Arriving somewhere that looked promising, Shmuel Yosef parked in a multistory parking garage in the city center. I strapped our newborn into the shiny mint-green stroller and with our heads down against the wind and rain, we began our exploration.

Downtown Buffalo is an unusual place: A relic from bygone times, it possesses an almost ghostlike quality. There are massively impressive, renaissance-style buildings that depict grandeur and elegance, but very few inhabitants.

Since we had no idea where we were headed, we simply walked around; up this block, turning left when we felt like it, right when it looked enticing. Eventually, thankfully, we found ourselves in a high-end furniture store. On our meager shluchim’s salaries there was nothing in that collection remotely within our financial range. But air is free to breathe and it cost nothing to browse. We strolled together through the parquet floored pathways, bedazzled by all the beautiful items we could not afford.

“Ester, it would be nice to come back here one day,” said my hopeful husband, “and actually make a purchase. Don’t you think?”

“Mmm….” I nodded.

As it often happens — even now, over 30 years later — Shmuel Yosef was drawn to one area and I to another. We parted at the junction that separated bureaus and window treatments from coffee tables and recliners. As I moseyed along, my attention became diverted by the sounds coming from across the Persian rug department. I was sure I heard a harp being played somewhere. I walked toward the music, pushing our stroller with our sleeping baby, ahead of me.

The area was low lit with pot lighting rays crisscrossing here and there. Piles and piles of exorbitantly priced rugs were displayed on either side of me. Sporadically suspended from the ceiling were three-tiered chandeliers, crystals glistening with color. But I had to find the source of those sensationally soft and soothing strains. I felt sure there was a live musician in the store, somewhere. I walked around and around, losing my bearings completely, when suddenly I was rewarded.

There, in a lonely corner, surrounded by magnificent merchandise, sat a young woman in a long linen skirt and cream-colored lace bolero over a pale blue top. Her loose brown hair covered her like a cloak. She sat on a richly upholstered armchair, and from the floor between her feet, lying at an angle across her right shoulder, rested a harp that reached way beyond the crown of her head. She was leaning forward, into it, plucking away at its strings.

I was the sole member of her audience. Her music was so subtle and calming that baby Chaim Moshe slept right through her stunning renditions. I walked a little closer to get a better view and watched her delicate hands work together to create such exquisite sounds. They moved with fabulous fluidity and grace. The music gave me the sensation of floating.

Full of curiosity, I looked up to observe the harpist’s face. What was her expression? Would she notice me, or would her focus be on the wonder of her harmony, without a care for the rest of the world? As I had hoped, her eyes never left her hands, the center of her being.

Following her lead, my eyes returned to those magical hands. Suddenly, I stopped, as though struck by lightning. My feet rooted to the floor as I noticed: She was missing a hand.

She was playing her music with a prosthesis. One hand — her real hand — plucked the tune. The other — an immobile form cast from manmade material into the exact proportions to pluck the chords.

My eyes burned. I looked again at her face to see if my knowledge of her secret had caused her any discomfort. She paid me no heed. She simply continued to play stanza after glorious stanza, a picture of happiness.

But what must it have been for a harpist to lose a hand?

I do not recall for how long I stood, but I soon heard my husband call my name from behind the mountainous rugs. He had found me. I turned and looked at him, a trifle unsteady.

The baby began to stir. I knew it would soon be time to feed him. My thoughts returned to the mundane. When did he last have a diaper change? What would we eat that night for supper?

I joined my husband to leave the store. As we rounded the corner, I turned back to get one last glance at perfection. She had finished playing and was standing the harp on its rest. With her real hand, she released the prosthesis, rubbed her stump and opened her small suitcase to pack the hand away.

Completely absorbed by what she was doing, she had not even noticed me.

On the way back, I was unusually quiet, ruminating over what I had just witnessed, and slowly, I shared the story with Shmuel Yosef. I finished my tale as we reached our fancy apartment.

And then a truly odd thing happened. We had bought nothing that day. But when we entered the vestibule and stepped inside, our rooms did not look quite as empty as before.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 959)