about the table? And all four chairs?’ Already Mrs Eliasberg sounded defeated by the potential cost of saving her only son.
‘Where do you propose we eat? In the gutter?’
A pause. On his side of the door, Elias wiped a film of sweat from his forehead and shifted from one weak leg to the other.
‘How about the best china?’ His father sounded a little brighter.
Now it was Karl’s mother who demurred. The tea set was dear to her heart, the only possession in which she could take pride when entertaining. For some minutes Elias listened to his parents tipping the scales back and forth: the value of his health against various household items. His feet burned with cold, and his face burned with an emotion impossible to define. As he dragged his way back to bed, he felt a new strength in his limbs, and he clenched his hands under the chilly sheet.
‘I will live!’ he declared, spitting over the side of the bed into a basin, staring at the bubbling mix of blood and saliva. Then, propped up against his lumpy pillow, he wrote a list headed ‘Karl Illyich Eliasberg’s Ten Commandments’. They included:
Surviving, to prove them all wrong
Not becoming a Shoemaker or any other kind of tradesman
Never valuing Material Possessions over Art or Life
During the following months Elias recovered, thus achieving the first of his commandments. ‘Inexplicable,’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘A miracle.’ He sounded almost annoyed: predicting bad news and then being robbed of the outcome can leave one feeling faintly ridiculous.
Though never strong, Elias proceeded to grow steadily upwards and increasingly inwards. He refused point blank to learn the shoe trade (thereby achieving his second commandment). To kneel in the dust of life, dealing with objects that came in contact with the base earth — this was not for him! He considered becoming a pilot — ‘A pilot?’ queried his mother in alarm — and a general, until he realised he disapprovedof organised killing, whatever the cause.
And then one Sunday, after performing a solo in a youth-choir concert, he was approached by a distinguished grey-haired man. Did Karl Eliasberg play an instrument, asked the man, as well as sing? Yes, Elias did; the neighbour across the landing owned a piano and she’d taught him for many years.
‘Would you mind playing something?’ asked the grey-haired man, with just the right mix of authority and diffidence.
The dilapidated church echoed like a cave as Elias walked, with booming uncertain steps, to the piano. He started with a Bach prelude, which was all he could remember under duress. The notes fell starkly and too loudly into all that empty space. They seemed like stones hurled off a cliff, some flying in arcs, others aimed more deftly — but as they piled up together they achieved their own amassed validity. He started his favourite Beethoven sonata with more confidence. Boom, boom-be-boom! The low bass notes spread out impressively, while his right hand lifted the melody higher and higher towards the roof.
When the final repeated chords had dissolved, the grey-haired man applauded. It was a reaction that seemed incongruous in a church, even a disused one, but Elias flushed with pleasure. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had listened to him so attentively, nor the last time he’d been praised. After the grey-haired man had asked several questions — where did Elias live, what was his age, how was his father’s financial situation? — he asked the most significant question of all. Was Karl interested in trying for a scholarship for the Conservatoire?
Elias was taken aback, but as his father had developed pneumonia and was unable to work, and his mother had begun serving pancakes consisting mainly of coffee grounds — ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘I’d be most interested.’ At the very least, a scholarship would entitle him to extra grocery rations. At best, it would set him free.
An almost inescapable legacy
D uring his
‘Where do you propose we eat? In the gutter?’
A pause. On his side of the door, Elias wiped a film of sweat from his forehead and shifted from one weak leg to the other.
‘How about the best china?’ His father sounded a little brighter.
Now it was Karl’s mother who demurred. The tea set was dear to her heart, the only possession in which she could take pride when entertaining. For some minutes Elias listened to his parents tipping the scales back and forth: the value of his health against various household items. His feet burned with cold, and his face burned with an emotion impossible to define. As he dragged his way back to bed, he felt a new strength in his limbs, and he clenched his hands under the chilly sheet.
‘I will live!’ he declared, spitting over the side of the bed into a basin, staring at the bubbling mix of blood and saliva. Then, propped up against his lumpy pillow, he wrote a list headed ‘Karl Illyich Eliasberg’s Ten Commandments’. They included:
Surviving, to prove them all wrong
Not becoming a Shoemaker or any other kind of tradesman
Never valuing Material Possessions over Art or Life
During the following months Elias recovered, thus achieving the first of his commandments. ‘Inexplicable,’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘A miracle.’ He sounded almost annoyed: predicting bad news and then being robbed of the outcome can leave one feeling faintly ridiculous.
Though never strong, Elias proceeded to grow steadily upwards and increasingly inwards. He refused point blank to learn the shoe trade (thereby achieving his second commandment). To kneel in the dust of life, dealing with objects that came in contact with the base earth — this was not for him! He considered becoming a pilot — ‘A pilot?’ queried his mother in alarm — and a general, until he realised he disapprovedof organised killing, whatever the cause.
And then one Sunday, after performing a solo in a youth-choir concert, he was approached by a distinguished grey-haired man. Did Karl Eliasberg play an instrument, asked the man, as well as sing? Yes, Elias did; the neighbour across the landing owned a piano and she’d taught him for many years.
‘Would you mind playing something?’ asked the grey-haired man, with just the right mix of authority and diffidence.
The dilapidated church echoed like a cave as Elias walked, with booming uncertain steps, to the piano. He started with a Bach prelude, which was all he could remember under duress. The notes fell starkly and too loudly into all that empty space. They seemed like stones hurled off a cliff, some flying in arcs, others aimed more deftly — but as they piled up together they achieved their own amassed validity. He started his favourite Beethoven sonata with more confidence. Boom, boom-be-boom! The low bass notes spread out impressively, while his right hand lifted the melody higher and higher towards the roof.
When the final repeated chords had dissolved, the grey-haired man applauded. It was a reaction that seemed incongruous in a church, even a disused one, but Elias flushed with pleasure. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had listened to him so attentively, nor the last time he’d been praised. After the grey-haired man had asked several questions — where did Elias live, what was his age, how was his father’s financial situation? — he asked the most significant question of all. Was Karl interested in trying for a scholarship for the Conservatoire?
Elias was taken aback, but as his father had developed pneumonia and was unable to work, and his mother had begun serving pancakes consisting mainly of coffee grounds — ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘I’d be most interested.’ At the very least, a scholarship would entitle him to extra grocery rations. At best, it would set him free.
An almost inescapable legacy
D uring his
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