Beethoven's concerto. Music of which I am forbidden to play. A last act, a
last rebel, A last endeavour at my own humanity and perhaps everyone
Each note of my violin becomes one with the moans and cry’s of the
dying. As for the already dead...I wonder if they can hear, and if so...would
they join, or has heaven eased them of sharing this pain? Perhaps the pain is
intensified, perhaps they are just dead and nothing more. And Lois...what is
“Nothing” it is impossible not to consider when you are staring out
onto the dead. Their eyes staring back as if their souls never left. They
become my audience. A audience of the dying.
I allow myself to believe that I am performing in the Vienna Hall. On that
grand stage with millions watching. Their awed expressions at every glide of
my bow. Oh how marvelously tragic it is! How naïve I can be! Yet I bask in
it for I know that this is the closest to my dreams I will be- the closest to
living I will ever come again.
I brought my violin all the way here, not just for the fact that my fragile
soul could not part with it, for I somehow knew that this very moment
could come. A selfish act? Could be. Or an act of giving to those fighting
each other for the continuous beating of their own hearts. I know that I have
to play for everyone of them-until my own gives way.
My violin sings, its voice consuming my stage of the barracks either way!
Reminders of the surrounding world. The one outside of camps and marches
from one to another.
My fingers numb but the crys of my very being do not cease for what feels
like hours. Finally I slump down the corner beam of which I lean, my finger
tips still on their strings, my other hand still gripping the bow lightly. The last
billets utter with their last strength. My concluding symphony of sympathy.
Hopefully not to die with me...
“I know. I know.” I mutter, not knowing of who I answer.
We were not in hell. We were only the closest to hell that man could
accomplish. Yet this is the closet to hell only apart of man could
survive. Could I?
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