For the Boys and Girls

A few months ago, I was playing a concert nearly every night. People would flock to the stadiums and concert halls, paying exorbitant sums just to sit closer to the stage on which I played. Talk shows, radio interviews, these things had slowly become a way of life. I loved it. I loved the attention and adoration of the people who called themselves my greatest fans. I hope  they are still out there, even though I can’t see them anymore. 

The stadiums and concert halls have all been seized or destroyed. People no longer have any pennies to spare for the luxury of a concert, which means that I have no pennies at all. I don’t blame them, though. Their family means so much more than a single night of watching some person with a cello saw away at the strings for a couple hours. There were no longer any places that wanted me, and so I instead went where I was needed. 

I sold everything I could and set out searching for the places in this torn country that could use a little music. My first free concert took place in the central square of a town that I didn’t even know the name of. The fountain in the middle had been nearly destroyed, and only a faint gurgle from within the rubble signified that water had once flowed over the white marble structure. I sat down on a bit of the fountain that hadn’t yet been toppled, and froze. Not a single person was within eyesight. Gray dust covered every inch of the ground and stuck to the sides of buildings like sickly mold. The town was deathly silent, and for a moment I wondered if they were all already dead or gone. Yet, as we say, the show must go on.

I struck the first note. It was shockingly loud, but the empty town gobbled up the noise immediately. As the second and third notes were played, the air seemed to sigh, and the music began to flow out of me like it hadn’t in years. I don’t know what song I played. I don’t even know if it was a song. I just let my hands control the bow as it glided over the strings, as the cello sang its woes out to town. I felt eyes on me, and breathed a sigh of relief. I had an audience. 

I played for hours, until the sun had set and it became difficult to see in the dusky gloom. When I finally straightened my back and released the bow from my grip, my joints groaned in protest after sitting in the same position for so long. I knew that people were watching me, but I had not seen nor heard anything but my cello, the wind, and the faint gurgle coming from the fountain. I dusted off my cello as best I could before placing it back into its case, and began the short walk to where I had parked my car. I had just opened the drivers door to get in when a window opened and a package was tossed out. I stared at it, trying to make out the shape in the quickly fading light. It was sort of round in shape and wrapped in brown paper, tied together with a white string. I walked closer, curious about the object, and noticed the design on the paper. A cello, identical to the one that was now sitting in my car, had been scratched onto the brown paper with charcoal. Little music notes dotted the rest of the paper surrounding the cello. 

I looked up to the window that the parcel had been tossed out of just in time to see a pair of eyes flee behind the curtain. I smiled, and thanked them for the gift before picking it up and taking it to my car. I unwrapped the paper as carefully as I could so as not to damage the drawing. Inside, was a loaf of bread. No check I had ever received was worth as much as that single, momentous payment. 

I continued journeying from town to town, playing and praying as I went. I went hungry often, but on the days that a family invited me into their home for dinner I ate like a king. Potatoes never tasted so good. For some towns, I was too late. Smoke still rose from the rubble of flattened buildings and the few pets that had managed to escape the carnage now wandered the streets, aimless and starving. I couldn’t help them, no matter how I wished I could. I had nothing to give. I still played in these towns, but it was always a little bit harder. My grandpapa always told me that good souls and music were the only things on this earth that could reach heaven. I hoped he was right, and that he could listen and dance along with the townsfolk. 

I don’t know how it happened, but one moment I was venturing through a city and the next moment there were hundreds of dead soldiers laid out on the road in front of me. White sheets covered some, and others were left staring up into the sun. They were orderly, placed head to toe in straight lines that extended around the corner. 

I parked my car and continued on foot, following the path in which the soldiers were pointing me. When I rounded the corner, I was hit by the sights, smells, and sounds of a field hospital. Nurses shouted across the field while moans and shrieks could be heard from within starch white tents. One woman exited a tent, dumped a bucket of blood into a street drain, and returned back to the tent. More soldiers were being carried onto the field while others were being taken away in the direction from which I came. I found an empty alley in time to vomit without being seen, the stench overwhelming my senses and making my eyes water. I had seen bodies in the towns I visited, but never had there been this many. Never had they all been so young. 

