the piano

a short story about sweet bliss in war.

The piano waited for Aleksei in the center of the clearing. The surrounding forest was dead silent; the birds and other creatures had all fled at the first sound of gunfire four long years ago. Aleksei sometimes wondered where they had all gone; safer pastures, no doubt.

He missed their songs. All songs, really: the closest ones found in Soviet military camps were the sloppy tunes sung under the influence of excessive vodka. And that was only when the Germans weren’t close enough to listen.

He approached the piano with caution and removed a glove to run one finger over the smooth keys. They were real ivory, not just white wood. It was an instrument of sheer beauty. 

How had it gotten all the way out here? He wondered. They were perhaps five or six miles from the nearest 'town’ and even that was just a collection of shacks and a train station. A piano like this belonged in a fine mansion, topped by a candelabrum and played with clean white gloves on. This showed that someone had clearly cared enough about it to bring it with them as they evacuated from the Germans, which is no easy feat given the weight and size of the piano. And something had happened to that person to make them abandon such a cherished and valued belonging out here in the middle of nowhere.

Aleksei glanced around. He could hear the faint bellow of men, trailing farther and farther into the horizon ahead. He’d fallen behind the rest of the patrol, all of whom were too heavy-eyed and eager to make it back to camp than to wait up for him. Rations were meager, and the only way to ensure that you got your share was to get a good place in the chow line. That was far more important to the rest of them than some dirty piano in a casual clearing. He sighed and retraced his attention to the piano. 

By the look of it, Aleksei, already behind, stood pretty much no chance of getting a warm meal tonight. 

So why hurry now?

He pressed down on a key. The note, clear as a bell, hung in the atmosphere of the meadow. The wooden exterior had certainly seen better days but the bones inside were still holding up well for the condition. Aleksei expected nothing less from such a quality instrument. It barely even needed a tuning. 

With another glance around the clearing to make sure that he was truly alone, Aleksei tapped another key, and then another. 

Faster, and faster until the threshold between investigating the instrument and simply playing it disappeared. It had been many years since he touched a piano, but it came back to him as if he had been born with his hands on the keys. His fingers took on a mind of their own, knowing the music better than his consciousness ever did. It started out slow and simple; just an exercise that his grandmother had made him play over and over again. His years at war were now forgotten, and he was back to being simply seven years old, sitting on her lap in front of the beautiful instrument.

Each note brought back more memories. His father, standing in the doorway listening to him play. How many extra hours had he worked to buy that piano? He hadn’t considered it a very good use of his son’s time: a boy of his age should be out playing sports, or hunting, or doing other, more masculine activities. But he’d eventually given in and bought the piano, and even he couldn’t deny that the home held more warmth when it was full of music. He’d come home from a long day of work, and just stand in the doorway with his eyes closed. He’d then start to slightly sway his head back and forth to the rhythm, absorbing the notes with a soft smile.

Soon enough, Mother began to teach Aleksei’s sister Katarina to play as well. The two children would each take a side of the piano bench and play in tandem. It took many tries to get through even one song, but eventually, they’d perfected the art of playing just half of the notes. The song he played now had always been his sister’s favourite. She insisted that they play that one piece every day, over and over again until they had mastered it. Aleksei’s parents had been so proud of them both; they even spoke of sending the two off to the music conservatory in Leningrad. 

Maybe one day. 

Maybe.

Alas, the war had put those plans on hold. Now, Aleksei’s hands had to move fast enough to do both parts. He imagined how proud his mother would be if she could hear his playing now. He tried to bury it as soon as the memory came up. He at least knew that his family had made it out of Stalingrad, but after that…

In a country as big as Russia, it is easy to get lost. Or worse. 

He quickly shook off the thought.

He continued playing, lost in the music and entranced in the memories. All of the horrors of the war, the brutal conditions of the camp, even the wind biting through holes in his tattered uniform… it all just melted away. Memories of home took their place instead: mother’s cooking, playing in the river with the other boys from the village on a July afternoon, his first day of work at the factory with Father… only pleasant memories that hadn’t surfaced in years. 

The music brought all of that back. A genuine smile spread across his face. Not the fake grin he used at the drunken shenanigans of his comrades; a real, true, heartfelt smile.

Someone began to clap behind Aleksei.

The memories were all wiped from his mind in an instant, and the music stopped abruptly. He whirled around, startled, slipping a bit in the snow that sent him stumbling back against the keys with a jarring dissonant chord. 

“Senior Lieutenant Koltsov!” he exclaimed, seeing the burnished medals that the stern old man donned upon his chest and only recognizing his face a second later. He threw up a hasty salute and tried to stand up straighter. “I was just returning to camp from patrol, sir!”

 He raised an eyebrow at Alexei, arms folded and back straight. 

“No need to stop on my account, Private,” Koltsov responded. “You play very well.”

Aleksei glanced back at the piano behind him, then back at his superior. He wasn’t quite sure if that was an order to keep playing, or if perhaps Koltsov was merely mocking him. Being a pianist wasn’t exactly a skill that was highly valued in the force nowadays. 

“I was about to return to camp for the mess,” Aleksei said.

Koltsov glanced in the direction of the camp, further down the road that nestled through the forest. He then crouched down and opened up his rucksack, retrieving a small metal canister about the size of a lunchbox. Just like the one he’d brought to the factory every day.

“Here you go.” 

It took Aleksei a moment to recognize what it was in front of him: pre-packed rations, some of the supplies that had come in from the Americans. A full meal in a can. Certainly better than whatever meager stew awaited the rest of the enlisted men. 

