A Little Recreation

When he dropped a half-crown in my upturned beret, I couldn’t help noticing him. Most people only gave pennies or halfpennies.

“Thank you,” I said, lowering my violin.

It was the first Saturday in January 1966, and I was busking outside South Kensington tube station.

He ignored my gratitude, and walked briskly away in the direction of the Science Museum without looking at me. I observed that he was wearing a navy blue overcoat, and that he was tall. For a moment, I stood staring after him, overcome by his generosity. Then I continued my rendition of the largo from Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’, a selection inspired by the snowflakes that had just begun to descend.

As I played, I debated how to spend my half-crown. I knew I ought to buy a loaf of bread and half a pound of cheese, which would feed me for two days. But what I really wanted to do was to blow it on a plate of cod and chips in a warm café.

I was still trying to make up my mind when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him coming towards me once again. Although I didn’t expect him to make a further contribution, I smiled at him and tried to inject extra life into my playing.

He stopped and deposited another half-crown in my beret. But, instead of moving on, he acknowledged my thanks and took up a position about three paces away.

“Carry on,” he said, “I hope it will not distract you if I stand here for a short while.” Despite the correctness of his English, he had a marked East European accent.

“Not at all,” I reassured him swiftly. For two half-crowns, as far as I was concerned, he could stand and listen as long as he wanted, or until my hands froze inside my fingerless gloves. I finished the piece and asked him if he had any requests. “Play it again, please,” he instructed. “I love Vivaldi.”

I launched once more into the largo, taking it more slowly to accentuate the subtle evocations of the melody. As I sawed away, I was aware that he was not merely listening to the music but staring very hard at me as if entranced. Yet far from putting me off, his attentiveness inspired me, and I was able to ignore the increasing numbness of my hands. The battered old violin, that had once belonged to my father, responded by producing sounds which, whilst not exactly Stradivarian, were clean and strong.

People passed in a blur. I was barely conscious of anything except the music and his blue eyes scouring me.

“Bravo,” he applauded when the piece ended. “What else do you play?”

I performed one of Bach’s gigues for him. By this time, my fingers were ice blue and I made one or two minor mistakes but these did not diminish the rapt attention he paid me. In fact, when I was finished, I had the impression he was going to make another request. However, a policeman intervened and politely invited me to move on.

“It seems I have to pack up now,” I said apologetically to my new patron.

“No doubt that is one of the occupational hazards of your trade,” he observed.

“I fear so,” I agreed, feeling disappointed about losing my appreciative listener, even if there were something rather strange and intense about his manner.

He glanced at his watch. “Perhaps you’ll permit me to buy you lunch. I should like to make a business proposition to you.”

I was tempted, but I hesitated. I hardly knew him.

“Forgive me, I did not introduce myself,” he continued. “I am Max Fischer.” He extended his hand to me.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Fischer.” We shook hands. His grip was firm but gentle. “I’m Sarah. Sarah Smith.”

I took the opportunity to study him more closely. He had fair hair swept back from his temples. His features were even, with high cheekbones and a good set of teeth, which included several gold crowns. From the lines on his face and his bearing, I guessed his age at around forty-five although his hair, which showed no sign of going grey, made him look younger.

“Now I belong to a club that does good schnitzel and fried potatoes,” he continued. “It’s quite close. Shall we go? I’m hungry and cold and I’m sure you must feel the same.”

He might have been trying to pick me up, but I was prepared to take a chance. I desperately needed food and warmth. “OK,” I said, as I gathered my takings and packed my violin in its case. “So long as it isn’t too posh. I’m not really dressed for anywhere like that.”

I was wearing jeans and a green army surplus anorak.

“You’re fine,” he assured me, and we set off down Exhibition Road.



He took me to a rather gloomy Polish establishment, the Ognisko Polskie. It was full of elderly men in shabby suits, talking earnestly in subdued voices. Some of them glanced at me with dull curiosity as we made our way through the bar to a huge dining room. I felt as if I were intruding at a funeral, and, if it hadn’t been for the appetising aroma of the cooking, I would have felt quite despondent.

We took our seats at a table near a cast iron radiator.

“You must be Polish,” I deduced.

He smiled at me. “Yes. I am. I came here at the end of the War.”

“Why didn’t you stay in Poland?”

“Communism,” he said. “I came from a wealthy family. I didn’t like the communists and they didn’t like me. But that was all a long time ago. I won’t bore you with my reminiscences… May I see your hands?”

His request surprised me, but I removed my gloves and spread my palms before him.

After a short inspection, he said, “Turn over please.”

