Listen for the Singing

by Jean Little

  “They’re afraid I’ll sew my finger to something, I guess,” Anna said.

  Miss Marshall had, of course, realized that Anna’s vision was poor but not that poor. She looked flustered momentarily, and angry, as if Anna had invented the problem to make things difficult. Then her frown vanished.

  “You can knit!” she announced, obviously pleased with herself for hitting upon a solution so quickly. “Blind people are wonderful knitters.”

  Without giving Anna a chance to express an opinion, the teacher went to the back of the room and rummaged in her cupboards. Before long, she emerged triumphant with a pair of knitting needles and a ball of dingy grey wool.

  “Can you cast on?” she asked, coming back to where Anna waited.

  Anna shook her head.

  “Mama tried to teach me to knit when I was eight,” she said, looking and feeling embarrassed, “but I was terrible at it. I do remember how to do the stitches … I think.”

  She was not given a chance to explain that Mama’s attempts to teach her had happened before she got glasses, and that, given another chance, she was sure she could learn.

  Miss Marshall cast on a row expertly, in a matter of seconds. “There,” she said, making it clear that she felt well rid of Anna and her problems. “You just go and knit at that while I get on with showing the class how to begin their aprons.”

  Anna sighed and started.

  “Anna Solden, don’t hold your needles like that!” Miss Marshall exclaimed. “Here. Give them to me. Now watch.”

  Anna tried. She did see that the teacher did not tuck the needles down the way Mama did and did not move only her right hand. But before she had figured out Miss Marshall’s method, the knitting was handed back to her. She laid it down on the table and pretended her shoe needed tying, counting on someone to call the teacher’s attention away from her. When she straightened up, sure enough Miss Marshall had moved on to supervise Patsy Rawlings threading the machine.

  “How do I have to do it?” she whispered to Maggie.

  Maggie arranged the needles in Anna’s hands. Knitting had never been easy, but even a simple garter stitch almost defeated her when she could not use her needles in the German way. With Maggie quietly correcting her whenever she went wrong, she persevered.

  When the bell rang to end the period, she had produced a very small, very lumpy piece of material. There were two obvious holes in it and it was considerably wider where she finished than it had been when Miss Marshall cast it on.

  The teacher took one look, ripped the whole thing out, and said, “Perhaps you will improve with practice.”

  She sounded as though she doubted it. Anna doubted it even more.

  “What use is it?” she complained to the others as they moved to their next class. “She can’t be going to make me knit the same piece over and over, can she?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” said Maggie.

  “If she’d teach me, I might be able to learn to cast on anyway,” Anna said, “but maybe I couldn’t either. She doesn’t go slowly and she stands too far away.”

  “Get your mother to teach you,” Paula suggested.

  “She doesn’t do it Miss Marshall’s way and she’d never change,” Anna said and gave up.

  As they neared the door of Miss Sutcliff’s room, she burst out, “I don’t see how she can say that blind people are wonderful knitters. It’s … it’s like saying all Negroes are marvelous singers or all Germans are Nazis.”

  “But, Anna,” Suzy said. “I know what you mean, I guess, about Germans. But the Germans in Germany, the real Germans, they’re Nazis.”

  Anna whirled on her.

  “They are not!” she cried. “How dare you say a thing like that? Lots of German people — hundreds! — hate what Nazis do!”

  “Take it easy, Anna.” Maggie, who was the only one Anna had told about Aunt Tania’s letter, took hold of her friend’s arm and held her back. “Suzy doesn’t know what she’s talking about. And it’s time for English. If you have to fight, do it after.”

  For once, Anna found it hard to pay attention to what Miss Sutcliff was saying. The period was half over before she had calmed down. It had been a difficult morning but still she was startled by the intensity of her rage for she had known, really, that Suzy spoke out of ignorance.

  But so many people don’t know any more than she does, she thought. I guess that’s what made me so mad. How can you teach so many?

  She looked over at Suzy. The other girl happened to look across at her at the same moment. She clearly still had no idea of what lay behind Anna’s anger. She looked uncertain, even hurt. Anna smiled, repentant. Suzy instantly beamed back.

  She’s forgiven me, Anna thought, ruefully. She knew that she should try to explain to Suzy later on why she had been angry but she also knew that she wouldn’t. Telling Maggie about Aunt Tania was one thing. Telling Suzy would be impossible.

  Chapter 13

  Anna had observed Armistice Day, or Poppy Day as the children called it, each year since she had come to Canada. It was in honour of the end of the 1914–1918 war. But this year was special because they were at war again.

  Still the assembly began much the same as all the others. The Scripture verse was still John 15:13. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

  They sang, as always, “Oh, God, Our Help in Ages Past.”

  The girl who had won last year’s grade twelve oratorical contest recited “In Flanders Fields.” Anna, along with every other Canadian child, had had to memorize it long ago. Still she found herself listening with interest.

  In Flanders fields, the poppies blow

  Between the crosses, row on row

  That mark our place; and in the sky

  The larks, still bravely singing, fly

  Scarce heard amid the guns below.

