Piano...or Death!!

Growing up, there has always been one element of holidays and family get-togethers that I have always cherished.  It would happen at the dinner table, usually when the main meal has been cleared and in the interim until dessert that my father would start his storytelling.  A big personality, with a remarkable ability to spin a good yarn,  he would start in with his carefully measured words and heavy Polish accent, while the rest of us listened, always attentive and often amused.

Recently at one of these post-dinner wrap-ups I requested to hear the 'piano story' again.  It is one that I've heard many times, but always the details are so worth hearing time after time. And it is always a hard ticket to get--as these stories always depend on my father's mood and requests could often be rejected...But last Christmas, I got lucky.

This is a true story and it happened in an area of Poland called Przemysl which is very close to the Russian border.  The time was just after World War II and at that point the border was constantly being switched--from Russian territory to German territory.  As a result, families were forced to relocate all the time, depending on which flag was being waved in their front yard.  

During World War II, it was commonplace for Polish families to receive a knock at the door from German soldiers who would enter forcibly and rifle through the contents of the home removing anything of particular value.  My father, age 9 lived in a small house with his mother and grandmother when this knock came.  Although they didn't have much in terms of valuables, there was one piece that for my grandmother was her greatest treasure and it was her upright piano.

So in the Germans went and of course out the piano went with them.  For my grandmother, this was devastating as she was passionate about music and  it was the one source of escape that she had during this bleak time.  She was an accomplished pianist and also composed...When it was impossible to buy sheet music, she would make her own manuscript paper and write down by ear the pieces that she would hear.  One of my treasures now is a big box of these music papers that she wrote, yellowed in time all bearing the signature of the years from 1937-1945.

Eventually the war ended and as the Germans were pulling out they had huge caravans standing on the street filled with all the booty they had collected from the citizens.  As my grandmother and father passed by these caravans she scanned the contents, always on the lookout for what was stolen from her.  Finally as they passed the tail end of this caravan, she stopped in amazement--jetting out from one of these wagons was her beloved piano.

She surveyed the scene and saw that there was only one lazy soldier who was charged with guarding the caravan.  With the war over, there was a more relaxed 'work ethic' which she instantly recognized as an opportunity for herself.  She called on the help of a friend who was a kind of 'village superman'- a muscular hulk of a guy who from spending years in hard farm labor was able to lift astounding amounts of weight, and then she, the 'hulk' and her 9 year old son set out to right the wrong done to them.

Somehow they managed to extract the piano from the wagon of this caravan and the three of them were pushing this instrument down the street back to their home.  Passers-by were looking in amazement, but undaunted they continued on, growing bolder with each step. Suddenly a blast was heard in the sky--Looking up they saw a plane looming above them. They realized that this was either a Russian or German surveillance plane and that the pilot had spotted them in this act.  As they pushed on frantically, this plane suddenly full throttle started to descend down on them.  They tried to hide, my father cramming his small body underneath the piano as far as he could and the others sidling as close as they could to the side of the instrument...They got lucky; the plan flew off.  They continued to push, shaking in fear. My father wanted to leave the instrument behind and flee home.  But my grandmother wouldn't hear of it.  She had to get this piano back into the home, even if it meant death.  

The plane re-emerged a few minutes later--the angry sound of the engine overhead and now fueled with even more aggression--This time the speed and intensity of the swoop down was so frightful that all three thought that their life was over.  And as the plane came closer, they prayed frantically for mercy.

Of course, because I am sitting here today writing this story, one could guess the outcome--They lived.  The ominous plane flew off in the distance and they made it safely home, piano in tow.

But the question remains--Why?  Why to risk their lives so flagrantly, all for the sake of this piano.  Was it a valuable instrument?  Absolutely not--just your run of the mill upright; it wouldn't command very much money on the open market, especially after having been beaten up from this war.  Was it a family heirloom, passed down through the years?  No.  Was there something stashed away in the interior of the case, like a big wad of cash wrapped up? Wishful thinking, but no.  

The reason my grandmother risked her life and the life of her son was exactly to have  life. The war with all its suffering was not life--it was survival.  Life was in the music. Life was on this alternate plane.  This was the place where souls were kind and loving and gentle; imparting spiritual nourishment and hope through the symbols of notes and rests and staffs...This was the place where humanity could be lifted up from the depth of sorrow that it had inflicted on one another. This was the place where one could find repose.

Music has this power.  It always has and always will.  But, wait,  there's a catch: We have to take personal responsibility for our musical choices. We have to seek out great music and take possession of it...Just as this brave lady sought out and reclaimed her treasure, we must do the same.

In these modern times, where media is blaring at us 24-7 it is more critical than ever that we make conscious decisions in what we chose to let in.  There are two types of music:  the kind that drags us down, with it's negative subtext and simplistic content or the kind that uplifts us. 

How do we know the difference?  Simple--As all things of quality, the music that uplifts us requires participation from us.  It requires--it directs us to stop all we are doing and be attentive only to it.  Like a sermon, it will move our heart and rewire our internal networks in such a positive way--but again, we must make the choice and we must carve out quality time for it.

Piano or death?...Music or death?....Starving the soul or nourishing it with inspiration?  That is our choice to make!