I did so to reveal that the backs of my hands were a blotchy farrago of red and white. He grimaced and shook his head reproachfully. “You shouldn’t be risking frostbite by busking in cold weather.”

“I need the money,” I said. “My student grant isn’t enough.”

“Why don’t your parents help you out?”

“My mother hardly has enough for herself. I can’t ask her for anything.”

“What happened to your father?”

“He died when I was six. Mum never married again.”

“I see,” he nodded slowly. “Now listen. This is my proposition: I should like you to keep me company twice a week in my flat: For no more than an hour. We could have lunch, or afternoon tea. I have an old violin, which has much sentimental value for me and I wish to hear you play on it. Would you be happy to do that? I shall pay you thirty shillings for each visit, plus your travelling expenses.”

I calculated that this would solve my money problems. It sounded so good that I wondered if he expected more from me than just my violin playing. (I had a friend who had to be “nice” to the landlord when she got behind with the rent, and I didn’t want to do that kind of thing just to make ends meet.)

Max laid his card on the table. “You don’t have to make up your mind now. Think about it and call me.”

I studied the card, which gave his name, address and telephone number, and stated he was a dealer in militaria and antiquities. However, the printed words barely registered. All I could concentrate on was the prospect of an extra three pounds a week: What if he should change his mind? “Yes. Yes, please,” I said, deciding to ignore the chance that he might have some ulterior motive. “I should be delighted to play your violin for you.”



I visited Max’s flat on the Wednesday of the following week. It smelled of lavender scented wax polish. He ushered me into the sitting room.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing to a leather armchair. “I will fetch tea.”

Whilst he was gone, I glanced around. The other furniture included a second leather armchair, a low coffee table, a mahogany desk and an upright piano. The floorboards were bare, though highly polished and varnished. One wall was devoted to a small collection of sabres, daggers and flintlock pistols. The remaining walls were decorated with bloodthirsty military prints of the Napoleonic Wars. In a far corner, lying on the surface of an oak chest, was a shabby, red violin case, covered in scratches and abrasions. I guessed it contained the instrument that he wanted me to play.

Max returned with a tray bearing a silver teapot and a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches. After pouring the tea, he asked about my family, my studies and my plans for the future. When I spoke, he paid almost undue attention to my every word and often stared deeply into my eyes. It seemed as if he were looking for – or had seen - some special quality in me, although I had no idea what it was.

Eventually he rose to his feet and fetched the violin case, which he laid on the coffee table and opened reverently.

“What do you think of it?”

“It’s beautiful,” I said, admiring the amber glow of the ancient instrument.

“Go on. Pick it up,” he invited.

I removed the violin from its case, and examined it, catching a fusty, resinous aroma from the sound box. Compared with modern violins, it had a flat body and more sharply angulated neck.

“It was made in Vienna in about 1800, by a man called Gluck,” Max said. “I doubt if you will have heard of him.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“He is not famous, although he produced some fine instruments.”

I picked up the bow and touched the strings lightly. They sang with a pure, metallic beauty. A frisson of anticipation ravished me.

“What shall I play?” I inquired eagerly.

“Anything.”

Because I was unfamiliar with the instrument and didn’t want to make a fool of myself, I chose a simple melody from Fiddler on the Roof. The precaution was unnecessary. Within a few bars, I had become one with the violin.

“Superb.” Max clapped his hands when I came to the end.

“This violin flatters me,” I said.

He dismissed my modesty. “Not at all: It would be nothing without you. Please play something else.”

I gave him my rendition of Massenet’s Meditation, and was about to embark on Sarasate’s Caprice Basque, when he signalled to me to stop. “Your time is up,” he said. “An hour is an hour, and I do not wish to keep you from your studies.”

“But we spent so much time talking and you gave me tea,” I protested. “I think I ought to play more.” The truth was that I could hardly bear to put down the Gluck.

Max laughed. “You will. When can you come again?”



My next visit was two days later, on the Friday afternoon. Once again, he appeared in no hurry to hear me perform. After giving me tea, he opened a silver case filled with cigarettes that had black paper and gold filters.

“They’re Sobranie Black Russians,” he said. “Have one.”

“I don’t smoke,” I said.

He pushed the box closer to me. “You don’t need to inhale. You will love the taste. They’re not like ordinary cigarettes. They won’t do you any harm.”

I hesitated.

He was insistent. “Go on. I want one myself, and I can’t have one if you don’t.”

“OK.” It seemed rude to refuse, so I took one. He lit it for me.

I took a cautious puff. The smoke tasted rich and bitter, like Turkish coffee.

