In the Midst of Life

carefully placed Dr Hyem last on my list of visits so that I did not have to dash off to see someone else,but could linger if I wanted to. I was hoping to hear more of his violin.
    It was a beautiful summer evening as I cycled around, with no wind, and just a few clouds moving lazily in the sky. The stairwell seemed quite light and cheery as I climbed up to level 4 , and I came out on to the balcony in the full blaze of the evening sun. At almost every door a woman was sitting, some nursing a baby, some chivvying toddlers, some pruning their tomatoes, scrubbing potatoes or cutting up beans; most of the others quietly and contentedly knitting. I made my way along the balcony, and was much surprised to see Dr Hyem sitting outside on his only spare chair, deep in conversation with a woman. He was listening intently, looking down at the floor, nodding his head as though he understood completely. Every so often he would glance up and look into her face, then make some comment, after which she would continue talking. I saw that she was twisting her apron in her strong hands. The sunlight fell on them both, as it did on everyone, but whilst the relaxing warmth seemed to liberate others’ good humour and sociability, these two seemed to be locked in a private world of trouble. I felt reluctant to intrude.
    The same woman who had spoken to me in the morning noticed my hesitation.
    ‘Oh, go on, ducky, jest chip in. ’E won’t mind. ’E’s lovely, I tells ya. An’ she’ll ’ave to wait, poor soul, she wiv ’er troubles. You got work to do, so jest chip in.’
    I approached and coughed. Dr Hyem looked up.
    ‘Good evening, Nurse. I was expecting you. Mrs Robins, you will have to excuse me. We will continue our conversation later.’
    He stood up and opened the door to his flat for me. A blind was pulled down over the window and it seemed quite dark inside after the bright sunlight of the court.
    ‘I have to keep the blind down,’ he said. ‘I cannot risk the sun damaging my books.’
    I tested the sample of urine in the kitchen and it was high in sugar again. I told him that a trace of ketones had been found inthe specimen that I had analysed in our clinical room, and that as soon as he could give me his exact weight we would start insulin. He promised to go to the surgery the next day.
    His violin and bow were resting in a corner away from the sun, and music was open on the stand. I had to ask.
    ‘I have loved music since I was a tiny child. Would you play for me?’
    He looked at me with some surprise, but simply said, ‘Yes, of course. It would be a pleasure.’
    He lifted a corner of the blind to give more light, then took up the violin and bow and turned the pages of the music.
    ‘This is a pavane by Cesar Franck. I think you will like it.’
    Then he started to play. He was a beautiful violinist - I could tell that by the quality of the tone and phrasing - and I felt tears coursing down my cheeks. I had to control myself, but too late; he turned and saw me crying.
    ‘You really love music, then?’
    I could scarcely speak, and managed a cracked, ‘Yes’.
    ‘It was music that saved my life. Without it, I think I would have gone mad, or committed suicide.’
    I didn’t like to ask him how music had saved his life - it seemed too personal and intrusive - but I wanted to. So I said instead,
    You have played all your life, then?’
    Yes, since early childhood. We all played, my parents and brothers and sisters. It was expected of us for that was the way of life for a good Jewish family in Vienna at the turn of the century. My sister Freya was the most talented. She was the most beautiful violinist I have ever heard.’
    ‘I suppose she is a professional now?’
    ‘No.’ He stopped, and turning his back on me, opened the violin case, slackened his bow and put the instrument away. He turned and closed the music book, before saying: ‘No, Freya is dead. She will not play again.’
    ‘I’m sorry to hear it. Was it an illness?’
    He hesitated, then picked up the music stand and placed it in thecorner.
    ‘I suppose it must have been. The body can stand so much and no more. But I’m not really sure. Come now, shall we go outside? On a beautiful evening like this I am going to sit by my door and watch the world go by.’
    ‘And I must return to the convent.’
    We shook hands on parting, then I said, quickly and shyly, ‘You will play for me again, won’t you?’
    ‘It will be more than a pleasure, it