At the top of my to-do list, was practice, practice, practice. Every spare minute I could find, I practiced the piano in preparation for my audition at the Juilliard School. Studying at this prestigious institution had always been my dream, and I was a nervous wreck, convinced that I’d never get in but needing to try.  Prior to marrying and moving to New York City, I’d attended a music conservatory in Ohio. But Juilliard was the pinnacle.

I first ran into our across-the-hall neighbor at the elevator the week we moved in. A slender woman, she was very old and moved slowly, but held herself erect and dressed elegantly. Her hair was snow white and fashioned in a bun. She wore shoes of modest height and carried a tidy leather handbag. Her coat looked expensive and warm, with a lush fur collar, and she wore gloves. When we exchanged polite hellos, I looked into brilliant blue eyes. I didn’t yet know her name; in those early days my husband and I just called her “the neighbor across the hall.” and we made up fantasy stories about who she might be.

I was curious about this quiet, patrician-looking woman. The doorman, my source for information about all things in our building, told me that she was born and raised in Germany, she’d lost family in the war, she’d never had children, that her English was quite good, and that she’d recently lost her husband. He added that she was shy and, despite a sweet smile, she seemed sad.

All the while my life was moving fast. There weren’t enough hours in a day to do all that I wanted or needed to do. The date for my audition at Juilliard was looming and I was concerned that my blossoming pregnant stomach would give me away and I’d be rejected out of hand. I tried to practice as much as I could and took lessons twice a week to prepare the grueling list of requirements.

Most days I was up and out early to get errands out of the way so I could spend afternoon hours at the piano.

Then one morning, I overslept and woke to the sounds of a heavenly performance of the Mozart G Major Piano Sonata #5, played so lovingly and with such exquisite nuance that I made it my business to identify who the pianist was on this extraordinary recording.

When I stepped into the hallway to hear the music more clearly, I realized it was actually a live performance emanating from the woman’s apartment across the hall. She was the pianist. Barely breathing, I stood listening until the last note melted away.

I closed my door and thought, “Wow, have I got a lot to learn! Wiggling fingers fast is simply not enough to make music!”

Over the next few days, I waited home longer in the mornings, and sure enough, she played the sonata again at the same time. After a few days, I realized that, for some reason, she did this every day.

When I could no longer contain my curiosity, I rang her doorbell. She peeked through the door and invited me in. “I believe that you are the young pianist across the hall, are you not?  I am Ana Schmidt and I am happy you stopped by. I don’t get much company and it’s been lonely since my husband passed away.”

Her apartment was immaculate. The floors were covered with oriental rugs and heavy mahogany furniture. Airy white curtains caught the breeze from an open window and were a wonderful contrast to the darker palette in the room, where the focal piece was her grand piano, a Bösendorfer, the favored piano in Europe.

I introduced myself and said, “I hope I am not disturbing you, but I wanted to tell you how much I enjoy listening to you play. I am studying to become a pianist myself but after hearing you play, I think I’m doing everything wrong!”

She smiled sympathetically. “Insecurity seems to be the curse of all serious musicians. I hear you playing as well. You have very fast fingers, my dear. I confess I am quite jealous when I hear you at the keyboard. I, too, had fingers that flew, but as age overwhelmed me, arthritis found a home. When it attacked my fingers and hands, I knew I would have to adjust quite significantly. And I knew that I needed to continue to play because playing the piano is my reason to breathe.

“I decided to adjust to the reality of my situation. I choose pieces I never tire of by my favorite composers, pieces that I can keep under my fingers. It requires playing every day. I’ve been playing the Mozart Sonata you heard to keep my fingers limber. When I need a change, I switch to the Bach English Suite to keep my tempos and tonalities steady and even. For dessert, I’ll switch over to some of my favorite Chopin Mazurkas. Does that make any sense to you?”

I thought for a minute. “I’d have a hard time working on only one piece at a time. Right now, I have to explore and master all periods and styles of music, contemporary music as well as the classics— Copeland, Khachaturian, Moszkowski, Debussy, Ives…

“It’s a lot of fun to discover different tonalities and rhythms and changing time signatures. I love it when the piano tells a story— Copeland’s “The Cat and Mouse” really sounds like the two characters are chasing each other.  You might enjoy looking at it. It makes me smile every time I play it!”

“I find that I need to spend my time with my lifelong ‘friends’ in the classics nowadays,” Ana said, “and leave the new music to you young people. But I’d love to hear you play some pieces to educate me.”

