Echo

He opened it and removed the model that the company usually exported to the United States of America. The date on the box indicated the year it was introduced, but the coverplate looked newer, and the body older. Opposite the side with the blowholes, on the black painted edge, was a tiny red letter M.

Was this the instrument someone had been playing? If so … how? He had heard music, hadn’t he?

Ivy dawdled, playing the harmonica. She was far enough away that Mama couldn’t hear the music, but she kept the notes low and muted anyway. Next week she would be on the radio with her class. She hadn’t told Mama and Papa the surprise yet. Her teacher, Miss Delgado, had chosen her to perform a solo.

The Ward house looked as if it belonged in a storybook instead of an orange grove.

It was large and white with a steep-pitched roof and it stretched two stories high. Green latticework wrapped the porch, and gingerbread trim hung from the eaves and windows. Prim and clean, the home sat in a grassy yard where the flower beds had been raked and planted with geraniums. Unlike the Yamamotos’, there wasn’t a dead leaf, weed, or withered blossom sullying the yard. Two small flags hung side by side in the front window. Both had a white field, red border, and a star in the center; one with a blue star, the other, gold.

Mama must have seen the desperation on Ivy’s face, because she told Papa, “Victor, you will not make a problem. For Ivy’s sake.”

“I will not make a problem,” said Papa. “I will make a solution!”

“Some of the parents are questioning why the school district is paying for a music teacher during a war. Well! I think the opportunity to make music is a gift everyone should receive at least once in their lifetime, whether they unwrap it all the way or not. For many of you, this might be your only musical experience. If that is the case, I want to make it magnificent. Besides, everyone needs the beauty and light of music, especially during the worst of times. So! All the more reason to perform majestically this year and bring a little brightness to a dark world.”

Something big and fierce rose up inside Ivy. “What is wrong with people, Papa? Why is someone doing this? And why doesn’t anyone stop them?”

“Their hearts hurt. People who used to be friends are no longer friends. Neighbors are not neighbors. During a war, people feel they must blame and take sides. Hearts grow smaller.”

Mr. Ward seemed puzzled as his eyes drifted around the room. He took a deep breath and stood straighter. “It is always better to be safe than sorry. Every man, woman, and child must be diligent …” His voice cracked and his eyes filled. “So many of our boys have died … so many of our boys … my boy …” Grief overtook him and his body shook.

Ivy walked to his side. He didn’t seem unfriendly any longer. He looked like a father who had lost his son to war.

The bicycle leaned against the porch, and the boy stood at their door.

His truth is marching on.

Kenny always obliged, taking it from his pocket. He cradled it in the palm of his hand and held it out for all to see. No matter how many times he showed it, he was still amazed by the miracle of the mangled harmonica that had trapped the deadly bullet meant for his heart.

Forever after, Arabella, Roswitha, and Wilhelminia lived in a safe and cozy castle with their family, who loved them and called them by name. When their happiness overflowed, as it often did, they sang, their voices blending so magically that people in the kingdom often stopped to listen and marvel at their gifts.