3. Practice, practice, practice!

My father played the piano too. His dream was to study piano performance, be a concert pianist, and a composer. He took piano lessons and tried to get into the Music Conservatory, a highly competitive and extremely selective school. The school accepted only the best of the best. Unfortunately, after several tries, he never got chosen. His dream failed and he eventually gave up. So he found a solution. Even before I was born, he made a plan for me. He decided I would be the one to realize his dream, play the piano, and study at the Music Conservatory instead of him. That way he could live through me and his dream would be realized after all. He would always say: “ You know, I always wanted to have a child and I always wanted to have a girl. Girls are better pianists and you WILL BE a pianist one day. Your mother wanted a boy, but I wanted a girl. You are my girl,” he smiled at me. “And if you practice a lot, you will be the best.” 

When I turned 6, my father signed me up for additional piano lessons at our local music school. They were twice a week, Monday and Thursday, 50 minutes long. And on Tuesdays, I had an hour-long music theory class. I was a little scared of my new piano teacher as she would often push my back forward while standing behind me, urging me to sway at the piano in order to “show emotion.” She would also grab my hands and move them around the keyboard to practice the correct hand position, and her spit would fly at me when she tried to passionately explain the importance of music to me. She was teaching me the “Russian technique,” and she, of course, was one of the best teachers in the area. My father always made sure I only had the very best teachers. 

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We have a beautiful shiny black piano in our apartment. It is my father’s most valuable possession that sits in our living room and he is obsessed with it. If I didn’t have to practice on it, he would never let me touch it. Why? Because touching shiny things leaves fingerprints behind. Pianos with fingerprints are not perfect pianos. Of course, I am an obedient little girl who tries to follow rules as best as I possibly can. I try my hardest not to touch the piano and only play on the black and white keys. Yet, I still manage to leave a fingerprint here and there….”Oh no!” I panic. I grab the hem of my shirt and frantically wipe off the marks from the shiny instrument. 

My father would spend hours dusting the piano and polishing it so it would be beautiful. The shinier the piano was, the happier my father was. 

For the most part I try to be careful but once in a while, a rebellious streak in me emerges and I can’t help myself. I wait for my father to leave the room and then I do it. I touch the shiny piano and leave a mark, a big fat fingerprint. And then another. It feels so good! Then I make a smudge. I leave the fingerprints and smudges behind and keep practicing as if nothing is out of ordinary. The expression of horror appears on his face as he comes rushing back into the room, a dust rag in his hand. “What is this?” he points at the blemishes. “I don’t know,” I shrug. “I didn’t notice anything.” 

He pushes me away from the keys and starts polishing every little inch of his beloved piano. He is irritated and glares at me, “You have to be more careful! This is not acceptable. Soon we will live like pigs. Do you want to live like a pig?” He shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and keeps perfecting his polishing project. “No, dad,” I look down.

I am 6 years old now. My father determines that I am not a child anymore and therefore I need to practice for at least an hour every day. He times me and makes sure that I don’t shave any minutes off the full hour. Once in a while, there is a knock on the front door when my friends come to ask for me to go play with them outside. “No, Jarka is not available today, she has to practice the piano.” I hear him close the door behind them and a big fat tear rolls down my face. I pour my sorrow into the white and black keys and the piano listens. I love it because it listens. But I hate it because it won’t let me go. Without friends, it is the only thing that is there for me. I hate the shiny instrument of torture and I want to kick it, kick it, and kick it even harder. Instead, it grips me, this piece of furniture that outsmarts me, and I am trapped. By its beauty and by the slyness of those keys that were forced upon my life, stealing my childhood one day, one note at a time.  

I turn 7 a few days after New Years and my New Year’s and Birthday Resolution is to now practice 2 hours every day. Except it is not my resolution. It is my father’s. At 8 years old, it is 3 hours daily. He starts locking the piano room, lets me in for 3 hours and then lets me out, locks it again. This way his piano won’t accumulate any more fingerprints.