He stood outside the bedroom door, the instrument case clutched in his small hands. Pressing his ear to wood, he listened and waited. There were no sounds of raised voices or tired pleas, only the light, raspy breathing of a woman slowly dying.
After raising his hand to knock, he stilled. He loved and loathed these moments. Loathed because the room smelled of lingering death that no amount of fresh air or incense sticks disguised. Loved because of the woman in the bed.
“Rybka,” she called. Her voice was weak, as thin as an ancient scroll about to crumble to dust.
He turned the knob and entered the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t dare lock it.
“Come here.” She attempted to lift her hand to him, but the effort was too great, and it fell back to her side. It was pale, milky, and the blue veins under her skin were as delicate as spider legs.
Her once burnished copper hair was now lank, faded, and thin. She’d been a great beauty, a classic profile in a no-longer-classic world. Still, others had recognized her for what she was—old glamour and charm. She moved like a dancer, but carried herself like a queen.
“Play something for me, rybka, my little fish,” she begged through chapped lips.
He set the battered instrument case on the floor and opened it to reveal a viola. Gently lifting the instrument, he gazed at it in worshipful reverence. He brought it to the bed, lifted her hand, and helped her stroke the wooden body.
“My great-great-grandfather came to this country with nothing—nothing except this viola,” she said.
He’d heard the story more than a dozen times, but it was his favorite, and he listened with rapt attention as though it was the first. Her blue eyes lit up as she recounted the tale.
“You do him a great honor, rybka. You will play for audiences who will rise to their feet to pay you tribute. You will be beloved for your music. Play for me,” she repeated.
“What would you like to hear?” he asked.
“Your choice, today.”
He took the viola and placed it under his chin. Without taking his eyes off her, he played a song he composed. A joyful, uplifting melody that brought a smile to her lips. He continued to play for hours, long after the sun had set. She was a most enthusiastic spectator, and though she was too exhausted to clap, her words of praise were all the validation he needed.
The front door slamming against the wall popped their happy, insulated bubble. A raised voice, yelling in Russian, the sounds of shoes thumping against furniture.
“Hurry. Don’t let him find you in here, rybka.”
He quickly shoved the viola into its case and then snapped the lid shut. The footsteps were coming up the stairs.
“Under the bed. Now.”
It was a tale as old as time: a child hiding, praying not to be found, wishing he could block out the angry words spewing from his embittered father. It was nothing more than fear—fear that he would soon lose his wife and be left in this rotten world alone without her, forced to raise a child he didn’t understand.
Cheek pressed to the battered viola case, the child fell asleep to the sound of his father weeping.