But in my case, I was only into my third or fourth year of study when I received my first remuneration from playing the violin. It wasn’t a large sum of money, as will be seen. Perhaps it helps to give a short back-story to that occasion, so that the reader can fully appreciate the circumstances.

When I was about eleven years old I would ride the Independent subway from Queens by myself, on Saturday mornings, to the Henry Street Music School, to take violin lessons. The school, at 8 Pitt Street, in Lower Manhattan, just off Grand Street, was an adjunct of the famous Henry Street Settlement House, located several blocks away, and actually situated on Henry Street.

Prior to that time, my mother would accompany me there on the subway, and during my lesson, she would while away the time in the waiting room, conversing with other women. (She struck up a friendship with the mother of a two gifted brothers, one an older violinist, and the other a gifted pianist about my own age, both of whom later would become famous as performers and teachers. In fact, my mother received from this woman gut strings discarded by her violinist son, because they were too worn for him to continue to play on, but were still adequate for me, considering my skill, or lack thereof. (Remember, this was still the Depression).

The building housing the school, which, in retrospect, was probably a renovated old-law tenement, was connected to an old theater, or playhouse, just around the corner, which was used for recitals by the students and faculty, or dramatic presentations. Its address was 466 Grand Street.

On Saturday mornings, in order to reach the school, after exiting the East Broadway Independent station, I would walk several blocks along the north side of East Broadway, until a block before it met Grand Street at a sharp angle, and the school was right across Grand Street, on Pitt Street. On the opposite side of East Broadway, there was the tall Forward Building, which housed the largest Yiddish language daily newspaper, followed by the Educational Alliance Building, a stately structure, as well as numerous four-story walk-up tenements, extending for several blocks to the east. On the north side, however, starting at the end of the park, the old-law tenements ran one after another, tightly packed together, with ground-level stores (looking like they needed a thorough cleaning) having signs in Yiddish, (which I couldn’t read or speak), some of which were translated into English. These shops offered for sale such exotic items as glass eyes, with some wondrous examples displayed in their windows, or trusses “for men”(who knew what a truss was?). There were also store windows which stated “We do cupping,” which is an ancient Chinese traditional treatment, still in use today. It was also adopted as an Eastern European Jewish folk remedy with the Yiddish name bankes. In any event, being the Sabbath, the shops were always closed.

While walking along East Broadway, I was frequently accosted by men with long beards, wearing broad-brimmed “strummels” (fur hats) and long black coats, who apparently spoke no English, but who nonetheless vociferously reprimanded me for playing the violin on the Sabbath, or possibly, for all I knew, even for only carrying the violin-case. (It has always been somewhat difficult to conceal a violin-case from view.) I obviously understood what they were saying, regardless of the fact that their speech was foreign to me, but having been brought up Reform, I didn’t take their admonitions to heart. On one morning, which I distinctly remember, a man similarly bearded and dressed, stopped and asked me to read to him the contents of a postcard he had received from a public school. It saddened me then, and still does, when I remember it, having to tell him that his daughter had not attended school for some period of time, and was therefore considered a truant. He was instructed to see the principal of the school. I can only imagine how he must have felt.

The subway entrance that I used, both coming and going to the Music School, was located in Seward Park. There were no doubt at least two different exit kiosks for the same station, but this one, located at the rear of the train coming from Queens, was the only one that I used, as it was the closest.. One flight below the park level, there was a change booth, where a male attendant would change bills or large coins, so that a rider could have a nickel to insert in the turnstile. (The fare wouldn’t go up to a dime until 1948, some years later.) Two long escalators led to the deeply buried tracks.

On one particular occasion, returning home from my lesson, after I had gotten change at the booth, the attendant asked me: “Hey kid, what are you carrying in the box?” or words to that effect. I told him that it was a violin. He suggested that I play something for him. I tried to resist gracefully, but he insisted that I play. “Tell you what, if you play something for me I’ll let you go in free under the turnstile.” (Remember, again, this was still the Depression).

So I went inside the change booth, rested my case on the floor and took out my fiddle. I played “La Cinquantaine,” by Gabriel-Marie, a short piece I had memorized and played in my lesson only a few minutes earlier. The agent seemed pleased enough, and told me I could duck under the turnstile, which I immediately did, after packing away my violin. Even though I have been playing the violin and viola in numerous orchestras, and as a soloist for organizations, for well over 60 years since then, that was the first and only time that I ever earned any money (although it was only a nickel) as a solo violinist. I seem to recall, however, receiving a severe tongue-lashing from my mother when I related the story to her. Apparently young boys were not supposed to be induced into change booths by grown men, for any reason.

Just under a year ago, my wife and I had the occasion to revisit the area, after many years in my case, in order to see an old friend who had moved from Queens to a condo apartment on Grand Street, which happens to be just a block away from my old music school. We took the subway down from Penn Station, and although I wanted to retrace my exact steps from sixty-odd years ago, we inadvertently got out of a different exit, so I was unable to see if the change booth (the scene of my “debut”) was still there. However, walking along East Broadway was truly an enlightening experience. On the south side there still were the imposing Forward and Educational Alliance buildings, now no longer used for their original purposes, but beyond them were what appeared to be tiny store-front synagogues or religious schools, in each of the old-law tenements that had remained there apparently unchanged since the end of the 19th century. In fact, one building similar to most of the others had the date 1889 engraved in the frieze above the roof. Some buildings looked even older, but it was certain that many decades had gone by since they had either been repainted, in the case of painted fronts, or had their exposed bricks repointed. There were some buildings that were finely detailed, with figures carved into their ornate stone lintels. They must have been extremely fashionable in their day, but now a coating of grime covered all of the surfaces..

