A Concerto of Memories

Friedrich mindlessly brushed away his iron-grey hair from his eyes
and stared at the instrument before him. He tried to examine it as a
simple object, to admire it as a fine piece of craftsmanship, but the
flood of painful and loving memories was too heavy to withstand. As his
futile resistance crumbled, his long-buried past was exposed, and he
saw, remembered and felt the cello. His cello: an instrument that, with
one sweeping chord, could sound a deep, resonant bass along with a high
'A' that sang with gentle vibrato; his instrument that, when he played
it, filled a room with plaintive anger or lulling regrets.

It was different from when he had first seen it, dust now concealing
the ebony-black of the finger-board. His first glimpse of it had been
in Herr Stauber's workshop, when, as a young boy in the late 1880s, he
had caught sight of an over-sized violin propped up in the corner.
Having entered the shop to collect his sister's mended viola, he had
left with two instruments, promising Stauber that his mother would make
the payment immediately and leaving his shoes behind as a deposit.
After several days of convincing her that her son's happiness was more
important than her bank account, Friedrich was finally in full
possession of a cello, and under strict orders that regular practice
was compulsory.

These orders, however, were not necessary: he played the cello
everyday, always rushing to the smooth wooden instrument as soon as he
returned home from school, and practising again and again complicated
passages of music. Following months of impatience, when playing simple
nursery rhymes was the height of his musical ability, there were years
of happiness; he lost himself in a world of Bach, Beethoven,
Mendelssohn and Mozart.

At first, his parents were proud of him:
"Come see our boy play the cello!" they would say to their guests, and
his audiences would sit stiffly on the padded drawing room chairs,
amazed at the haunting sound being produced by a fifteen year old and
his cello.

But then, as he had grown older and had experienced emotions that made
expression on this instrument all the more truthful, his parents had
instructed him to cease playing it: childhood hobbies ought to be left
behind. It seemed ludicrous now: Friedrich wondered how enjoying music
could be compared to collecting stamps or butterflies. Smiling, he
fondly wiped away the last traces of dust and polished the dark wood
until his lined face was reflected in the deep gleam.

He had wasted so much time, working in his father's firm, carrying out
the mundane, monotonous activities of administration. His salary
increased, and correspondingly his material benefits, but his happiness
was left behind and collected dust. His life became a wheel that
steadily revolved each working day, a cycle which he knew was gradually
slowing down and would eventually grind to a halt.

That seemingly inevitable 'halt' was prevented, however, by his
father's death. The loss of his parent had unexpectedly brought about
the regaining of joy, since, whilst sorting though the attic in their
house, which was to be sold, in September 1909, he had come across the
cello. It had been dusty, as it was now, and the strings had slipped
with over ten years of neglect. He had immediately, and instinctively,
known what he must do to once again take a hold over his life: he had
blown the dust away, tuned the strings and begun to practise.

He had thus begun once again to play the cello everyday, and then this
increased to almost every hour. He gradually started to reach the
standard at which he had previously been; then he progressed and became
even better. He had withdrawn himself from the outside world, from his
friends and his mother, and his life had been the cello and the cello
had been his life.

After four years of secluded playing, he had finally been offered an
opportunity that he had thought only lay in dreams. Whilst practising
the Dvorak cello concerto in the seedy room that had become his home,
there had been an uncustomary and unexpected knock at the door. A man
who had recently moved into the flat next to his had heard Friedrich's
playing and was impressed. He knew the owner of a nearby concert hall
and promised Friedrich that he would arrange a recital.

The man had kept his word, and, in August 1914, the day arrived that
Friedrick had only experienced in the ecstasies of dreams. As he walked
into the concert hall, his hands cold yet sweating, he examined with
nervous precision the faces of his audience: the drawing room chairs
were now endless rows of soft red seats, each filled with eager
characters. Friedrick could still remember them now: the mother urging
her son to sit uncomfortably straight and enjoy the music; the man
whose grey hair was almost black with the over-use of oil; the
chattering group of girls who were daringly putting their legs up onto
the seats in front of them, feigning unawareness of the constant
glances from several young men....

In front of these people he had carefully and slowly walked onto the
stage, sat down and pulled out the cello's spike. He had tightened his
bow, begun to tune, loosened his bow hairs slightly and then had fully
tuned his cello. The orchestra had then begun to play and, after its
introduction, he had started his solo.

A tear ran down the channel of one of the lines on Friedrick's face as
he remembered the boy running into the hall, shouting that their
country was now at war. As the tear fell from his chin he remembered
how the hall had no longer been filled with the rich, pure sound of the
cello: everyone had started talking, shouting and then leaving, all
frantically rushing to newspaper stands.

Friedrick wiped away the moisture on his face and pulled out the spike
of the cello. He placed the cello between his knees and sat in this
position for a long while. He did not play it. He could not play it.
Eventually, he got up, pushed the spike back in and placed the cello
back in its case. He felt the customary, nagging pain in the stump of
his right arm, his bow arm, and once again flinched as he relived the
damp trench, the sound of guns, the sudden explosion of a shell and the
one terrible thought that had kept on going round and round in his
mind: that he would never again be able to play the cello.