Lil­ian’s cor­rect story

Mansfield Courier - - Your Say -

was a se­ries of mean­ing­less move­ments and my thoughts re­mained in­vis­i­ble.

It would have been eas­ier to write them onto the black­board, but they would have lost their force, as words al­ways did when writ­ten down…

$IWHU ¿QLVKLQJ , UXVKHG RXW my leather bag bounc­ing on my back.

It was misty, a soft rain moist­ened my blonde hair.

I turned around, hear­ing rapid foot­steps be­hind me.

The new Jewish boy from my class was com­ing to­wards me.

He was tall and dark haired, freck­les cov­ered his skinny face.

He mo­tioned for me to fol­low him.

As we walked through the ru­ined city, we were care­ful not to at­tract any un­wanted at­ten­tion in the paved streets.

I won­dered what the new boy ex­pected of me.

We ar­rived at a tall build­ing. The top had been bombed, bricks lay piled up next to a OHDÀHVV RDN WUHH

$ ÀHHWLQJ VHQVH RI KRSH ÀXWWHUHG WKURXJK PH

:H VWDJJHUHG XS IRXU ÀLJKWV of worn stairs be­fore we reached an apart­ment.

I fol­lowed the boy cau­tiously.

He spoke to a young woman, oc­ca­sion­ally she nod­ded.

Then she smiled at me and led me into a cramped room.

I was hum­bled by what I saw.

It seemed that ev­ery­thing was val­ued in this space.

Once the woman had closed the door, she handed me an in­stru­ment, a vi­ola.

As I touched it, I was re­minded of hap­pier times…

Slowly I lifted the beau­ti­ful in­stru­ment to my chin and played a note.

It was a low, hes­i­tant tone, al­most like a moan.

Then I added more, let­ting it grow into a phrase…

Sud­denly I recog­nised the gift I had been given, sud­denly, mu­sic be­came my way of speak­ing.

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