It sounded like music. The reverberating sound, coming from our darkened basement, could only come from a violin. I had grinned, gleefully dashing down the creaky wooden steps. This meant James was home. What eluded me was the fact that it would be the last time we would see him.

Thousands of candles burned dimly, slightly brightening the unlit room. The damp walls bounced the sound against each other, causing it to slightly echo. His back was turned, but I could see his curly hair, sticking up despite the gel. That was our James.

His left hand fingers moved deftly across the strings as his right hand rhythmically sawed with his bow, forming beautiful sounds. I still can picture the way his eyes would be closed, lips pursed tight into a line whenever he played.

I remember that night as clearly as I do beginning these tales. James always had a way with music, taming the wild notes into domestication finding the perfect balance between the two. The sounds he made created beautiful scenes and turn them to life as the melody swept you off your feet, to the place that he wanted to share with you. It was a form of magic that only he could create. Whenever he played for you, it would make you feel special, as if chosen by him to share. His music mimicked our father’s piano playing, the same feeling came over you, but together it was so almost unbearably beautiful.

Then, he was playing my favorite song, a lullaby. It was a sweet melody, but played in a minor key, bringing notes of sorrow intermixing with the amiable sound. The words were forgotten centuries ago, but the tune, so vivid, carried on through the generations, slightly modified per person. There is a name for the song, but life has taken that away.

By this time, my mother had crept down the squealing steps, unnoticed. Her eyes were unfocused, more so than usual. I knew what she was imagining, seeing, her husband: my father. He was a soft-spoken man who had been drafted to the war, only three months gone, and proclaimed dead by telegram.

He played many tunes on the grand piano at the bar, duets with my brother. But this particular piece was special to the family. They would play it with more vigor and ardor than any other piece. Music fashioned serenity out of the boys, as if someone were soothing them, but only they could hear the voice. It was almost as if they took out all their anger and resentment on the violin and bow, leaving it behind in it until they picked it up again.

Sometimes, I would join, my clumsy fingers stumbling over the stinging strings, my own bow sawing dreadfully compared to the boy’s nimble fingers. But I never felt that serenity or passion while I played. It was more of an excuse for me. I never had that distinct touch or rather mind-set that they did.

My mother would sit at the counter, pretending to conduct. Mostly she would just sit there, watching us harmonize together. When I played, she would join in, singing the melody. Her high-pitched voice powerfully swept across the notes. She had a sweet, goading voice. Every time she sang it felt as if she were persuading you. When I didn’t join, I would sit next to her, quietly humming the melody as I watched her do so often.

Mother was a beautiful woman. She had honey blonde hair that flowed to her hips, complete with bright green eyes. But she had an obstinate personality, not the meek, docile one that was once sought out in women.

Even with her personality “fault”, as I inherited, most wondered why she, a beautiful widow, didn’t remarry after mourning my father’s death. Some blamed us, her underage children at home, needing a mother to console the death of the father. But no one knew the truth, no one except James and I.

If I am able to recall correctly, mother started to fall apart when Father received the telegram. With Father gone, it drained most of the life out of her. She was able to hold herself together, for the sake of her children, when he passed, but only barely. We would find her looking in to empty spaces sometimes, moving her lips as if she were talking to someone. Sometimes, she would forget Father was away and turn to tell him something, only to find he was gone. Yet, she was able to keep the pride in her posture, her smart tongue, and a faint, dimmed light in her eyes. It was when James received the telegram that she finally broke.

About three months after my father’s death, my brother was cruelly drafted. As soon as the telegram arrived, my mother tore it from James’s grasp, tearing it to pieces. The remnants of the cut off words littered the floor.

After that, she wouldn’t talk about it. If either James or I even mentioned it, she would go into a fit of tears, running into to the closet where Father’s things were safely hidden. One time, she wouldn’t come out for three days. When we finally coaxed her out for some food, she looked broken. Neither of us spoke a word of it again until the officers came for James.

After weeks of ignoring the telegrams, posts, and notices, two officers finally came knocking on our door. I was the one to answer it; James and mom were in the living room. As soon as I saw their uniforms I went numb, silently I led them to James.

When Mother saw the men in uniforms she stopped, on the edge of her seat, stiff. After a moments silence, she let out a wail and went back to the closet, locking herself in. James stood up; I went to his side, almost behind him, cowering.

Murmurs were exchanged; the officers sounded weary, James consenting, but resentful. At last, the officers left, but not before giving James a train ticket and uniform.

The next few weeks were a blur to me. I don’t remember them now. My old age beats down upon my memory, only leaving the most vivid ones. I vaguely remember the day James left.

I walked with him to the train station. Our arms must have been at our sides. He only had his uniform and train ticket, nothing else. The entire neighborhood came to see him off, standing outside their homes, watching another one of their boys march bravely to their death.

Everyone was sad to see him leave. James was beloved by our community, cherished by neighbors, idolized by children, and fondly looked upon by our elders.

It was during the war, that we found James in the basement, playing the lullaby. That was one of the last memories I had of James. He had come home that week.