Over the next few months, as I concentrated on preparing for my audition, my anxiety increased each day. Finally, I decided to ask for help and knocked on her door.

“Ana, would you be willing to give me a lesson or two before my audition? I’m having trouble feeling in control of the pieces I am playing. My teacher’s an excellent technician, but he’s cold and strict. I could use some encouragement. And of course, I’ll pay you for your time.”

She paused for a moment. “Of course, I will try to help. I learned a lot of tricks from my teachers over the years, and am happy to pass them on to you.”

In the following days, I learned more about my beloved instrument than I had over my previous fifteen years of study. Ana taught me how to make the piano sections of pieces almost vibrate with feeling; how the strength in my shoulders was all I needed for the forte moments. She taught me to hear the difference in sound when my fingers were curved or straight, and the value of smart fingering to increase speed. She showed me how my body position mattered. Most of all, she taught me how to listen.

I will never forget what she so often repeated: “You don’t play the piano with your hands. You play piano with your mind. Your mind will direct your hands to do what they need to. And when you play, never forget the heart. It must sing even through the most technical passages.”

I would leave her apartment gliding three feet above the ground—inspired, empowered, appreciated. I practiced with a new fervor and confidence. And when the audition day came, I held my stomach in and played the best I ever had, in front of this particularly critical audience.

Weeks later, when I got the official acceptance letter and learned that only twenty pianists from around the world had been accepted that year, I knocked on Ana’s door to share my good news and thank her for her help in making it happen.

She hugged and congratulated me and said, “This is just the beginning, my dear. You will meet the pieces you played today again and again throughout your life.  And you will learn them anew. It is an adventure that never ends. As I play the same music every day, I discover something new each time and give thanks to the geniuses that composed them. 
“I never told you this, but growing up in Germany, I gave up any ideas of having a personal life. Because I was identified as a promising concert pianist by critics and peers at a young age, I learned to discipline myself and focus on mastering the piano.

“But women in Germany at that time were not taken seriously and were relegated to a second tier. I never was able to break through the barriers and become a contender. I ended up touring second- and third-tier concert halls and just about any venue that had an acceptable piano and offered a decent fee. The only thing that kept me going was rave reviews. It didn’t matter where they appeared. I needed them to validate my talent and ability.

“After I married, my husband and I moved to the United States in the hopes it would be different. I was approaching forty. My dear late husband understood and supported my passion and commitment to perform and understood that it left no room for a conventional life and family. He, too, sacrificed for my music.

“But by then it was too late to compete with the up-and-coming younger wunderkinds. I had missed the window to start a career. You, however, my dear, have many more paths open to you at this time and in this country. I hope you choose the right advisors to help you make career decisions. Never forget it is all about the music, not the applause. Enjoy every moment of discovery with new pieces, and work to create a balance between your career and your family. The rewards will be endless.”

Ana had become my teacher, friend, and mentor. I sat with her as often as I could and listened to her stories as she recalled events and people who had been in her life—some who opened doors to help her and too many who shut them.

A week after my graduation, Ana fell ill.  I sat with her in the hospital and held her hand for hours. She spoke softly and said I had become the daughter she never had. Shortly thereafter, at age 96, she passed away.

It is many decades since Ana left us. While I had expressed sympathy when she told me about her debilitating health issues, I didn’t have a clue what a stupid, insensitive girl I was. It is only now, as I massage my arthritic hands and choose to play music that I can still manage, that I understand what this gentle woman—an enormously gifted pianist, a brilliant teacher, my friend and inspiration—was sharing with me.
 

The Language of Spring

by Karen N. Fitzgerald

  The Language of Spring is a micro-chap book of poetry macro in its intimacy with spring’s unfolding grandeur. Where poets often reach for the most sublime, or obscure expressions of springtime’s majesty, this poet lets spring speak for itself in a language only Mother Nature can teach.

Mother Nature’s not obtuse In how she uses her chartreuse Providing landscapes so profuse The poet’s soul she does induce Into creating stanzas fine

Karen FitzGerald provides her readers a number of ways to climb out of winter and enter into the splendor of the spring season when flowers bloom—and, now and then, love, too. This little book is there whenever one is inclined to question what divine sources have managed, or maybe mismanaged, in bringing forth a new spring season. Available at https://bottlecap.press/products/_langknf

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