On the opposite side of the street, there were a series of newer high-rise apartment houses, apparently post-war, surrounded by park-like settings. The old four-story walk-ups and their grimy show-windows with glass eyes and other exotic products displayed, were no more. The disparity was striking. One side of the street had been modernized, at least relatively so, and on the opposite side it appeared that well over century had passed from the time that the buildings had been built without any physical changes to them, whatsoever.

And when we reached the site of my old music school, the old playhouse, now renamed the Henry Street Settlement Harry DeJur Playhouse, at 466 Grand Street, was still there, and in fact in 1975 had been designated a National Historic Landmark, as a bronze plaque so attested. A much newer and larger modern building, named the Abrons Arts Center, had been appended to the east side of the playhouse, where other buildings had once stood. And farther along Grand Street, there were several post-war high-rise apartment buildings, in one of which our friend lived, as well as ground level stores of all types, attesting to the dramatic changes made to the entire neighborhood.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the old tenement buildings along the formerly narrow Pitt Street, west of the playhouse, had obviously been torn down to widen the street, and my old music school was only a memory. How a neighborhood can change after 60-odd years, and what remembrances it can bring back. Especially, about the only time I received any payment for my violin playing.

Philip Wesler is a retired engineer living with his wife in California, land of wildfires, earthquakes, floods and landslides.

The shop I visited for those haircuts in Jamaica was located on 166th Street, near the last station of the old elevated train on Jamaica Avenue, and a block from a bus terminal. Ben Katchor’s graphic art showing such a neighborhood perfectly describes the seedy and dilapidated atmosphere of this area.

The barbershop was located very close to the side, or stage, entrance of the Loew’s Valencia Theater. I would stand at the stage doors with my mother on one particular night of the week, when there was a drawing of some tawdry prize, as an added feature of the movie show. You either had to be inside the theater, if your number was called, or waiting outside the stage door, where the number was broadcast over speakers, and if you could fight your way through the crowd there (this was during the Depression, after all, and many people, including my widowed mother, couldn’t afford the price of admission) you could go up on the stage and claim your prize. I don’t ever remember her having won anything (whether it was a piece of china, or whatever), but I do remember standing out in the cold with her, hoping to hear our number being called.

I did infrequently actually attend the theater, most probably at a Saturday matinee. Children my age were forced to sit in the narrow side sections only, and a uniformed “matron” patrolled the aisle looking out for any wrongdoing, such as trying to sneak into the center sections. The acute viewing angle, from this vantage point, made every actor look like the “Thin Man.” This theater, incidentally, was one of the few with faux Spanish architecture (hence the name “Valencia”). Projections of clouds slowly moved across the ceiling, giving the impression of an outdoor courtyard open to the sky at night. Sometimes watching those “clouds” was more interesting than watching the movies themselves.

Getting back to the barbershop, there was a sole proprietor named Abraham Fagin, who lived on Snedeker Avenue, in Brooklyn. (I gleaned this information from his State of New York Barber License in a frame hanging from the wall.) He was a short, middle-aged man, with black wiry hair. Looking back on it now, I never saw another person getting his hair cut while I was there. His scissors kept up a continuous “clip-clip” – whether he was in the act of cutting hair or not. It was as if he had motorized fingers that worked at a constant rate. He always addressed me as “Sonny,” a convenient way not to have to remember or even know a boy’s name. I gave him a quarter for the haircut each time, and he pocketed it without comment. (Who knew about tips in those frugal days? I certainly wouldn’t be expected to).

The shop itself was long, narrow and unimpressive, with a row of 4 or 5 barber chairs (the majority unused), facing a mirrored wall, with its opposing wall also mirrored. The reflections of these mirrors naturally gave the impression of infinite space, with an infinite number of chairs. There was a high tin ceiling, and hanging light bulbs. A door apparently led to a rear room.

During my haircuts, I consistently looked down at my feet, and thus the name “Emil J. Paidar” became impressed in my memory, just as it was impressed in the cast-iron footrest.

As I said, I never saw any other customers, but there was a constant flow of middle-aged men coming and going, into the back room, and out of the back room, in and out. They could have been in training for parts as the habitués of the Bada-Bing Club, in The Sopranos.

One particular occurrence stands out in my memory, after nearly 70 years. A man opened the front door, stuck his head partially in, and asked Mr. Fagin: “Cops come?” Without looking at the speaker, the barber nodded his head, his clipping scissors not missing a beat. “Take ‘em?” Again, the nod of assent, together with the constant clip of the scissors. The man said “‘Bye” and he was gone.

I must have been going to Mr. Fagin for haircuts for several years while we lived in an apartment house nearby in Jamaica. One day during my visit, after he had completed his tonsorial efforts, and dusted me off, he said, not unkindly: “Sonny, you’re getting too big. I have to charge you fifty cents from now on.” I have no recollection where I went for a haircut from then on, but I think it was the last time I saw the name “Emil J. Paidar” until the magazine article, many years later.

Philip Wesler is a retired engineer, living in Walnut Creek, California. He is about to enter the penultimate year of his eighth decade.