In a trance, I wandered through the field. Nobody stopped me. Eventually, I found myself behind one of the white tents. I could hear the moans of young men inside, and the gentle voices of the nurses attempting to comfort them. One of the voices spoke a bit louder than the rest.

“Eleanor, he’s gone. Go take ten.”

A woman stepped out of the tent, right past where I was standing, and wandered off into a side street. I don’t know why, but I followed her. I stopped when I heard her sobbing. She did her best to muffle it, but I could still hear. Even so, nurses never let the boys see them cry. 

My senses began returning as I sat down on a bus bench just around the corner from where the nurse was trying so desperately to hide her tears, and began to play. It took her a moment to notice, but once she did, the sobs slowed, and eventually shuddered to a stop. She stepped out from behind the corner and stared at me like I was an alien from foreign lands. After staring she began to laugh, hysterically at first, then gently. She began to cry again while she was laughing, but didn’t try so hard to hide it as she had done before. Once I finished, she quickly dabbed her eyes and complimented my playing. 

“Would you mind coming with me for a bit?” she asked. I obliged.

She led me to the tent that she had come from. She took one of the sparse collapsible chairs and placed it in a corner.

“Will you play for them? Like you did for me?” 

“Of course.”

The song my hands and the cello created was mournful and sweet. It was mellow like peach tea and warm like hot cider. Some of the soldiers laughed and cried, just as the nurse had. Some just closed their eyes and listened. I played for a while, until one of the soldiers on a bed close to me piped up in a hoarse whisper.

“Say, do you take requests?”

I didn’t know the song that he asked for, and apologized. He chuckled and said it was alright, then asked if I was alright at accompanying. I promised I would do my best. The soldier began to sing a simple tune, choking out the lyrics in a steady rhythm. The song was repetitive, so I was able to pick it up quickly. There was a faint rustling as the other soldiers in the tent came to attention, and slowly slowly, they began to join in as well. Soon enough, the entire tent was filled with the soldiers’ song, loud enough that my cello was nearly drowned beneath the waves. 

The nurses continued their duties as best they could, but every once in awhile I noticed them turning away, just for a moment, before returning back to the boy they were tending to. When the song was concluded, the air within the tent had significantly cleared. The light seemed to shine a little brighter and the smell wasn’t so thick. The soldier that had requested the song turned to me once more.

“Please, go play for my brothers.”

I left the tent and went directly into the next one. They had heard the commotion next door and were curious what they had been up to. I struck up the same song that they boys had requested earlier, and a few shouted a startled “ah-ha!” before they began to sing. Just as with the tent before, my cello could hardly be heard over the voices of the soldiers. Some nurses even murmured the lyrics under their breath. 

I did not stop playing until I had played in every single tent in the camp. It was early in the morning when I was done, but not a single bout of weariness had hit me. Before I left, I returned to the first tent. I wanted to pay my thanks to the nurse and the soldier boy.

I found the nurse quickly. She only thanked me in return, and continued caring for the boys. I went back to the corner in which the soldier had been lying, but a different boy now occupied the space. I looked around. He wasn’t in any of the beds. I caught the eye of the nurse and she just looked at me, sorrowful, and gestured towards the street from which I had entered the field. My heart stopped and my stomach dropped like a stone. I nodded, and exited the tent, making my way towards the street. I scanned each face I could see until I found him. He was pale, but incredibly peaceful. The faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of his lips. I sat down, pulled out my cello, and played the soldiers’ song one final time for all of the boys in the street. For the first time since I began my journey, I started to cry. 

Tears streaked silently down the sides of my face as I played, dragging the song out low and slow, the warble of the cello dancing along the brick buildings. They were just a few of many, but I could do nothing but play, just like I had always done. Until I die in one way or another, I will keep playing, for the boys and the girls that never asked for this. For the men and women that can only hear the notes that reach them high up in the clouds. I will keep playing. It is the only thing I can do.