Lien Hoang is a second-generation Asian-Australian social and health researcher who dabbles in fiction-writing.
Image: © Dušica Milutinović, 2021
This fictional piece is based on a true story, told to me by violinist, violist, singer and music teacher, Ms Marija Stojaković, on a Saturday morning during a violin lesson, as she recounted her last days in Serbia before her move to Australia in 1992.
***
The year was 1992.
In the heart of Belgrade, where the shadows whispered secrets of a Yugoslavia that once was, 19-year-old Mira walked towards her destination, with a violin case clutched tightly in her hand.
The progeny of a longstanding generation of musicians, Mira had watched her country crumble like old sheet music under the weight of Tito’s passing. Now it was a place of hushed voices and stifled dreams.
As Mira walked towards a dilapidated building that once housed illustrious concerts, she could feel the air thicken with unease.
But she reminded herself that tonight, it was her stage.
Her final exam.
The Violin Concerto.
But it was a performance that no applauding crowd would witness.
Under a government that viewed gatherings with suspicion, performances were forbidden, including this one.
But music always finds its way into the light. Under the cover of dusk, at the examination rendezvous organised by her teacher, Mira began to mentally prepare herself.
As she took her place on the stage, Mira’s fingers, accustomed to the smoothness of the violin’s neck, prepared their position.
With no timpani and orchestra to open the first movement, Mira took a breath and exhaled.
The opening chord in octaves of Beethoven’s concerto pierced the silence, each lyrical theme a testament to years of sacrifice, hours of daily practice, and a pure love for her art.
At the end of the first movement, she took one glance into the secret audience.
Three judges.
And seated in the corner was Miloš, her boyfriend, with a look of anxiety and pride. Being a musician himself, he knew what the stakes were.
Without the accompanying dialogue of the orchestra, Mira continued the second movement, her violin the only sound to fill the desolate room.
But this was where she be:longed.
Much like her tall stature, Mira’s violin took centre stage, each brooding phrase marking a defiance of her reality, a whisper of the Parisian dreams she was leaving behind.
For after today, there would be no Paris. There would be no Serbia.
In the final movement, as Mira played on, she could feel the soul of her violin amplify.
It had all come to this.
The final movement.
Mira was in her element, the mastery and skill of her bow crossing the lowest string to make each note soar, dip and dance with spirit.
The judges, hidden behind stoic exteriors, were transported to a world where only beauty and truth existed, away from the clutches of the former Yugoslavia they once knew.
One judge, an elderly gentleman dressed in a grey suit who had witnessed many students over his years, found tears carving rivers down his cheeks.
Miloš, from his shadowed corner, watched, pride swelling in his chest. Yet, his presence, a young man with an intense gaze, stirred unease among the judges. Was he an informant? A spy in their midst?
As Mira finished, she could feel her body move with the tempo of the music, leaving a thrilling conclusive note of bittersweet farewell in the air.
The judges, without hesitation, awarded Mira a perfect score and a standing ovation in a world where applause was forbidden.
For Mira, it was a bittersweet triumph. Her heart soared, but it ached too; for in her deepest self, she knew that it was to be her last performance in her homeland.
That night, words unspoken, the judges vanished into the obscurity they had come from.
Miloš held Mira in a farewell embrace, knowing that sunrise would herald a parting.
The next morning, with her violin and a suitcase of memories, Mira left for the land with golden soil, hopeful that it was indeed the promised land of freedom she’d heard it was, where her music could soar, unchained by the fears of yesterday.
© Lien Hoang, 2023
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