He nodded. “Yes, just like my Ania. Just like my Ania.” He looked me in the eyes. “Honor her wishes and you will honor her.”

I pondered what he’d said. “How do I do this? How do I forgive?”

“I had no one to go to. No one to say ‘I forgive you.’ But you can go to him, your partner. You can tell him you forgive him. But you must first say it to God. Then you may say it to him.”

“I don’t think he believes he did wrong.”

“He knows he did wrong. He knows. But it does not matter. This is your freedom. He must find his own.” The moment faded off into silence. Finally he said, “I have burdened you too much for your sickness.”

I shook my head. “No. You haven’t burdened me. I’ll think about what you’ve said.”

He nodded. “Would you like more soup?”

“No, thanks. I’m full.”

Suddenly his face lit up. “You would then, perhaps, like to listen to me play the piano.”

I smiled. “I would like that.”

He smiled wide. “I would be most pleased to play the piano for you.”

We both stood and walked into the front room. I sat back into the sofa as Leszek sat down at the instrument. For a moment he looked down at the piano, then he lifted his hands, his fingers hovering briefly above the keys, then he started to play.

I don’t know what it was that he played, but I could feel, as well as hear, Lezek’s soul pouring out through his music. He was no longer a gray, feeble old man, but vibrant and strong.

Even the room was changed, glorified by the power and brilliance of the music, and I might as well have been seated amid velvet tapestries and gold-leaf veneers in one of Europe’s finest concert halls. I closed my eyes and was lost in the passion of the moment—somewhere between anguish and hope, despair and triumph, past and future, nowhere and everywhere.

Then the music stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the room quiet, the silence ringing powerfully.

There were tears rolling down my face. Both of our faces. Leszek was an old man again. He was mortal again. Without looking at me he said, “It is late. I think I will go to bed now.” He got up from the bench.

“Thank you,” I said.

He turned to look at me. “It is my pleasure, my friend. It is my pleasure.”

Then the old man shuffled off to his room.

Chapter Fourteen

C H A P T E R

Fourteen

To forgive is to unlock the cage of

another’s folly to set ourselves free.

Alan Christoffersen’s diary