The music. Where does it come from?
He looks at the once pulsating, now cold piece of flesh. Once throbbing, unwieldy, groaning with aspiration. Sick. Not like his own, powerfully pounding organ, hidden behind the shield of his chest. He can hear the soft melody echoing in his mind, and, without meaning to, slightly bows his head. Suddenly, he hears his own heart beating in unbearable disharmony to these vulnerable yet outrageously undeniable sounds. He grabs the urn, presses it to his chest, and leaves. The echo of his footsteps drowning its quiet revolution. After he is gone, the empty church seems to hold its breath. Robbed of its treasure, it is surely doomed to fall.
The shootings cascade through the city in a never ending staccato. The only sound intruding into an otherwise perfectly quiet house. He can’t leave, and they can’t stay. All he can do is pray. Sitting at the wooden kitchen table with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Give me an answer. Show me the path. He can hear their hearts beating as fast as the gun shots outside. His own heart slow and heavy in the darkest corner of his body, taking long and aching breaks before reluctantly going back to work. A sad symphony.
He must not have heard the first knock, for the second is so loud that it makes him jump out of his chair. »Aufmachen! « A German voice. The priest stumbles to the door, screaming as loud as he can – »Who is it? « The beating stops. A moment of perfect silence. He can feel a sudden tranquility flowing through his body. »Aufmachen! « With this peace in his heart, he quietly obeys.
The German is alone. The priest has to tilt his head back to get a glimpse of his blue eyes. He knows those eyes, has seen them once before. Not waiting for an invitation, the German enters his house. One step and he is in the middle of the room. »Close the door. « Don’t worry, he’s alone. He can smell flesh, alive and dead. He closes the door. Now, he can hear the faint melody. He tilts his head to the side, listening, enchanted. The German hides something under his coat. He unbuttons it, and offers the urn with two hands. »You have to leave. » We can’t leave. The priests eyes widen. »What happened to the church? « His voice a hoarse whisper. »You have to leave. You take it with you. When it’s all over, you bring it back. « His church. He can smell the fire. Smoldering ashes. He reaches out his hands. He listens to himself as if someone else is speaking, firm and cold. »Thank you for bringing it to me. I will take good care of it. « He feels the cold stone under his palm. The German won’t let go. For the eternity of a moment, both men hold on to the incarcerated treasure. »Your city is gone. If you don’t leave, you will most certainly be dead. « A wave of heat rolling through his old body, up his throat, flickering in his eyes. He increases the pressure of his palms. »This is my city. If it dies, I die with it. « Cold hate in blue eyes, then, surprisingly, unsurprisingly, resignation. The German lets go and turns around. The door opens. War. The door closes. Peace. The priest wraps his arms around the heart and holds it tightly to his chest. Only now is he crying.
The attic floats in complete darkness. We are all holding our breath. The air is muggy up here. I feel like I’m being rolled up in wet cotton. We are practicing eternal silence. As soon as I hear the German voice, I can feel it coming. A warm trickling down my inner thigh. Silently at first, until it purls out onto the wooden floor. Mom almost crushes my hand with hers. I can feel her heart beat in her palm and then in mine. I imagine the dark lake at my feet leaking through the floor boards, dripping steadily onto the Germans head like raindrops on a rose. I can feel the floor macerating, breaking, my body gliding towards the earth, withering in flight, crisp and dry as it lands, ready to be crushed. I breathe in as I search for my mother’s face. I breathe out when I feel her hand on my head. I can hear her fingernails scratching my scalp tenderly, and I want to lie down and close my eyes and listen to nothing else but that very sound. Then the door claps. It is silent again.
The light is blinding my eyes. A small glint through a small crack. My damp body is bathing in it, ecstatic, warm again. I hope I don’t suck it up entirely, so that the others might have their share. They must be, because everyone is laughing, Dad in a deep gurgle, aunt Anna in bubbling bells, Mom in dry sobs, gasping for air. Maybe it is because of the melody. It is beautiful. Father Jakub remains serious. Then, his heart enters our darkness.
I used to play the piano. A century ago, in my last life. We are almost there. I can feel it. We are going to leave this place.
The Polish are fighting like heroes. In every pair of eyes he can see the rebellious sparkle. Behind the fear. Still, they won’t make it. The German shakes his head. Stupid little priest. Playing the piano so wonderfully. A glimpse through an open window, the smell of lilac. The first time he had heard his music in years. Who else should he have given it to? Now he realizes that the melody is gone. He tries to remember the motif but it won’t come back. He stops, tempted to turn on his heels. Hurried little steps, breathless faces, distorted with fear and hate. His dissidents. He tenses his jaw, keeps on walking.
They can’t stay up there. He can’t ask anyone for help. No neighbor, no friend. Didn’t we used to be brothers and sisters? His deep sigh shatters the painful silence.
I can hear the priest pacing and turning, pacing and turning. He did not allow me to go down and wash out my underpants. He did it himself. The adults are whispering in hissing sounds. I am snuggled up head to toe in my woolen blanket, my arms around his heart, my cheek resting on the smooth surface of its shield. My hair under the blanket making faint crackling noises. It is quite long now. If they lifted the blanket, it would spread out in all directions and lift me up and make me tall and let me fly away up over the grey clouds where the sun would shine. But they won’t. Instead, we are moving down.
From darkness to darkness. They dug a deep cavern at the back of the house. It is cool down here, but the air is fresh, says Mom, and it is safe, says Dad. If I was a mole, I could eat through the cold earth and surface in warm lands, fat and happy. At night, I hum the melody the heart has taught me. Then, everybody smiles.
The city was burning. No eyes in the back of his head. Someone is pinning a medal to the German’s chest. His heart beats on the other side. He smiles. He will never know himself.
I can see the light again. We have to say goodbye. We are going on a boat, to a warm country. We have to catch up on some sun, says Dad. There will be other kids to play with, he says. People like us. Mom is crying. Warsaw puffs and smolders like an old dragon. The lilac has come back and tries to cheer it up with its flowers and smell. Will there be lilac in the holy land? I hope I can play the piano again. For the last time, I press my lips and forehead to the stone. I close my eyes and suck in the melody so that I may never forget it. Then I let go. I am free.
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Author: Silke Eggert, Berlin, Germany
The story was received trough the international short story competition for the project Secret Heart by KOLEKTIVA in 2010.