meet the issue. He had struggled with all his heart and soul, but it had been futile. With all of youth's crushed spirit, he cursed the summer heat, he cursed his room, and his efforts, but mostly he cursed himself. The fiddler sat down and rested. As he did so, his eyes fell on his violin, and suddenly a cold feeling crept over him, and he felt old and unwanted. He thought of his first violin. Ma saved for two years to surprise me on my eighth birthday. When Father heard of this he was angry and shouted, 'What will become of this childish fancy?' Ma had smiled, a wan half-hearted smile, as she kissed my cheek and said, 'My son will be the greatest violinist in the world. People will stand for hours to hear him.' And so, Ma died, dreaming of me with musical fame. But, I can't sit here musing. My public is waiting for me and I must not disappoint them. The fiddler rose, picked up his violin and began to play. Would God, I were a gentle apple blossom --a beaten man seated before a typewriter followed the words of a tune the fiddler in the street below was playing. He rose, walked to the window and watched him. Suddenly, the song was forgotten as he stared at the fiddler, and his eyes shone with inspiration. Yes, he would write about the fiddler. He would make famous that lonely man who played so sweetly, and he would give him dreams of glory. The author laughed, That man will never know the dreams I shall give him. That man is my masterpiece. The fiddler walked on, not knowing that the notes of his violin had given hope, courage, and inspiration to the heart of an author. JOYCE GROMBECKER I5

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a million and one other things. Naturally enough, they elected me a com- mittee of one to sit with Alan and keep him company. Not being one of Alan's closest buddies and feeling the difference of three years in our ages keenly, I tried to produce a subject which would be common ground for us both and entertaining to Alan. Naturally, the closest thing at hand was Sis and her preparations for the Prom. I enumerated the preparations emphatically and in great detailg the man hunt, the infamous phone call to Alan, the purchase of the dress and its accessories, the new hair-do, the arrival of Alan's flowers, and Sis's last minute attack of nerves. I guess I didn't hit on the right topic of conversation because it has been a week now, and our dog, Crumb, is the only member of the family who seems to recognize my existence. as as as If that's the way women behave every time they go out, I'll be hanged if I'll waste my good time on them. SUE MOSKOWITZ 6990 'G When sadness fills each lonely day And clouds turn black and then to gray, When twilight comes and day is done We pray the Lord to see the sun. But yet we mortals all should learn That sun can blister, often burn, Its rays may hurt the searching eye Of those tormented, asking why. Reviving hearts may lift them high, And warm them with a happy glow, Then slip away from the pale blue sky- And let them crash to earth below. Oh, yes, we mortals all should learn That sun can blister, often bum But without faith what can life hold? For with the warmth we have the cold. ADELE LEFKOWITZ I4

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Q, I IIEAII IIIAIIY January 1939: Dear Diary, Today was my first day in High School. !: -p It's such a big school and nothing like Junior High. I have so many teachers ig I don't think I'll be able to remember any of their names and they certainly ' won't be able to know me very well with so many girls in all of their classes. I Can't find my way around the school too well and all of those ultra-sophisti- cated seniors seem to take a special delight in misdirecting me. I wonder how they can tell I'm new in the school-just because I don't wear lipstick! When I'm a senior I shall be much nicer to the new girls. That is if I ever get to be a senior! June 1939: Dear Diary, My first term of high school is finished. I am now a full-fledged Richmanite.', It's a wonderful feeling to know that I belong. The only trouble is that it seems so long until I become an upper ' classman. Just think-five more terms of taking mid-terms, gym, and , ' passing Regents. Vlfhy, I'll be ancient when I get out of school! I wish the f f 'Y time would hurry up and come, but there is nothing I can do about it. A11 I 'I things come to those who wait! Il' November 1939: Dear Diary, Two more months and I shall be a .X junior. Not that the time passed very quickly. It didn't! It seems that the If 1 routine is the same every single day. No wonder the seniors look so worn, A and have rings under their eyes all the time. At first I thought it was from f dissipation, but it's probably because they have been in high school for so many years. I ,I June 1940: Dear Diary, What a busy month! First, the journalism f j. I banquet. Not that I like to boast or anything, I was made a columnist on the 4'News right off the hatf' Fresh out of the journalism class and already ' i I'm a member of the fourth estate. It must be in my blood! But, with the A good comes the bad. I took my first regents this month-in geometry. The 1 QNX subject should speak for itself! I passed the regents, of course, but the I! mf mark! I always said it was a silly subject, and I certainly don't imagine j 5:5 editors of papers use geometry to dummy the paper-so it really doesn't I matter any way. October 1940: Dear Diary, I met Howard today. For the first time in my life, I'm in love. Not any of these silly school girl crushes this time- it 11:1 1 4, I 1 5 - , T r x .i - - ,. Q 4 , 3 0 t i lt I C x Q in--If