Magda rages at the empty space. With the piano gone, something in
her is missing too. A piece of her identity. An outlet for her self-
expression. In its absence, she ĕnds anger. Vibrant, full voiced, willful.
I admire her for it. My anger turns inward and congeals in my lungs.
Magda grows stronger as the days pass, but I am still weak. My
upper back continues to ache, making it difficult to walk, and my chest
is heavy with congestion. I rarely leave the house. Even if I weren’t
sick, there is nowhere I want to go. When death is the answer to every
question, why go walking? Why talk when any interaction with the
living serves to prove that you move through the world in the company
of an ever-growing congregation of ghosts? Why miss anyone in
particular when everyone has so many to mourn?
I rely on my sisters: Klara, my devoted nurse; Magda, my source of
news, my connection to the greater world. One day she comes home
breathless. “e piano!” she says. “I found it. It’s in the coffeehouse.
Our piano. We’ve got to get it back.”
e coffeehouse owner won’t believe that it’s ours. Klara and
Magda take turns pleading. ey describe the family chamber music
concerts in our parlor, how János Starker, Klara’s cellist friend, another
child prodigy from the conservatory, played a concert with Klara in our
house the year of his professional debut. None of their words holds
sway. Finally, Magda seeks out the piano tuner. He comes with her to
the café and talks to the owner and then looks inside the piano lid to
read the serial number. “Yes,” he says, nodding, “this is the Elefánt
piano.” He gets together a crew of men to bring it back to our
apartment.
Is there something inside me that can verify my identity, that can
restore myself to myself? If such a thing existed, who would I seek out
to lift the lid, read the code?
* * *