One Evening

My teacher used to tell me that music was found everywhere; you can hear it in the trees when the wind blows, in the waves of the ocean or the buzz of a bee. On his dying breath, he told me to find music in every part of the world around me and bring it with me for the listener who needs it.

Even now years later, I find myself wondering what he meant. What music could I possibly find in the world around me, now filled with the shriek of air raid sirens and the terrified cries of innocent civilians? And who would need music in times like these, where even the most jovial people have tears in their eyes? With the turmoil becoming increasingly dangerous even to civilians at home, a violinist like myself struggles constantly. No one is in the mood for music when German fighter jets fly above our heads almost every night. The tales of peaceful days my teacher used to tell me just seem like a faraway fairy tale.

Tonight, I once again have little choice in my lodgings except to hope that someone is kind enough to take me in for the night. It isn't until my fifth attempt that a door opens for me. A stern looking old man glares down at me. For a moment, I hesitate, intimidated by his demeanor. But the memory of that one terrifying night spent sleeping outdoors steels my courage.

"I... I'm looking for a place to stay tonight." I lift my violin case in my left hand. "I'm a musician, so I'm afraid the only thing I have to offer in return is music."

The man pauses a moment. His eyes travel to my worn out clothing, messy hair, and my overall disheveled appearance. He'll turn me down, I think. They all do, after seeing how dirty and poor I look. To my disbelief, he opens the door wider and invites me to come inside.

"Well, come in, then. You're letting the chill get in," he mutters gruffly, but it is the sweetest sound I've heard all night.

His home is small but warm. Unlike the modern homes which had begun switching over to the new electric lighting systems some time ago, the old man had kept a fireplace as the main source of light in his living room. The fire crackles merrily and gives off a welcoming warmth. We settle ourselves by the fireplace, him in a rather plush armchair and me with my violin at the ready.

"What would you like to hear, sir?" A pause.

"Play whatever you wish," he finally utters. I think for a moment, then my hands naturally move to play Dvorak's New World Symphony. My eyes unintentionally shut as I find myself swept up in the melancholy melody of the piece.

As the final note of my violin hangs in the air, I am surprised to see the old man's eyes glistening.

"Why that piece?" he asks quietly.

"My teacher was Czech. He loved Dvorak's work and--" The old man cuts me off gently.

"That's not it. You, you've felt it, haven't you? I can hear it in the way you play. The longing for home, for a place to belong." I fall silent.

“I don’t know. Maybe I never really had a home.” My voice is low, practically a whisper. A wave of bitter emotions washes over me briefly. He stares at me intently, then opens his mouth to speak.

"I was a soldier, you know. Almost 50 years ago when I was first recruited, and I'm 71 now." He gestures for me to sit across from him, and I do, holding my violin gingerly in my lap. His voice sounds tired, the kind of tired that comes from someone who has experienced all sorts of hardship and bitterness.

"I retired after the entire fiasco with Germany the first time around. Couldn't keep up with the younger recruits anymore, and so I left." He stands and pours himself a glass of wine from a nearby cabinet.

"You drink, young lady?" He holds another glass towards me. Normally, I'd refuse, but tonight, I feel the rare urge to drink with someone. I accept his offer and take a sip as the old man continues his story.

"They all say we soldiers are doing a noble duty defending our country. I suppose it is, and I'm proud of it. But they never told me I'd lose so much in the process." He stares into his glass, seemingly lost in memories. Part of me wants to ask more, but I can't bring myself to break the silence.

"By the time I retired from the army, everything felt like it had changed. My parents were long gone, my wife had passed on from sickness during one of my campaigns abroad, and my children were having children who barely recognized me. But it was fine, I thought. This was the price of being a hero for my country." He takes a long drink from his glass and chuckles. "You know, you told me tonight that you had nothing to offer but music. But you've given me something more significant than that."

"What would that be?" He looks at me and smiles the first and only smile I've seen from him all night.

"Memories. Feelings I thought I'd long buried in my old chest. It was your music that brought them back for me."

"All I did was play what I wanted," I protested weakly.

"Yes. It was what you wanted to play, but it was also what I needed to hear. That’s what music is meant to be, isn’t it? The musician plays what he wants and the listener interprets it with his own heart.” The old man’s words echo in my head, reminiscent of my teacher’s dying words. At some point during the war, I’d lost the passion for music that my teacher had tried so hard to kindle in me after he saved me all those years in the past. I stare at the old man, slightly tipsy from the wine and a little emotional. The old man begins to clean up our wine glasses and I move to pack up my violin.

“You can stay as long as you need to get back on your feet, young lady. All I ask in return is to play your violin for me sometimes and keep me company while you’re here.” I nearly drop my violin case in my surprise. As he shuffles into the kitchen with the glasses in hand, I hear him speak, so softly that I’m not sure if he said the words for me to hear or for himself.

“It’s about time this lonely old house had some music.”