  We are the Dead. Short days ago

  We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

  Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

  In Flanders fields.

  Take up our quarrel with the foe.

  To you, from failing hands, we throw

  The torch; be yours to hold it high.

  If ye break faith with us who die

  We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

  In Flanders fields.

  Anna did not like the last verse as well as the first two. Suddenly she realized that there must be no skylarks in Canada for she had never heard one here. Or even heard them mentioned. But there were skylarks in Germany, and she remembered how they sang. The day Papa had made her aware of them was, in that instant, as fresh in her memory as though it had happened last week. They had been out in the country, going for a walk, and she had just started to get tired when Papa said, “Listen. That’s a lark singing.”

  The twins had stood, craning their necks back, searching the sky for the bird. Anna, who had never seen a bird in flight, did not bother to look up.

  “Where is he, Papa?” Frieda demanded. “I can’t see him.”

  “Larks fly so high they are only specks against the sun,” Papa said, “but they keep singing as they mount up. Listen.”

  And Anna, too, had heard the shrill joyous song falling down to them out of the blue.

  Now she said the line about the larks over to herself:

  … and in the sky

  The larks, still bravely singing, fly

  Scarce heard amid the guns below.

  A Canadian doctor named John McCrae had written the poem, she knew. Wasn’t he supposed to have written it in the middle of a battle, in between caring for wounded soldiers? How could he have noticed larks at a time like that? she wondered, coming on the thought unexpectedly. Most people would only have heard the guns.

  Then everyone at the assembly stood while the names of graduates of Davenport Collegiate who had died in that war were read aloud. The students stood for two minutes of profound silence. Then a boy from the band played “The Last Post” on hi
s bugle. He played from behind them, so that the notes floated out over them, beautiful, infinitely sad. Although her father had fought in the wrong army, and not one of the names read out had special meaning for her, Anna felt her heart wrench at the thought of all those young men being killed. After all, they had been boys here, standing in this very hall. They must have wanted to go on living as much as she did.

  Then, when they took their seats, the hush still holding, Mr. Appleby came out on the stage and began to talk to them.

  “How many of you noticed that the poet, in the middle of a bloody and terrible battle, still could hear the singing of larks? Faintly but still bravely singing. In a sense, that is what I want to talk to you about. How important it is to stay aware of something other than the sounds of gunfire. Wartime is a time of despair and fear and loneliness and loss. Not many of us have had to face those things yet, but before this war is done most of you will have been touched by tragedy. Some of you may well be called on to fight in the armed services. You will all hear of hatred, violence, and slaughter. Some of you may already have experienced special tension — those of you with relatives in the British Isles or in Europe.”

  He does know, Anna thought. That was why he said all that about us on the first day of school. He used our family to stand for all the rest, Paula and Carl … She cut short her thoughts, not wanting to miss what he was saying.

  “You will have to grow up more quickly than any group of students I have ever had before. We are facing a hard time and you are not children to be spared its pain, sheltered from its sorrow.”

  He paused for a moment. Though hundreds of young people sat facing him, there was not a sound.

  He’s talking to us as though we matter, Anna thought.

  “But you have something special to give to the rest of us in this time of trial. You have faith. Once at a revival meeting, I heard a preacher say, ‘Faith is when you hear the bird singing before the egg is hatched.’ I thought it so perfect a definition, I have never forgotten it.

  “Teachers have that kind of faith in their pupils or they would not be able to teach. They see promise, sometimes when no one else can see it, and over and over, because of their faith, they work hard enough to make the promise come true. Many people have faith in something.

  “But I think that you must have faith in the whole world. It is going to appear hard and cruel in the months to come, and many of us will lose hope. You, with your young eyes which see more clearly, must look deeper. Keep believing that, somewhere, there is goodness, beauty, joy, love. When you find them, share them with us.

  “To me, the world is like that unhatched egg. Older people, embittered by suffering, will tell you that it is rotten, that it is not worth saving. But you must warm the world the way the mother bird warms her egg. Warm it back into life and love. It is terribly important that young people like you listen for the singing.

  “Because when this world breaks open, the new world will be yours. And your faith in it and in yourselves will shape the future, will decide whether there will still be a song.

  “I am putting this badly. But remember the poet hearing the larks. And the preacher’s words, ‘Faith is when you hear the bird singing before the egg is hatched.’ It is up to you to keep the faith … and listen for the singing.”

  He usually finished off with a joke but this time, he just stopped and looked out over the sea of faces. Anna, looking up at him, wanted to say out loud, “I will. I’ll try.” The whole student body seemed to be pledging the same thing. Mr. Appleby smiled, said “Thank you” quietly, and dismissed them.

  Anna walked out with the others. She felt as though she had made a huge discovery, as though, at last, she understood why she was alive right now, today.

  That night, she told Papa about the speech.

  “He is a fine man,” he said. “Tell me again.”

  Then he helped her with her French. She did not tell him about the knitting.

