Playing for Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

scarf. She was drawing farther away, she was proceeding without looking back. What if I lost track of her? I mislaid a shoe, lodged in the snow. Too bad, I threw off the other too and ran barefoot, a thousand needles of ice piercing my freezing feet. We went out of camp A and into B, where the “notables” lived.
    The giant stopped in front of a barracks, turned round, and looked at me distrustfully, incredulously: what if I’d fooled her? Pressing her index finger against my chest so hard as almost to knock me over, she roared:
    “You—Madame Butterfly?”
    Seized with panic, I yelled back, “Yes—yes, me, Madame Butterfly!”
    At the same time I fought back an insane desire to laugh.
    A Band of Angels
    The Polish woman opened the door and I entered something closely resembling paradise. There was light, and a stove; indeed it was so warm that I could hardly breathe and stood rooted to the spot. Stands, music, a woman on a platform. In front of me pretty girls were sitting, well-dressed, with pleated skirts and jerseys, holding musical instruments: violins, mandolins, guitars, flutes, pipes… and a grand piano lording it over them all.
    It couldn’t be possible, it wasn’t happening. I’d gone mad. No, I was dead, and these were the angels. It must have happened while I was crossing the camp, in the snow and mud. I was reassured: “Your journey is done, you have come to the paradise of music; that’s only natural, since that’s your main love. This is your first stopping place; you’re in heaven and you’re going to take your place among these marvellous girls.”
    A fair girl with a gentle face came towards me; with a sympathetic hand she wiped away the blood which had run from my mouth and nose, cleaned my face with a damp cloth. Angels are wonderful, I must say. Then she handed me a bit of bread; the bread and salt of the traditional welcome, a gesture which came to me from the mists of charity. I said “Thank you” and these words, already forgotten, filled me with delight. I felt as if I were walking on air as I smilingly proceeded towards the players.
    No one spoke, no one moved, but all those charming young ladies were looking at me. It was an exceptional, divine moment. I was on a little cloud of pink cotton wool, I was floating… Then the picture became animated: the conductor, a tall dark-haired woman, dignified and straight-backed, addressed me in precise French with a German accent. “Do you play the piano?”
    My “Yes, madame” was uttered with such fervour that it rang out like an alleluia in a cathedral.
    “Well then
, go
to the piano and accompany yourself to
Madame Butterfly.”
    Barefoot, I went over to the piano. It was a Bechstein, the dream of my life. I climbed onto the stool, put my toes on the pedals and my hands on the ivory of the keyboard, and they made me blush with shame. I wanted to clench my fists, to hide them. It was so long since I’d washed them. But it didn’t matter; I was there.
    A lump of gratitude formed in
my
throat; I who didn’t believe in anything felt an obscure desire to thank God. Then the dream lurched into reality: I was there to prove myself. In a few moments I could be rejected, sent back where I came from. After all, these were not angels but women.
    Lovingly, my hands made the familiar contact with the black and white keys, and I broke into
Un bel di.
Was Puccini going to save
my
life? Then I sang in German
Wenn es Fruhling wird
(“When Spring Comes”) by Peter Kreuder, its rhythm reminiscent of certain Gypsy dances.
    My hands stopped moving but I kept them on the keyboard; as long as they were in contact with it, nothing could happen to me. I caressed the piano; it was my saviour, my love, my life. Against a background of pregnant silence the verdict fell in German:
    “Ja, gut!”
    Then a
little
more informatively, in French: “I’ll have you in the orchestra.”
    A comforting warmth swept over me. I basked in its sweetness: I was in the