A little violin shop on a street corner in Jerusalem's Katamon neighborhood reminds a visitor of a one-scene set for a play.
Proprietor Lev Strinkovsky, a teddy bear of a guy from the former Soviet Union, serves as narrator, sifting through the dramas of patrons who stream through with wounded instruments.
A friend needs his violin neck realigned. A hassid wants new hair on his bow. A woman shleps in a cello with a broken string that requires fixing.
Strinkovsky meets the small and the great. He makes tiny violins - beginning at 1/16 size - for tots. He has repaired the violin and bow of Russian-born, American violinist Isaac Stern, whose photo - along with that of Mstislav Rostropovich -graces the wall.
"He tried my cello, and he was very, very pleased. The feedback was very good," Strinkovsky recalls of a meeting with Rostropovich in their native Baku.
At the time, Strinkovsky made instruments as a hobby and played violin with the Baku symphony orchestra. He and his colleagues toured with the famous cellist and conductor, for whom Sergei Prokofiev and Dmitry Shostakovich wrote works.
STRINKOVSKY'S mother decided when he was born that he would become a violinist.
She had studied violin at the Stolarsky Music School in Odessa until age 14, when war broke out in the Soviet Union. Many Jewish families, hers included, ran away from the Nazis.
Hers ended up in Stalingrad, which experienced the coldest winter anyone could remember in 100 years. She suffered frostbite, damaging her fingers and ending her musical career.
Her elder son would live out her dreams.
Strinkovsky began playing violin at age six and studied throughout high school, college, and government music academy in Azerbaijan. He taught and performed before making aliya with his family in 1978.
During a lull in his shop, he tells how they ended up in Beersheba. From behind the Iron Curtain, they had no knowledge of Israel - no CNN or mobile phones, he says with a laugh.
"The Jewish Agency told me, 'You are a violinist; OK, there is a chamber orchestra in Beersheba. Go there.'"
Six months later, Strinkovsky came to Jerusalem to have his violin repaired. He went to Joseph Boazson, who struck a chord with him. "He was a very, very good violin maker. I told him I am a professional violin player. He asked if I knew how to do repairs. He was looking for an assistant."
Strinkovsky had always enjoyed working with his hands, whether playing music or making stringed instruments. So he signed on with Boazson and spent several years learning the craft.
Since 1984, he has worked for himself, first out of his home and then out of the shop. "I like it very, very much. It's my life," he says, although he is also the proud father of two girls. His wife, Esther, once joked when he came home at 8 or 9 p.m., "You're home early. I didn't make dinner for you."
VIOLINS OF many colors line the wall of his workshop on Rehov Haportzim. The 49-year-old violin maker, dressed in a light blue shirt, navy apron, jeans, and tennis shoes, explains, "The spectrum of colors is from very, very dark red to light yellow." The tones darken over the years, he adds.
Upon request, he happily pulls out his red violin and plays a Bach solo. Then he segues into a romantic tune by the Russian composer Reinhold Gliere.
Strinkovsky makes two or three instruments a year at Jerusalem Violins. "I have the tools. I have the wood," he says, picking up a piece of maple and knocking it to test the sound. The backs of violins, violas, and cellos are made of maple, he says. The belly (top) is of spruce, which produces a resonant tone.
"I knock it to make sure the sound is good, not too low or too high." A low noise means Strinkovsky has made the piece too thin, which could produce cracks, given Jerusalem's hot and dry summer weather.
He travels to Germany to buy his wood, dealing with artisans in the Erlangen area whose specialty is preparing wood for musical instruments. Maple comes mostly from Bosnia and was difficult to obtain for several years during the war there.
As a professional violinist, Strinkovsky knows the needs of musicians. "We speak the same language," he says.
"I like to be close to wood, to music, to make something you can immediately touch. You know if you do good or bad work. You see it immediately. You have to use your brain. There's no university for this. You have to improvise."
He also rhapsodizes about classical music. While CDs, videos, and cable TV with 50-plus channels give people a wealth of music options in their homes, there's still room for live concerts, says Strinkovsky, asserting, "I think classical music will survive forever."
He's doing his part to help ensure it, making violins, violas, and cellos, and repairing all stringed instruments except pianos. While pint-size violins, complete with case and red bow, begin at NIS 500, the adult versions start around NIS 8,000.
Strinkovsky's violas cost NIS 24,000, and his last cello sold for NIS 40,000. The wood is expensive. "With the material you spend on one cello, you can make four violins," he says.
He pulls down a violin and shows his name on the bridge and a label inside: "Lev Strinkovsky, Fece in Jerusalem, Anno 1992." By professional tradition, Italian reigns as the lingua of instrument makers.
Strinkovsky sells to students, teachers, amateurs, orchestra members, and concertmasters from Tel Aviv to Eilat.
One customer, Smadar Bressler of Anatot, waits in her Jeep one morning for him to open. The family began patronizing Jerusalem Violins when her elder son, Shachaf, started playing at age four. "Ever since, we came here to take care of more instruments," she says. "He does a good job. Why not?"
Now her younger son, Jonathan, is four and is learning music by the Suzuki method. He recently dropped the violin while practicing holding it on his shoulder, so his mom came by Strinkovsky's to assess the damage.
The craftsman strives for perfect harmony with his customers. "If they are happy, I am very happy. And if they are not happy, I try to do everything to satisfy them," he says.
[Published in the Jerusalem Post, March 3, 2000]