  In the next few days, Anna tried to hold onto her mood of exaltation but it was hard. Though she tried to think about the war, she still found it impossible. There was still no news about Aunt Tania. And nothing seemed to be happening in the war. Nothing at all.

  Chapter 14

  At the end of November, after so many weeks had passed that she had stopped worrying, Mr. McNair found out about Anna and her algebra.

  It was all her own fault too.

  She had copied Paula’s homework for so long that she no longer thought of it as cheating. It wasn’t as though it was a test and she was getting good marks for work she hadn’t done.

  She still never put up her hand, of course. Mr. McNair knew about her poor vision and did not ask her to go to the board. At first, while he called out the names of those who had to go forward and demonstrate in front of the entire class how they had solved a problem, she waited, her stomach fluttering wildly, her eyes fixed on the lid of her desk, and hoped, prayed even, that he would overlook her. Finally, after he had sent the others in her row up four, then five, then six times and left her out, she had relaxed and felt secure. He was not going to bother her. He understood she was different. He was a wonderful man.

  So, that grey afternoon, Anna, feeling perfectly safe, turned around in her desk and whispered to Maggie a joke Fritz had told her at breakfast. Maggie, caught off guard, giggled right out loud. And kind, understanding, wonderful Mr. McNair said, “Anna, will you please go to the board and show us how you did problem 17?”

  Anna could not believe her ears. She sat where she was, hoping it was a mistake, that he would realize that …

  “Anna, did you hear me?” her teacher asked. “Or were you too busy talking to Maggie?”

  Anna knew then that he meant it.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, floundering. “I mean, no, sir.”

  “Then don’t keep the class waiting,” Mr. McNair said and motioned for her to proceed to the blackboard.

  Anna picked up the textbook and stumbled forward to meet her doom. She knew you were allowed to take your text but not your notebook with you. She also knew she had not the slightest idea of how even to begin problem 17. Well, that was not quite true. She did know one sentence.

  She picked up the chalk and wrote, her hand shaking, the chalk squeaking with every stroke.

  Let x = the unknown quantity.

  That much done, she stood there, helpless, the chalk still clutched in her fingers, nothing inside her head.

  “Go ahead, Anna,” Mr. McNair said.

  Anna did not move, remained mute.

  “Do you know which problem I asked you to do?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is your homework done?”

  Anna nodded.

  “Let me see your work.”

  She returned to her desk. Mr. McNair bent over her notebook. The problem was there, done correctly, exactly the way she had copied it from Paula.

  “But …” Mr. McNair began, puzzled. Then he looked straight at her.

  “Did you copy these answers from someone else?”

  “Yes, sir,” Anna said, her face burning.

  “Come in after four o’clock.”

  After school, he tried hard. He asked her when she first did not understand, once he made certain that she had not done her own homework from the beginning. He was so kind that Anna longed to thank him by doing well. He did not even mention cheating. All she could offer in return was honesty about what bewildered her.

  “You said, when you subtract, change the minus to a plus and add,” she told him.

  Mr. McNair stared at her. That had been weeks ago.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “But you’re supposed to be subtracting,” Anna said, her voice dogged but hopeless.

  She knew she would not understand whatever he said next and she did not. His fingers took up her pencil and worked quick, neat examples for her in her notebook.

  “Like this,” he said. “Now do you see?”

  How could she explain that she c
ould not read his figures and that, even if he made them bigger, she would have to put her face down embarrassingly close to his hand to follow what he was doing? And that what he said still made no sense to her? For why would you add when you were supposed to be subtracting? Why would you?

  “Yes, sir. Thank you,” Anna said, not knowing what else to do.

  “You should ask Rudi for help, Anna,” Mr. McNair said.

  “That boy was the most brilliant mathematics student I ever taught. How is he getting along now?”

  “Just fine,” Anna said, gathering up her books. “He … he likes it!”

  The teacher laughed. “Ask him. Maybe he can help you to like it too,” he said.

  Anna left the school wondering what she should do. Ask Rudi for help? That would mean breaking her years-old habit of avoiding letting him see any chink in her armour in case he used his advantage against her. He so often had when she was smaller. He had been kind lately, true, but who knew what might happen if she told him how algebra had stumped her? How could he, with his brilliant mind, take her problems seriously. She was sure that what baffled her would be so rudimentary to him that he would be unable to believe she could be so stupid.

  She hurried a little. It was getting dark. And she had to see Curly on her way. He was a toy poodle and she had adopted him as her own when Mop was finally sold. He was still so tiny and sweet …

  Curly was gone. There were no puppies in the window, not one. Just a couple of rabbits, a guinea pig, and three birds hanging in cages. Anna stood there, shivering, feeling as though the sky had caved in on her. It shouldn’t matter. This had happened before, over and over. There would be new pups tomorrow or the next day.

  But she knew, suddenly, with a sickening jolt of hard fact, that, just as she would never understand algebra, she would never ever have a dog of her own. Never.

  She turned and walked away.

  When she reached the house, she headed for the kitchen, knowing she was late, knowing Gretchen would be annoyed with her since it was her turn to come home right after four and help.