“It’s yours,” Koltsov said, nodding at the piano. “If you keep playing.”

Aleksei smiled and turned back to the keyboard. He’d never enjoyed playing for strangers, but this was certainly a good way to earn a nice meal. As he played, he sank back into the stream of memories until he’d nearly forgotten Koltsov’s presence. It was simply him, the piano, and the string of melody repainting his childhood memories.

Eventually, the final note faded as he was brought back to the real world. Koltsov handed the ration canister over to Aleksei, and they stood, eyes on the piano together in silence. 

“Hm,” Koltsov grunted. “Same time tomorrow?”

遇国宁

a memoir of my uncle.

“Dad always tells me you’re the most independent in the family, which, no offence, kinda took to me as a shock since you’re youngest.”

A mid-50s Chinese man chuckled with twinkling eyes and a wide smile. “That’s the first time I’ve heard your dad say something nice about me.” 

He leaned back on his folding chair, arms crossed, and took a heavy sigh. His gaze fell off of the chess table and towards what only seemed to be oblivion. Eventually, he raised his chin and nodded at the young girl sitting across from him. 

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s just that,” the young girl continued, “I already know if we put my little brother on a farm, he’s gonna go ballistic.”

“Well, you kind of need to have a sense of independence in the countryside. Plus, it wasn’t our choice.”

“What do you mean?”

The man took a soft sigh and a look of anguish appeared on his face. 

“It was in 1966 when Chairman Mao launched his movement. To most, it was known as the cultural revolution. But to us, the people of China, it was the cultural persecution. Mao meticulously realized that the youth of China were impulsive, so he used that to his advantage. People were attacked for wearing “bourgeois clothes” on the street by the Red Guard, a group of students guided by the hands of Mao. He didn’t believe we needed education, a socioeconomic status, even business. Communism destroyed China’s economy. Your dad was five when it began. I was three.”

“What happened to you guys?”

“Your grandparents owned a large publishing firm for newspapers and childrens’ books. We were very lucky to have had high education and lots of land. Of course, that all disappeared in 1967. 

“We were stripped of our possessions and homes, and forced to relocate to a monitored countryside. All of us. Scholars, doctors, teachers, businessmen. From highly respected intellectuals to farmers and labourers. Adults worked as these during the day, and at night time they were forced to attend schoolings on communism and ‘proper’ Chinese culture. And anyone who thought against these beliefs would be prosecuted and forced to admit they had committed treason. 

“Us children were not allowed to attend school, so we could only spend our days in the fields and swim in the rivers. Oh, those rivers. Full of dirt and bacteria. One day, your dad and I went swimming with some other kids. I was only 4, so I could barely keep my head out of the water.

“Of course, on a hot sunny day in rural China, what could go wrong? 

“Well, a mosquito bit me. At first, it seemed like the least of my worries. I couldn’t even swim well. But then came the vomiting and the migraines and eventually the high fever. I became terribly ill in less than a week. 

“Thankfully, a doctor who had also been relocated lived in the same area as our family. He was an excellent physician and a highly intelligent university student before the revolution. So, he tested me for malaria.

“And it came back positive. 

“I fell into a comatose state. Your dad told me the doctor used one of his own rooms in the tiny houses to treat me and that he always saw the doctor in that room, changing my sheets and making sure I could always breathe. He dedicated much of his daily life to trying to save me. In those days without intensive care and a legitimate hospital to be treated in, things weren’t looking too good for me. But he kept trying and he kept doing everything he could to make me better. 

“Finally, after the fourth day, I woke up. And you know what the first thing I said was? I said I wanted to eat some watermelon.” 

The young girl smiled. “Did you get your watermelon?”

The man looked up at the ceiling and pursed his lips. 

“I did. However, it was an oddly scarce commodity in the countryside. The doctor drove 6 hours to another town and spent his own money just to get me my watermelon. Every day, he would spend half of the time treating me and making sure I was always feeling alright. The other half of the day, he was forced to confess that he had done something wrong because of his different ways of thinking than those supporting Mao. He and others were forced to wear signs that said they had committed treason and they deserve to die. Every single day, he had to live with and embody this humiliation, grief, misery and depression. And Mao made sure never to let him forget about it. He didn’t marry either, because dating was frowned upon and not allowed. I suppose the only bright side about his day was the little 4-year-old boy who he was taking care of. The innocent mind of a young child in his presence was his sliver of light, a mind not yet brainwashed and indoctrinated like the millions of youth supporting Mao. 

“Of course, I didn’t find out about this until the bits and pieces came back to me later on in my life. I just knew him as the gentleman who would always bring me new treats while I was sick. He would always enter with a smile, constantly try to make me laugh and told me to never let anyone silence my thoughts. 

The young girl sat in awe. “What happened to him?”

The man’s eyes drooped and his tone began to roughen. 

“He hung himself. After I had fully recovered. He did it in the room next to the one he treated me in. Many intellectuals during that time were murdered or driven to suicide. I guess that sliver wasn’t enough for him to continue.” 

“Oh.”

“But his story will always be for me. He was a man who didn’t ask for anything in return. He spent time and effort taking care of me against a disease that has wiped out hundreds of thousands of lives. He just wanted to help people. And unfortunately, he didn’t live to see the end of the revolution.”

The girl looked down at the ground and the two hung their heads in silence. 

“What was his name?”

The man pondered. “The doctor’s name… in English, it’s Vincent.”

I smiled. I often retell myself this story. It reminds me that no matter what we do in life, no matter how high we climb the ladder of success, we must always remember those who helped us when we had nothing. 

In what way, you may ask? Well, my uncle’s company is called Vince Development.