Keep Those Keys Movin'

It was just after dawn when the shooting started, and Edgar Brones hadn’t even finished his rabbit stew. 

“Oh fiddle!” The lanky American yelled before he flung his arms through the straps of his backpack, slammed his helmet on his head, and downed the last of his stew. It was still warm, one of the privates had picked off a rabbit and cooked it up for them around midnight. The smoldering coals had kept the stew warm for the men during the chilling night on the French countryside, which did improve morale. Morale was in short supply, which was evidenced by the soldiers’ anxious and frantic hurrying to get out of the way of the German gunfire.

“Move it soldier!” “Get your gun!” “Put that fire out!” The commands from the superior officer bellowed out like the long, low blast of a trumpet. Brones picked up his rifle. He still was more comfortable caressing the keys of a piano than holding a firearm, and his captain knew it.

“Private Brones, move that lady-like set of hands already and provide us some cover fire. Don’t make me regret picking you for this unit!”

“Don’t make me regret picking you.” Those words had hung on Edgar ever since his new mother had cancelled his first piano recital. Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, he was a crying little ten-year-old boy whose adoptive mother had just slapped him silly. 

Edgar’s parents had died when he was very young. The shy, dark haired little boy with the quivering lip had been sent to live with his grandfather. Edgar’s grandfather was a kind, artistic soul who was an accomplished church musician. One of the boy’s earliest memories was sitting on his grandpa’s lap in that quiet, quaint little New York church and practicing the piano. Edgar took to music like a fish takes to water, and it was probably that music that kept him going when influenza took his beloved grandfather away from him. 

Placed in a dreary orphanage, Edgar found little time to practice his craft until he learned that the orphanage’s director had an old piano in the basement for a daughter who had never liked the instrument. Every night after curfew, Edgar would sneak downstairs, lock the basement door, and play that piano. The rest of the kids just thought that a ghost was making sweet, melodic ramblings beneath the wooden floors. And then one day, Mr. and Mrs. Brones showed up.

Mr. Brones was a social-ladder climbing politician, and his wife was just as ambitious as he was. They were a vain, pompous set who had only married each other to advance their social standing. Mrs. Brones was unable to have children, so the two decided to adopt an orphan. It wasn’t out of the goodness of their hearts; rather, a chance to show themselves the charitable sort to the newspapers ravenous for tidbits about the lives of Manhattan’s elite. 

So Edgar Rask became Edgar Brones, and his life was changed forever. Caviar, four-course meals, and dinner parties replaced cabbage stew and chicken broth. Shirts missing buttons and shoes missing laces were traded in for a clothes made by an army of personal tailors. And there was the personal piano in the parlor, which Mrs. Brones played for guests. Most of the time it just sat unused, as the lady of the house would rather drink and gossip and spread rumors with and about other high society ladies. So Edgar once again took to the piano, but would a vain woman want her poor little waif to play better than her?

“Don’t make me regret choosing you.” The words stung as much as the tears stung as they slid down his tender cheek. He had invited a few friends over from school to hear him play. As soon as the first keys were stroked, his new mother had flown in and smacked him silly. 

“Edgar, I’m trying to rest, must you make that racket!” she had shrieked. 

“I’m sorry...I was only trying to…”

“Vex me! That’s what you were trying to do! Now tell your friends to leave and be quiet!”

From then on, Edgar could only play the piano when his mother was asleep. As soon as he was eighteen, he decided that the life of a socialite was not for him. He rejected his new parents and became a transient, playing piano in dingy motels with only supper as payment.

“Private Brones, move up that hill right now!” The words snapped the young soldier back to his perilous circumstances. His small brigade was still under fire, and the only solution seemed to be an abandoned summer villa a few hundred feet away. Under that cover, the squadron could regroup, and reinforcements could be called. 

Getting there, however, would prove to be the battle.

“Move, move, move!” The command was as repetitive as the jamming of a piano key. Running burdened under their gear, the soldiers managed to make it to the villa. The shots from the Germans were coming less and less. Maybe the Americans were out of range. Maybe the Germans were not that interested in them anymore. Once they were inside, however, nobody wanted to go back out and check. 

Edgar was the last one in. After Mike Nonks, even, and Mike was literally called “Nervous Nelly” by everyone in the battalion. Huffing and puffing, Edgar barely made it into the villa before the door was slammed shut behind him.

“Secure this building.” ordered the commanding officer, “We are gonna be camping here for the rest of the day.”

The rest of the soldiers began unloading the gear they had managed to move from their now bullet-ridden camp. Chests came down, equipment was stacked, and soon enough was done that the men decided to start playing cards. The first hand was dealt as Edgar excused himself to keep watch towards the building’s rear exit. Really, he just wanted to look around. 

The lighting in the mansion was minimal. Only the late morning sun cruising in through the windows provided any light.

“Wow,” thought Edgar as he strolled through the empty parlor towards the back rooms, “This place must have been something.” And something it was. The French family who had vacationed here was very well to do, as every modern convenience of the day seemed to be left. Without any electricity, however, the rooms looked empty. The glittering crystal chandeliers threw sparkles across the floor laden with rugs of every fabric and price point. But with no one there to enjoy the view, it felt hollow.

And yet, a familiar presence filled the back room. Edgar had just finished his parlor walk when he saw it. The guest room was complete with a grand piano covered with an enormous white sheet. It clearly was forgotten long before the aristocrats had fled the German invasion. It was the same sort of piano that had been there the night of his failed grand entrance. 

With the war coming on, no one was busy scouting talent, they were scouting soldiers. After leaving his parents’ house, all Edgar did was try to make his break into music. Most of the time, however, he was playing for other transients instead of playing the grand halls he had anticipated. The one night he did have a chance to really shine, an air raid siren cut through the night air, leaving him alone on the stage as people scurried from the music hall. And then the draft card came.

Edgar let his gun rest on the piano’s leg as he threw back the thick white sheet. The piano stood there, intimidating and yet inviting at the same time. The massive window nearby let light pour in on the familiar instrument. 

“Long time since anyone stroked these keys,” Edgar thought as he sat down on the oak bench and cracked his fingers. With a grunt he lifted the cover to get to his other half, as the piano almost seemed to be a part of him now. And then, with trembling awe, he began to play.

The tunes came out slow at first, he was a little rusty with his practice since he had been on the French front. Then the music came back to him, like an old friend who had never quite said goodbye.

“You hear that?” One of Brones’ fellow soldiers asked as an ace of spades was dealt to him. The soldiers paused as the melodic, winding notes of the piano hooked through the air.

Edgar was in his element now. The music was pouring out of him. In that moment, he realized that being a soldier was not for him. His parents had failed him by dying, and his new parents failed him by living. The talent scouts had failed him by not coming to his performances. It seemed that the passion, the rejection, the hurt; they fueled his playing.

“Must be Brones, guess there was a piano around here somewhere.”

“Well dang, kid can play.”

And play he did. The music flowed out of him as naturally as if it were his own breath. It was certainly his grandest performance, a masterpiece for an audience of one. 

It was grand, until a bullet from a German sniper tore through his temple; ending the career of the  failed soldier who was also the under-appreciated musician of his time.