The Violin
He had still hoped. And even though the official in the ministry of culture let him understand their conversation was over, he kept sitting in the room until the next person walked in, then he got up and limed towards the exit.
- “Boris Grigoryevich, you forgot your violin”, the secretary’s voice was heard behind him.
He backtracked, took the ragged case in his arms and for the first time, felt its full weight. The secretary looked at him curiously. After all, he was a famous musician, winner of many distinct awards, often appearing on television. An enlarged picture of him was displayed in the front of the “Melodia” store.
But for over two years, since that day when he expressed his desire to immigrate to Israel, he was forbidden from participating even in the most humble concerts, as if performing Saint Saens could expose his audience to his “criminal” intents.
He also had to quit his teaching position. Former students abstained from meeting him, and only the freckled Kolia Ladnov, with his pug nose kept coming to his classes. This guy, who came from a small town in the outskirts of Moscow, was in no way wanted in the musical academy, as he did not meet the entry requirements. But Boris Grigoryevich saw in him, or more precisely, felt in him, a great love for music, and so he insisted he be conditionally accepted. When Kolia performed the following spring in the closing year’s concert, no one could believe what they heard. “I applaud you”, said the academy manager, humbly raising his hands.
For the entire duration of these two long years, Kolia was the only link between Boris Grigoyevich and his former life.
And now they want to take his violin from him, a violin which they have no right of. The violin had been passing in his family for generations. He received it from his father, who inherited it from his father before him, one of the greatest musicians in 19th century Europe. Boris Grigoryevich was willing to sell all of his possessions and pay and tax, but wherever he turned to, the answer was always unanimous: “The violin belongs to the state assets and cannot be taken out of the borders of the Soviet Union”. Boris Grigoryevich had a hard time understanding what “state asset” it is, as the violin has belonged to his family for over one hundred years. But no one would listen. They all cited the “internal regulations”, which unauthorized personnel were not allowed to read.
Boris Grigoyevich could not imagine how he would leave without his violin. Music, the violin and himself were as one entity. The first sound that sparked his imagination was the sound of this violin. All the long years of training with practice violins were but a preparation for meeting his own violin. The day when Boris’ father finally allowed him to play that violin, during his first concert, was the happiest day of his life.
And from that moment on, they were never apart. When the violin complained, he came to his aid, when the violin cried, he cried with it, when the violin spoke of love, he answered “yes”, when the violin called to him, he was willing to sacrifice, the violin blessed him and he relaxed.
Boris desperately waved his hands at his wife’s anxious face and silently entered his room. Naked walls and an old chair greeted him. During all of the days when he was preoccupied with the violin, he didn’t notice when and how his son had packed all of their possessions. The violin sighed loudly, and Boris’ fingers carefully levitated on the strings. The violin became silent.
That afternoon he heard a knock on the door. It was Kolia.
- “Why do you sit in the dark, Boris Grigoryevich”, he asked.
- “I don’t know, I must have fallen asleep”.
Kolia turned on the light and closed the window from which a cold, humid march wind blew.
- “Don’t agonize yourself lilke this, Boris Grigoryevich. In your hands, any violin would sing”.
- “Let’s not talk about this, Boris interrupted him. After a brief silence he added, “come tomorrow… to pick up the violin”.
- “What about you? There’s no need”, Kolia said. “Maybe they’ll still let you keep it”.
- “No, it is lost now”.
Boris lowered his head and didn’t hear the door closing as Kolia exited.
They were alone again, the violin and him. Boris got up without placing it and shrugged the coat off of him. He stood in the middle of the room, where a single light bulb, left alone in the ceiling, powerfully illuminated, bowed before an invisible audience and picked up his bow.
- “Tell me, violin, why are people so different from one another and sometimes it is hard to know what they want? Why is there so much evil in the world?”
- “There’s no need to torment like this”, the violin comforted him, “the world is marvelous with all of the good and bad in it, and human beings are nature’s sublime creation. They just haven’t fully gotten to know themselves yet”.
- “Spare me, violin, it is so hard to bear the cruelty, so bitter is the taste of injustice. How can I carry on living? How?”
- “Each person has his own path”, answers the violin, “and each gets what he deserves. Do good, and this way only will the bad stay clear of you”.
It was long past midnight, and he still played and played. For the last time, Boris shared his pain and hopes with his violin. He didn’t have to pretend, after all the violin knew him and accepted him for who he was.
1974