“Use this,” he said, producing a long cigarette holder. “It will stop your hands getting nicotine stains.” He paused to light a cigarette for himself. “Before the War,” he continued, “it was very fashionable for young ladies to smoke with holders… You must have some cognac too. The taste goes so well with the cigarettes.”

Was he trying to get me drunk? I was about to decline, but, without waiting for my response, he went to a corner cabinet where he poured out two thimble glasses of Hennessy and handed me one.

Meekly I accepted it – it contained so little that I didn’t have to worry about intoxication, - and took a sip. He was right. The sharpness of the spirit balanced perfectly the richness of the Black Russians.

“Good, eh?” He smiled at me, flashing the gold of his crowns, and raised his own glass.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I feel very decadent.”

He roared with laughter. “Nonsense. Think of it as part of your education. You are beautiful and talented. It’s time you learnt some chic.”

I was persuaded, since I wanted to please him, and it seemed harmless enough to pose with a glass of cognac and cigarette on a holder, like a high society lady at a 1930s soirée.



“Today, we shall have a little recreation. I shall accompany you on the piano,” he announced when the cigarettes were finished. “Perhaps some Beethoven? I have the music for his Spring Sonata.”

It was one of my favourite pieces. I nodded enthusiastically.

He produced a music stand on a tripod and arranged the sheets of music on it for me.

“What about you?” I asked.

“I don’t need to see it. I know it by heart,” he replied.

We started playing. As I’d suspected, he was an accomplished pianist, and this made me edgy, because I didn’t want to let him down. Neither did it help that I wasn’t used to his timing. There were a few false starts.

“Don’t look at the music,” he said as we went back to the beginning for the fourth time. “It’s in your head. Watch my face and my hands. Everything else will follow. And if we do something wrong, just play on.”

His advice worked. I fastened my eyes on his and the music began to flow. At first, he kept his face almost expressionless apart from a few flickers of his eyebrows to give me the timing. Eventually he relaxed. At times, he looked dreamy and far away, and then he’d come back to me and stare at me, not with his old intensity, but with a mixture of respect and approval. A rapport had arrived. It made me feel capable of anything. At times, I had the illusion that the Gluck was playing itself.

Without exchanging a word, we moved from the Allegro to the Adagio, and thence the Scherzo and Rondo. Playing in perfect time with another person is one of the most thrilling experiences a musician can have. I felt my heart dance within me like the sacred spirits, as my whole existence coalesced with the music, and I knew the rapture of a divine presence.

For a while, afterwards, I stood quivering and speechless.

“That was magnificent,” said Max, breaking me out of my reverie. He brushed my cheek with his hand. “But it is now time for you to go. Your hour is up.”

I dissented. “But I don’t want to go. I want to play some more with you… I’ve never heard anyone play like you. You’re fabulous.”

He glanced at his watch and smiled apologetically. “You must go. I have a client arriving shortly. We shall play together when you next visit me. If you want, you can come for lunch tomorrow. But I shall regard it as a social visit and I won’t pay you.”

He cocked an eyebrow and waited for my response.

“The money doesn’t matter,” I blurted out. “I just want to play with you.”



He gave me pickled herrings with raw onions in sour cream, for lunch, followed by ham on rye bread and a dessert of apple strudel.

“Was that a typical Polish meal?” I asked.

“Yes. I hope you liked it.”

“It was great,” I said, wiping my mouth on a paper napkin. “Would you like me to fetch the violin?”

“Such impatience,” he chided, wagging a finger. “I have a present for you, and I want you to see it first.”

He brought me a flat box wrapped in olive green paper. I opened it to find a black silk dress, which I held up against myself. “It’s lovely,” I cried. “You shouldn’t have… How did you know my size?”

“The shop assistant had your build,” he explained. “Now put it on.”

He led me to his bedroom. It was a sparsely furnished, dominated by a double bed covered with a white woven counterpane. On it, were four shoeboxes and two small packages in red shiny paper.

“Choose a pair of shoes that fit,” he instructed. “The other things are for you too.”

He left me alone.

I felt dazed: Overwhelmed. My mother had always advised me not to take presents from older men, but the prospect of playing the Gluck in a proper evening gown was irresistible.

I stripped down to my bra and pants and tried on the dress, which had a low neck and short sleeves. Posing in front of the full-length mirror, I liked what I saw. It was chic.

The packages contained a set of black lacy underwear, including black stockings and suspenders: Wickedly soft and sensual. Only a very brazen girl would wear things like that…

When I emerged from the room, I felt like an ugly duckling who’d just become a black swan.



“Turn around,” Max said.

I pirouetted.

“Excellent,” he continued. “We must do something with your hair, though. A chignon, perhaps? Could you do that?”

