By Larry Lefkowitz
MODI’IN, Israel — Everyone in our family called the tuner of my daughter’s piano, “the piano tuner,” though his name was Fishbein. He was a brusque man, even for a fellow Viennese, stooped, often wore a checkered jacket which contrasted ridiculously with his formal striped pants, as if he had been a jazz saxophonist at one stage of his life and a concert pianist in another; his polka dotted, cabaret comedian’s tie completed the total mismatch. He arrived, tuned the piano, refused tea and cake (not very Viennese), pleaded that he was late for another piano, grabbed his tuning case and hurried away. Always the same ritual. His statement about being late for another piano caused us to chuckle (after he left) because he spoke of the piano that awaited him like it was a person.
When he tuned the piano, he always tuned it to the same tune: the opening bars of “Pop Goes the Weasel,” which he tapped out with one finger, whose tip was blunted, seemingly from such use. This choice of his ‘theme’ amused us because my daughter’s piano teacher insisted that she learn and practice classical music only, forbidding her to play “light,” “frivolous” or “sentimental” music , the teacher’s various descriptions with which she dismissed non-classical music. The piano tuner never requested my daughter to play anything for him, almost as if the piano interested him exclusively, its player superfluous.
The conversations between Fishbein and myself invariably led to his instructing me on the correct way to preserve his art; namely, how his tuning of the piano should be properly maintained. I would listen, nod, if scarcely paying attention. If the piano went out of tune, I reasoned, we would call him, as usual. Once, fatiqued of hearing the same lecture, and perhaps in ill temper by increasing worry over the way events were developing in Austria, I snapped that if we neglected our piano tuning preserving duties, he would profit by increased business. He vouchsafed me such a hurt look that I was careful in the future to simply nod and say nothing.
Only once did the piano tuner and I have a conversation not connected to how the piano should be kept in tune. It took place sometime during the period before Hitler annexed Austria. Before Fishbein could begin his usual tuning lecture, I informed him that I didn’t know how much longer we would need his services because we were going to flee Austria for Palestine. I urged him to do the same. Me? Palestine? Picking oranges? he asked. You can continue your profession of tuning pianos, I said, adding, that he was fortunate – his work did not require him to be erudite in a new language. He shook his head slowly from side to side in negation of my suggestion. Vienna, he said, as if that explained all. Vienna is no longer Vienna, I answered. He nodded as if he agreed with this statement, said that he was late for another piano, and left.
We settled in Tel Aviv and gradually adapted to our new home. Sometimes, in the years that followed, when I heard someone playing the piano, I thought of the piano tuner back there — who knew where he was, if he was, and sadness suffused me. After we arrived in Palestine, my daughter continued to study the piano for a time, although we couldn’t afford to purchase a piano, practicing wherever a piano was available, but finally giving it up to became a translator in order to help us make ends meet. If the piano tuner had known about it, I thought, it would sadden him. Maybe even anger him. A luftmentch with his head in the clouds.
About a year ago, I was walking down Rabbi Berlin street, when I heard a tune being tapped out on the piano. The tune was familiar from somewhere, somewhere in the past. I stopped dead in my tracks. It was the opening bars of “Pop goes the Weasel.” My body began to shiver. I ran to the door of the small, one-story house from which the music came and pressed frantically on the door bell. I kept pressing. The music stopped. A woman opened the door. I brushed past her. A man stood up – out of politeness, out of alarm? I ran to him, past a young girl. The woman’s daughter learning the piano? The question flashed through my mind, albeit that my entire being was concentrated on the man who had stood up.
Yes, it was Fishbein, older, face wrinkled, stooped even more, but it was he, wearing an open-necked white shirt and tan trousers. I spread my arms wide to embrace him. He was startled, although only momentarily, before falling as if in a faint into my arms. The mother and the girl, glimpsed from the corner of my eye, were staring at us open mouthed as if we were madmen. Tears flowed from my eyes. Tears flowed from Fishbein’s eyes (perhaps this was Viennese also). He had heeded my advice.
There was indeed work for piano tuners outside of Vienna.
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Larry Lefkowitz, a resident of Modi’in, Israel, is a freelance writer and author of the book Enigmatic Tales.