the best, and the pain of it was my own fault. Bubbling hope had never served me in my life. It hadn’t taken me back to my parents, and it hadn’t ever yielded results when it came to pleasing my uncle. The only option I had was to refocus on perfection.
I poured everything I had into the keys of the grand piano. Banged on them when I felt like it. Let my frustration seep out of me in the most constructive way I knew. I wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere, and shame on me for letting myself hope that I could ever be accepted. I’d waited too long to agree to an evening out with Herr Waldenheim and the others, and now I was relegated back into my box where everything would stay the same, and nothing inside me could blossom.
The final chord begged for some power, so I gave it voice, letting my fingers jolt the keys, sending fits of sound radiating harshly from my beautiful instrument. I didn’t want it to be beautiful. I wanted it to be ugly and horrible, and utterly unlovable. Like me.
“You never smile when you play, Kurt.”
I jumped at the voice. Having thought I was alone and now learning that I had not been, the uneasy peace shattered. I saw Peter standing at the end of the piano. His coat was draped over his bent arm and his hat rested on the stool a foot behind him.
Trying to swallow down the panic that was beginning to engulf me, I looked around for something to give me comfort. I could count the windows at the top of the hall, but his voice kept me from it. “This was more passionate than I’ve heard from you. Why do you keep it only for yourself? Share this passion when others are around.”
Still shocked into silence, I felt as though I was frozen, unable to temper my expression. I must have looked like such a frightened child. All my energy was directed toward pushing down that bit of hope fighting to be free again.
My hands clenched as they rested on my thighs. He moved slowly, as if sensing quicker movements would send me running to the opposite end of the stage. I could feel my short nails digging into the meat of my palm. He sat on the bench next to me.
I looked straight ahead, but knew he was staring right at me. I wanted to tell him that I did like the composers he’d mentioned, even if I had never heard their works.
“In rehearsals, you play as though your life depends on it, not as though you love it.” His voice was softer.
Peter’s warm hands moved to mine, uncurling them. The brush of his knuckles against the tops of my thighs was like a kiss of fire. It spread out from that very small spot to every part of me. It felt as though the fire was squeezing my lungs. I couldn’t breathe.
He placed my hands on the keyboard. “Play something you love.”
Without thinking, I complied, choosing Beethoven’s Piano Concerto no. 17, the third movement.
“Now close your eyes,” he whispered, sending shivers up my spine. Again, I complied. After a moment of just playing, he spoke again. This time it felt as though his lips were right next to my ear. “Now smile because you love what it is you are doing.”
I stilled, then scooted away and turned to face him. Oh, how achingly beautiful could one man be? “Do you never smile?”
“My uncle says these aren’t times for laughter or making a show of oneself.”
“Your uncle sounds dreadful. I don’t like him,” Peter responded. I agreed, but found I couldn’t give voice to it. “You should rebel against him, and laugh all the time. Coming out with us would be a grand start, don’t you think?”
“I like Tchaikovsky,” I blurted out. His face lit up, but he said nothing. After a moment of silence, I remembered myself and added, “That is, if he wasn’t a degenerate and unsuitable for the goodness of the German people.”
I hoped he understood what I was really saying. I would never be able to say it myself, but I wanted him to know. I wanted him to understand that if it wasn’t illegal and looked down upon, I would be
I poured everything I had into the keys of the grand piano. Banged on them when I felt like it. Let my frustration seep out of me in the most constructive way I knew. I wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere, and shame on me for letting myself hope that I could ever be accepted. I’d waited too long to agree to an evening out with Herr Waldenheim and the others, and now I was relegated back into my box where everything would stay the same, and nothing inside me could blossom.
The final chord begged for some power, so I gave it voice, letting my fingers jolt the keys, sending fits of sound radiating harshly from my beautiful instrument. I didn’t want it to be beautiful. I wanted it to be ugly and horrible, and utterly unlovable. Like me.
“You never smile when you play, Kurt.”
I jumped at the voice. Having thought I was alone and now learning that I had not been, the uneasy peace shattered. I saw Peter standing at the end of the piano. His coat was draped over his bent arm and his hat rested on the stool a foot behind him.
Trying to swallow down the panic that was beginning to engulf me, I looked around for something to give me comfort. I could count the windows at the top of the hall, but his voice kept me from it. “This was more passionate than I’ve heard from you. Why do you keep it only for yourself? Share this passion when others are around.”
Still shocked into silence, I felt as though I was frozen, unable to temper my expression. I must have looked like such a frightened child. All my energy was directed toward pushing down that bit of hope fighting to be free again.
My hands clenched as they rested on my thighs. He moved slowly, as if sensing quicker movements would send me running to the opposite end of the stage. I could feel my short nails digging into the meat of my palm. He sat on the bench next to me.
I looked straight ahead, but knew he was staring right at me. I wanted to tell him that I did like the composers he’d mentioned, even if I had never heard their works.
“In rehearsals, you play as though your life depends on it, not as though you love it.” His voice was softer.
Peter’s warm hands moved to mine, uncurling them. The brush of his knuckles against the tops of my thighs was like a kiss of fire. It spread out from that very small spot to every part of me. It felt as though the fire was squeezing my lungs. I couldn’t breathe.
He placed my hands on the keyboard. “Play something you love.”
Without thinking, I complied, choosing Beethoven’s Piano Concerto no. 17, the third movement.
“Now close your eyes,” he whispered, sending shivers up my spine. Again, I complied. After a moment of just playing, he spoke again. This time it felt as though his lips were right next to my ear. “Now smile because you love what it is you are doing.”
I stilled, then scooted away and turned to face him. Oh, how achingly beautiful could one man be? “Do you never smile?”
“My uncle says these aren’t times for laughter or making a show of oneself.”
“Your uncle sounds dreadful. I don’t like him,” Peter responded. I agreed, but found I couldn’t give voice to it. “You should rebel against him, and laugh all the time. Coming out with us would be a grand start, don’t you think?”
“I like Tchaikovsky,” I blurted out. His face lit up, but he said nothing. After a moment of silence, I remembered myself and added, “That is, if he wasn’t a degenerate and unsuitable for the goodness of the German people.”
I hoped he understood what I was really saying. I would never be able to say it myself, but I wanted him to know. I wanted him to understand that if it wasn’t illegal and looked down upon, I would be
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