“Sure, Max.” I had shoulder length brown hair that I normally wore in a ponytail. It didn’t take me long to return to the bedroom and twist it into the chignon he recommended.



“Perfect, just perfect,” he said, after a long appraisal. “Now we need one final touch. Close your eyes.”

He came behind me and I felt him put something cold around my neck. “Go and look at yourself in a mirror.”

I gasped when I saw the heavy gold chain with which he had adorned me.

“No. I can’t take this. It’s too much… not after everything else.”

“I want you to have it. It’s yours. You were made for it.”

The tone of his voice killed my token protest.



Max then changed into a dinner jacket with a purple tuxedo, and we spent the next three hours playing pieces by Mozart, Debussy and Fauré. Everything was just as sublime as I had anticipated, and I trod once more through the Elysian Fields.

I’d have fiddled away quite contentedly in this ecstatic state until my fingers bled, but Max ended the session by closing the lid of the piano.

“It’s time for tea,” he announced. “You must be tired.”

His voice was curiously flat, and I was afraid he intended to send me away once we had had our refreshments.

“Not at all,” I assured him. “I could go on all night it you wanted.”

He appeared to consider this before replying: “I would not make such an imposition.”



For tea, we had anchovy fillets stretched out on thin strips of toast.

“I have a special piece of music for you,” he said, after clearing up the cups and plates. He went over to his bureau and retrieved two sheets of music paper, on which was a handwritten composition.

“It’s called Casimir’s Mazurka,” he continued, handing the sheets to me. “I’ve jotted it down from memory. It was one of my favourites when I was younger. Can you play it for me?”

I studied the score carefully. As the name suggested, it was a lively dance tune. Although technically challenging, I felt I could do it.

“I might not get this quite right,” I warned, picking up the violin.

“No matter,” he said.

To my astonishment, there were no mistakes. Instead, I had the eerie sensation that the invisible hand of a maestro was guiding me, and the music sparkled from the strings as if it were the oldest piece in my repertoire. Whilst I played, Max stared at me as keenly as he had done on our first meeting.

“Bravo, magnifico,” he applauded afterwards. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had played it before.”

“I once played a folk dance that was a bit like it,” I said.

He smiled. “Ah, that must be it. Now play it again, please.

This time he listened with eyes closed, seemingly transported to another world. When I reached the end, to my astonishment, I saw a tear roll down his cheek. “Forgive me,” he said, in a choked voice, as he brushed it away. “That was so extraordinary.”

“Thank you.” I moved closer to him and touched his arm.

He rose to his feet and removed the violin from my hand, placing it carefully on the coffee table. Then he gripped my shoulders. “You must never stop coming here, Sarah.” His voice rasped with emotion. “This violin, it is yours… if you continue to play for me.”

“Yes Max.” I began to tremble, barely taking in the fact he’d given me the Gluck. “Of course I’ll always play for you or with you… it’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever done.”

He took my face in his hands and kissed me ferociously, crushing my lips. I tasted salt fish and onions. Our tongues entwined like mating snakes and my whole body shuddered. I wrapped my arms around his chest and stood on tiptoe, pressing my body against his.

He groaned and backed away from me. We were both panting.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I wanted it too.”

“You’re so young.”

“I’m old enough to know what I’m doing.”

I lifted up my new dress and pulled it off over my head, and stood in my black lingerie. We stared at each other. Slowly, I removed everything except the stockings, because I was sure they would inflame him.

He pointed to the violin. “Play.”

I picked it up and began to play Casimir’s Mazurka.

While I played, he paced the room, pausing to watch me from different angles. Finally, he came to stand behind me. I felt his breath scorch my neck.

When the piece ended, I stood there with my eyes closed and my arms dangling, with the violin in one hand, and the bow in the other.

“Thank you. I shall never forget this,” he said.

“Neither shall I.”

He ran a finger down my spine.

My skin prickled, and I could smell desire wafting upwards like the scent of dead chrysanthemums in October.

His next words were in Polish.

“I don’t understand you,” I said, turning to face him.

“I was saying I thought I’d never hear that music again.”

“I’ll play it whenever you want.”

He kissed me more tenderly than before.

We went to the bedroom where he undressed feverishly. I took off the stockings so that I could be completely naked the first time. He possessed me with the urgency of a starving man who’s just found food. I locked my ankles around his loins and dug my nails into his shoulder blades. He took me to where we’d been with the music, and then beyond. All the time, he spoke to me in Polish: meaningless words that meant so much. I told him I loved him too. Finally, he climaxed with a loud shout. “Kochanie, kochanie.”

Darling, darling.

