Wartime Serenade

He clambered over piles of rubble where once a proud venue stood. He had, himself, played these very halls on numerous occasions. But no more.  

If the world survived, these premises may one day be rebuilt but it would never again be as it was. Many of the old masters had performed here. Over its long and storied history countless endeavors had been brought to enlighten as well as entertain. Now, there remained only dust, rubble, and broken dreams to mark the spot where stood the once great opera house. 

The devastation was recent so the dust had not yet settled completely. The callousness which could destroy so much beauty was infuriating. But the emotion he felt most deeply was despair. The opera house was not only a source of entertainment, but for many a source of livelihood. He never imagined anyone would want to destroy something that gave so much to so many. 

Scaling a particularly tall pile of rubble afforded him a panoramic view of the surrounding area. On the southeast corner had been the café at which he and Anna had first met. Across from there was a haberdashery known for costuming the performers as well as some of the best-dressed men in the city. On the opposite side of the old house had been a pub. One after another he scanned the familiar streets looking for survivors of the devastation. There were none. 

He stepped incautiously forward and tripped over a metal rod jutting from the pile. With his balance compromised, he clutched desperately at the small, leather case he carried then twisted his body to avoid landing on it when he fell. He hit hard and at an odd angle. Something in his chest snapped and he wondered if he’d broken a rib. The fall managed to produce an impressive dust cloud of his own making. The steep slope provided a path more than adequate to carry him down the mountain of debris.  

One arm maintained his death-grip on the violin case while the other flailed wildly in an attempt to grab onto something that would halt his rapid descent. His hand caught something stiff protruding from the rubble. The ride ended abruptly. The sudden stop sent a shockwave of pain through his body assuring him that he had, indeed, broken something. 

Gingerly, he threaded his arm through the strap on the leather case and slid it up to his shoulder freeing his second hand for industry. Trying to ignore the pain, he managed to pull himself up to a sitting position. He looked to the spot from which he had fallen then down to what he determined to be the bottom of the pile. He was only about a quarter of the way down.  

He glanced to see what it was that had stopped his inexorable slide then immediately recoiled in horror. In his desperate flailing to rescue himself from peril the man had managed to grab onto a human hand protruding from the pile of rubble. He quickly genuflected then crossed himself as he said a silent prayer for the departed. The musician slowly reached again to check for a pulse. The cold stiffness of the flesh dispelled any hope of vitality. 

He sat down again looking at some of the devastation around him and remembering the sites he’d seen earlier. For the first time he thought about the people rather than the buildings.  

How many were sitting at the tables in the café or at the bar in the pub? How many were shopping for new clothes in the haberdashery? And what of the many rooms and apartments above each? The view encompassed only a couple of blocks. What of the remainder of the city? How many lives were lost? 

His earlier concerns over his loss of income gave way to the undeniable truth that buildings could be replaced; people could not. So many lives lost. Some he knew, most he didn’t. Slowly removing the instrument from its case along with the bow, the artist began to play a soft serenade to the dead. 

The impromptu performance required no thought. The master let his hands play what his heart felt. The beginning was reminiscent of an old familiar hymn often played at funerals. Then it gradually morphed into a composition of his own creation.  

The notes were both solemn and lilting as the memories passed from his heart to his hands. He remembered his friends with whom he had performed in these very halls. Some of them may well be lying in the rubble which now supported him.  

He played for the couple who owned the café then added a note for his own precious wife in homage to their first meeting. There was a section for the tailor who was always ready with a smile and a bad joke while fitting the performers for the stage. The notes were sadly festive when it came to the pub on the corner; while a reverence for the Divine overtook the melody when his eyes fell upon the steeple of a church nearby. 

He played for the children who lost parents and the parents who lost children. He played for the men who lost wives and wives who lost husbands. The instrument wailed in despair while each note remained true. 

He played for the soldiers sent to die by greedy politicians who spent their evenings attending parties; dining on fine foods, drinking wine with calloused hearts while good men bled and died. Here the music quavered with rage yet remained on form. 

Then came a part for the artists whose voices were forever stilled. Anguish blended with hopelessness while the rhythm intentionally broke to emphasize the loss. 

Hours ticked by; though without notice. Morning melted into day which faded into evening. Only then did the maestro allow his opus to end before collapsing into tears of grief. His weary hands fell to his side while clinging dutifully to the instrument and its bow. 

In the darkness, he slowly made his way down the pile of destruction and death. The once smooth road was now littered with debris causing the man to stumble more than once. For days he searched through nearly empty streets looking into equally empty eyes of the few people he encountered. The artist felt a pang of guilt for worrying about something as seemingly trivial as finding work. But his family was counting on him not to fail. 

Yet how could he find work when his only skill was entertaining with his music in a world filled with such heartache. People didn’t need music, they needed answers. They needed help finding food and shelter in a city devastated by war. They didn’t have time for him. Even if they had found the time, they had no money with which to pay him. 

It was nearly noon of the following day when the maestro stopped in an open square to fill his water bladder from an artesian well lined with cobblestones. He watched as survivors rambled about seemingly lost in a world of desolation. The younger children cried while older ones dug in the rubble for who knows what. Women spontaneously burst into tears while men cursed everything around them. The shadow of a bird moved along the pavement making the people scatter in fear afraid that the bombers had returned. 

Someone needed to do something to help these people. But not a single politician came to their aid. None of them asked for this, yet here they were.  

More out of habit than anything else, the musician pulled out his violin and began to play, composing a new piece from the depths of his own soul. The music was soft and quiet befitting his somber mood.  

It took time for the people to realize what was happening but deep down the music gradually took hold. The tune the maestro was playing was unfamiliar, yet it appealed to all. Slowly they followed the melody past the broken buildings and into the square where sat the weary player. 

The open area began to fill with people. The maestro raised his head to look into their eyes and saw there a spark of hope. His hands picked up the tempo and the crowd responded. Some embraced the people around them. The children smiled, perhaps for the first time in days.  

One score flowed into the next with increasing lightheartedness. The mood of the crowd matched the timbre of the music as if each were lifting the other higher. The melancholy cloud that had hung around them for days was gradually lifting. Even the musician felt lighter as hope returned to him as well.  

The people may have lost their homes, the composer may have lost his job; but they all had life and, for this moment, each other.