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It was bad enough that my mother was being humiliated but I could not stand people laughing at my sister. Unlike paní Benova, who had constantly smiled and tossed her head, Klara simply set her hands over the keys, paused, then began playing. The condescending smiles vanished and wonder came to the faces of the listeners. Klara’s fingers fluttered over the keys. Her nimble touch gave the introduction of the Fantasia a shimmering quality. The music was not complicated, but Klara played so elegantly and with such poetry that it was hard to believe we were listening to a young girl. The piece was carefully shaped and Klara’s handwork so neat it was mesmerising. She made every note count. Those qualities were the result of her dedicated practice, but the way she found something fresh in the passages was uniquely her own.
    The audience did not murmur or fidget when she began Chopin’s Prelude in D flat. The piece was referred to as The Raindrop because of the repeated A flat or G sharp notes, and was thought to have been composed when Chopin, who was in Majorca for the good weather, was kept in his house for days because of rain. It was one of the first recital tunes children learned to play, and could be heard any time of the day flowing out the open windows of Mala Strana, but somehow Klara managed to breathe new life into it. She played the light and dark sections with such emotion it unsettled me. Paní Milotova said that the piano, more than any other instrument, gave away the personality of the player. I saw aspects to Klara I had never witnessed before. The girl at the keyboard was still frightened there might be monsters under her bed, but in music she was a force of nature, causing the audience to tremble with emotion.
    It was the same with her Moonlight Sonata . The piece was lyrical, vivid, tragic and haunting all at the same time. I glanced at paní Benova. Her smug expression had faded. Klara was not using effect as an end but was making the music live. When she finished, the audience was unable to react until paní Koutska stood up and led the applause. She requested one more piece from Klara and I understood why. Klara had taken us to a place where it was too beautiful to stay. We could not exist there; she had to bring us back to the world with its brutality and trivialness. Did Klara understand this? I didn’t know, but she politely obliged with a lively mazurka.
    The tension between Mother and Milosh escalated the moment Klara stepped away from the piano and Professor Janachek rushed towards us and not paní Benova.
    ‘What a magnificent child! What a talent! Surely you will send her to the Conservatorium!’ he exclaimed.
    Mother’s face lit up. But her joy at the compliment was quickly quashed by Milosh. He puffed out his chest. ‘There is no future for a female pianist beyond the drawing room,’ he said.
    Professor Janachek stepped back. ‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘There is always a future when the talent is so exceptional.’
    Milosh glanced over to paní Benova, who, although talking to paní Doubkova in a gay manner, looked peeved. She had proved herself accomplished but Klara had outshone her. Milosh realised that and turned back to Professor Janachek. ‘Pianists propagate like rabbits, my honoured professor,’ he said. ‘Those who cannot make careers as soloists become teachers and so produce more pianists. The cycle begins again.’
    Mother, who would never contradict a man or make a scene in public, held her tongue until we were in the car. There, she could not contain herself any longer.
    ‘Does paní Benova restrict her talents to the drawing room?’ she asked, rage constricting her vocal cords. It was painful to see her this way because she was not an angry person by nature.
    ‘Be quiet,’ Milosh said.
    ‘I am only saying what everyone else is thinking. Do you call yourself discreet? You’ll bring shame on all of us, fawning over a woman with a reputation.’
    ‘A