Echo

YOUR FATE IS NOT YET SEALED.
EVEN IN THE DARKEST NIGHT, A STAR WILL SHINE,
A BELL WILL CHIME, A PATH WILL BE REVEALED.

In a town between the Black Forest and the Swabian Alps, Friedrich Schmidt stood on the threshold of his half-timbered house, pretending to be brave.

He tucked his hands beneath his legs. But the music from the concert pestered him until he couldn’t resist any longer. He freed his hands and swished an imaginary baton. Closing his eyes, he escaped into the rhythmic waltz.

One, two, three.

One, two, three. One, two, three …

He didn’t realize he was creating a spectacle.

Or that all the children in the school yard were watching him.

He was so caught up in the music that he never heard the laughing or the taunting.

Or the boys running up behind him.

Until it was too late.

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?

“Don’t say Hitlerite with such disdain,” said Elisabeth. “But, yes. The League is the girls’ division of Hitler Youth. We advocate traditional German music, literature, and values.”

“Instead of … ?” said Father.

“Well, nontraditional things. For instance, the harmonica, I am sorry to say, is not considered traditional and thought to be offensive.”

“Friedrich, surely you know I only said that for Elisabeth’s sake. It’s important she thinks we’re followers. For the safety of all of us. I would do anything to protect you and Elisabeth, even join the Nazi Party, if it ever came to that. As much as I hate to admit it, she is right about one thing. If we oppose Hitler, we must keep our thoughts to ourselves. Do you understand? Look and listen. That should be our policy. Trust no one. Be especially careful around the neighbors and at work. Except with your uncle, of course.”

A rude knocking startled him. Friedrich locked eyes with Father. “Are you expecting anyone?”

Father shook his head. He walked to the parlor and peered through the curtains. “It’s the authorities. Friedrich, listen to me. Say nothing. No matter what their accusations.”

Uncle Gunter smiled. “Elisabeth may not be the Nazi she seems. Nor Mrs. von Gerber, for that matter.”

Even as Eiffel and Faber grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and marched him toward the train door, Friedrich imagined only snowy ballerinas—tiny, pure-white stars—twirling and leaping to the hypnotic music.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three …

Mike sucked in his breath. “We’re getting fostered out?”

“If they like us. What if Pennyweather tries to separate us again?”

“I’ve told you before,” said Mike. “We’re not supposed to be separated. Remember? You and me, we stick together.” Mike held up a fist.

Frankie did the same, tapping Mike’s. “Yeah. You and me, we stick together.”

“We’re going to take the train. And get all fancied up and go to a concert at Carnegie Hall, just like Granny did,” said Frankie.

“That’s right,” said Mike. “She always wanted to take us there.”

Mike couldn’t believe this was the same piano. There were no sour notes. No avoiding a sharp because it wasn’t. The man was right. The piano had a beautiful tone. Mike filled up on the sound, as if he were eating something delicious, each bite better than the last. For a few moments, there was nothing but the music. No worries. No Pennyweather. Just him and Frankie. Mike could almost believe that he was back in Granny’s parlor, playing on a Sunday afternoon with the window open so everyone in the neighborhood could hear the music and have a little beauty in their lives.

Mrs. Sturbridge’s eyes filled with tears as she looked them over and made a face as if she’d just seen a dead animal in the gutter. She turned and hurried up the stairs. At the top, she leaned over the railing and yelled, “Get them to Mrs. Potter, immediately!” She disappeared down the hallway. A few seconds later, a door slammed so hard that the chandelier tinkled. “Believe it or not, boys,” said Mr. Howard, “that went well.”

“Ever heard someone say they’re feeling blue?” asked Mr. Potter. “Means sad or they got the melancholies about life. So blues music is about all the trials and tribulations people got in their hearts from living. It’s about what folks want but don’t have. Blues is a song begging for its life.”

“But the music doesn’t sound sad all the time,” said Mike.

“No, the songs are full of something else, too,” said Mr. Potter.

He played the first verse nice and slow, like a lullaby. The second verse was the blues version with trills and chords and bended notes. It wasn’t hard for Mike to drop into the music and testify to the journey he’d been on. His eyes closed and he traveled back: arriving on Amaryllis Drive, riding in the wagon with Mouse, lying on his cot in the dormitory and staring at the wrinkled paint on the ceiling, standing at Granny’s window, waiting, and listening to his mother sing to him and Frankie.

He played the third verse like he and Frankie used to play it, the refrain sounding like a storm crashing up to the sea to shining sea part, where he slowed down, the notes calm and simple, clear and sweet.

Without thinking, Mike looked down. He was much higher up than he’d thought. Dizzy, he tipped sideways, grabbing a nearby branch. The harmonica slid from his pocket and landed in the fork of a smaller branch. He thought he could reach it, so he righted himself and leaned out, stretching his fingers until he grabbed it. But he wobbled.

And fell.

In the seconds before his body and the earth collided, the wind blew a chord through the harmonica clutched in his hand.

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.