To Hew a Rough Gem
It was just past midday when Miss Darya Ivanova approached me in the dining hall, eyes wide and pleading: barely had I taken my first mouthful of the watery, putrid soup in front of me when I discovered I was to be a teacher once more. With the latest delivery of supplies to the zona came another delivery of prisoners: forty women and children shivering and terrified in the autumn air. The women were put straight to work felling trees and other such tasks required before the taiga winter closes us in for good, the children delivered into the care of Darya Ivanova and her assistants. One of the new children, a girl of twelve, had a remarkable ability, I was told: “You simply must take her in! She spends her whole day sitting, moving her fingers in the air as if she sat at a piano. Please, Miss von Hesse, you must!”
“Very well. Have her brought to me in the evening,” I smiled and the young woman darted off.
I met my new student that night, having cleared the arrangement with the commander (an arrogant, vain man by the name of Morozov who prided himself on the camp’s musical and theatrical prowess). It was through his blessing I had saved my precious fingers from hard labour and freezing conditions, and it was into the same level of privilege Darya Ivanova hoped her new charge would enter.
The girl stood in the shadow of the doorway, stooped and tense, watching me practice; had I not looked up when turning the page I wouldn’t have noticed her. “Come in, dear, come in!” I called but she hesitated as if deciding what to do. With heavy steps she made her way down the hall to the tiny stage upon which sat the camp’s prized piano. “Now, liebling, come up here, don’t be frightened,” I coaxed. “Why don’t you tell me your name?”
The girl stood beside me, fidgeting in her ill-constructed dress. “Olena,” she replied, not looking up, “Olena Semyonovna Bereza.”
“Alright, Olena,” I smiled, trying to catch her eye, “Miss Darya has told me quite a lot about you; why don’t you show me what you can do?”
Without a word the girl sat herself on the stool and placed her long fingers on the keys. With a sharp intake of breath, she launched into a fierce Chopin prelude: her body was rigid and her technique a little rough, but what she produced from such an unorthodox method was nothing but pure magic! Every little nuance, every tender moment she skilfully drew from the keyboard with a maturity and sensibility that belied her years; it is no exaggeration to say she was the first pianist in my entire career to truly take my breath away. As she approached the final cadence, the last tones hanging, lingering desolately in the air I struggled to control the tears pricking my eyes from spilling; though she might be a genius, in my new role such display of emotion would never do.
“Your musicality is simply beautiful, my dear,” I said, trying keep my voice firm, “but we have a lot to work on with your technique. Now Olena, I want you to relax. Let your shoulders drop. Ease all the tension out . . .”
She fixed me with a hard look. “No.”
“No?! Why ever not?”
She didn’t reply, but from the anger in her expression and the fact no men arrived in the latest consignment – no fathers, no brothers – I understood her resentment. “Olena, when you are in my classroom, I want you to remember that here you are safe. No one is watching here, no one can hurt you. Outside is the camp, outside life is hard and full of sorrow, my dear, but this is a sanctuary,” I moved behind her, pressing my hands lightly on her shoulders, persisting though she flinched, “and whilst you are in here you are under my instruction, and if you don’t release your shoulders you will hurt yourself and you will never be able to play again.” She spun around, facing me with a look of terror. “Now,” I pulled a manuscript from my bag, the handwritten pages long since yellow and mouldy, “why don’t we start with some drills?”
“Why is this room heated?” she blurted loudly, catching me off guard.
“Because Mr. Morozov cares about his musicians.”
“But everyone else has to work in the filth and the cold and suffer with no heating. Why should you have it better than everyone else?”
Had this been another time, another place, such impudence would have warranted the cane; instead, I lifted my blouse from my skirt, showing her the bruises and scabs that streaked from my waist to my spine and she gasped. “This is what privilege earns you. When we play and sing we lift everyone out of their miserable, wretched lives and we transport them to a place of beauty where we are all free. But when the music stops and the others see our roomy sleeping quarters, the extra rations we receive . . . well, Olena, need is a powerful emotion when one has nothing; we pay too.” I felt her fingers trace the long scratch marks and the hostility melt from the room. “Now, my dear, shall we try those drills?”
© Molly Cule, 2009