Afterwards, he ran his fingertips over my face. “Sweet girl, you don’t ever need to be hungry or cold again. I will look after you.”

I stretched my arms behind my head. “And you must promise to play with me sometimes.”

“Of course. Everyday.”

We lay on the bed smoking Black Russians, drinking cognac, and listening to Henryk Szering playing Bach’s sonatas and partitas on a mahogany gramophone with a single speaker. The sound was thin and crackly, but the interpretation scintillated.

“One day, you’ll play like that,” Max said.

“Will I?” I doubted it, but with his tuition, and the Gluck, all things were possible.

Later, he took me out to dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant where they served us Campari and champagne, and chicken breasts in white wine sauce. Before leaving, we danced a waltz to the sound of a solitary guitar.



“I will show you something,” Max said the following morning as I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of freshly percolated coffee.

He went to the sitting room and returned with a manila envelope.

“Open it,” he said.

Something about his tone unsettled me.

The envelope contained some folded sheets of paper that had gone yellow with age, and a black and white photograph of a girl with dark hair, a pointed chin and large eyes. Her hair was arranged in a chignon. She wore a black dress with short sleeves, and a chain around her neck. I gave a sharp intake of breath as I studied her face. The girl looked remarkably like me. Indeed, for a moment, I thought she was me and tried to work out how my picture had ended up in that envelope. Then I turned the photo over, and saw the name Hannah and the date 1939.

“She was my wife,” he said. “We were in the resistance during the War. The Germans captured and tortured her, but she didn’t betray us… they hanged her.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. There was a long silence as everything began to sink in. “I suppose she played the violin too.”

“Yes. She played to us to keep up our spirits in the dark days.” He handed me the folded sheets of paper.

I opened them to see the music of Casimir’s Mazurka and it was signed ‘Hannah Fischer’.

“Did she write that?”

“Yes. She wrote a lot, but it’s all I have left.”

“Did you invite me here because I was like her?”

Max turned away from me. “When I saw you that first time, I thought I’d seen her ghost or a reincarnation, though I don’t believe in such things. I tried to walk away, but I couldn’t. And when I saw your poor hands with chilblains, they reminded me of hers when she played in our forest hideout in mid-winter.”

“And the violin?”

“It was hers. Now it’s yours.”

“I can’t take it.”

“She would want you to have it”.

“You tried to turn me into her, didn’t you?” I accused.

He faced me and gave a deep sigh. “It was stupid… selfish… but I didn’t mean you any harm or insult… I was trying to recreate a moment in time, not a person.”

I thought about Beethoven’s Spring Sonata, and the Black Russians, and the cognac, and the kiss that tasted of herrings and onions. She must have known those things too.

He stared at me with eyes so wide I could see the whites all the way round. “Forgive me. I loved her… I’ve missed her every day until I met you. No one could take her place. Now I love you like I loved her.”

“But am I Hannah or Sarah?” I asked.

“Sarah. Always Sarah,” he said vehemently, before continuing more gently. “You’re alive. She is dead. But if I sometimes talk about her, I trust you will excuse me.”

“I will take it as a compliment that you compare me with her.”

“So you will stay with me?” Every muscle on his face was taut. His mouth was half-open and the hollows of his cheeks were like caverns.

I smiled brightly at him. “I can’t take the Gluck away from you: And I can’t bear to leave it behind, so I guess that means I’m going to stay with you.”

“You won’t regret it,” he swore, taking hold of both my wrists. “On my life.”

Three months later, we married.

I didn’t regret it.



It’s forty years since I met Max. He died two summers ago. The emptiness is horrible. I see him everywhere: at the piano and in the street. And I play to his vacant armchair. But when I talk to him, there’s no reply.

Sometimes, on a cold winter’s day, I put on my jeans and a green anorak, and play the Gluck in the streets of South Kensington, with my upturned beret at my feet. Of course, I don’t need the money. All the same, I take careful note of any act of generosity by middle-aged men and play Casimir’s Mazurka for them as they walk away. You see, I still hope he’ll come back to me. Maybe, one day, I’ll accept that Max Fischer, like the half-crown, is no longer in circulation. But for the present, I haven’t given up hope of a little recreation, as he once called it.

Angela Williams was born in Shropshire, England. She worked in publishing with Robert Maxwell before going to Exeter University and getting a degree in English literature. After that, Angela trained to be a teacher and obtained an MA in education from the Open University. She is now the head teacher of a primary school in Colchester, and also a schools inspector.

Angela's husband is a doctor, and they have two adult children. With the close collaboration of her husband, Angela has written a dozen unpublished novels covering most genres from humor to historical fiction, and she is currently concentrating on crime fiction.

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