He had changed, the way we had seen others change. His arms were bigger and he stood taller. His eyes no longer held a glint to them that had been there since birth. He looked weary and worn, a man who has seen things that no such child should see. The image is burned into my mind, his face, his posture, his embrace…etc. all committed to memory.

There were also little changes, not in appearance, but attitude. At times, when a drawer slammed or a loud noise made he would duck for cover, as if he were being shot at. It would take a few minutes for us to break the trance he was under. He also lost his optimism and life loving perspective on life.

Despite our pleas to know more, he would revoke any conversation about the war, even if it were not relating to him. Our sheltered knowledge was limited and the neighbors were careful about the information they told, due to my mother’s condition. The people of our community were caring, and kept my mother in the dark about many of the bombings or battles. Only when it was unavoidable, would they talk about it in the presence of either of us.

I knew more than Mother because the children at school were less cautious, their unfiltered mouths were left unchecked and I soon caught up with current battles. But I, too, was careful to avoid the subject of the war at home.

Yet, the most conspicuous difference about James was when he played his violin. Never again was a happy, joyous melody played on the instrument. Its master’s fingers would only touch the sinful strings, playing only a sad, mournful one every time.

Despite his changes, we were elated to have him back, but the war raged on and in a week he had to return. Mother was worsening by every day her son was away, in the same situation our Father died to. She had her episodes more often now. Ever since I had turned fourteen the roles reversed, she was no longer taking care of me I was caring for her.

I remember I had gone into a fit of hysteria, screaming at the top of my lungs when the news reached that James had died.

My mother took the news worse. Her unfocused eyes and usually placid look morphed into a malevolent, insane one. But she never saw me. She left her other child alone with only her presence for comfort. I was numb, though. I think it might have been that I was comfortable with bottling up my emotions that I closed off all of them.

About three weeks after we received the notice of the loss, the bereavement was too much. She rarely ever opened the closet door. When she finally did, I searched the room. The only additional things that were not my father’s was a noose, made from a rope she stole and a blanket. That noose was the last straw. That was all I needed to finally crack. I let out the anger I had forbidden to enter.

To say I was beyond angry would be an understatement. I was livid, fuming, finally incensed. I was angry at my mother for her thoughts of abandoning me, her child, alone in a world full of monsters, angry at the war that had taken both my father and brother, angry with myself for being so submissive, but most of all, angry at God for causing all of this to happen.

By then, the neighbors had learned of the news and the whole community fell into a period of despair. The gloom that hung over our street was horrible. There was no music to be heard, no voices either, only silence. And then the raids started.

As if gained confidence by the grief of our souls, the enemy sent their planes to bombard our homes; in hopes to take more lives of loved ones from us. I sat there, in the damp basement of a neighbor, the cool walls against my back. For most of my days of that month, we were there for hours on end as the walls shook with every explosion. Too frightened to speak, it was silent except for the sounds of death and fire above. Every time, I would just sit there, waiting for death to claim me, but it never came.

I somehow remember all of this, despite my fuzzy scenes. I can see it as clearly as a movie, as if I were watching all these tragedies fall upon another unfortunate, pitying them. It was as if I were still safe, my eyes virgin to the horrors of war and the death it brings. But I stopped praying after a three years of the war.

I had lost faith in my religion long ago. People hold contempt on me for that, but how can I believe in one so holy, who had ignored my prayers every night. Ignored the prayers from souls throughout the world and let people in this world die in mass numbers, destroying each other and themselves out of petty things. Was it punishment? Cruelty? To this day history repeats itself and people still die for superficial causes, created by people wanting to obtain power or money or whatever else humans would die for.

Some say that history should be left in the past, but should it? Is it even really in the past? Or is it always with us, destined to repeat over and over again, just with more casualties for it to take as spoils. Does it lie, constantly present, in our consciousness as it does mine?

I have watched my eldest son enlist into the army and die, to the same fate as my father and brother. Yet, even though I have experienced the pain of losing a loved one to war, the death of my son hit me harder than the prior deaths combined. Such is the maternal love from a mother to a child. If I had felt that much anguish, how did my mother want to abandon her other child, another whom she should have loved so deeply.

And yet, I don’t blame Mother for her wishes to leave this world; I don’t think I ever have. As I have seen loved ones die and my child die to war, I understand how she felt trapped and helpless. How she felt empty and sad, as if there were a hold in your heart that only your lost child could fill. Her mind was never corrected after the loss of both her love, but child next, with little time of recovery had pushed her into a state of insanity and hazy reasoning.

Jamie, named after my own guardian angel, there is a reason I am divulging all of this to you, now. You are my son, and I love you, but this world is not meant for me anymore. Technology has become more advanced and I do not understand the ways of the world. I have a feeling that the humans, including you, have all left me behind.

Jamie, I have watched you grow, and laugh, and play, take your first steps, speak your first word, and sit through all the ceremonies, in which I sat there with pride in my eyes, and now you must forgive me for this. As I said before the combined deaths of my father and brother didn’t compare to the death of my son. Now you are enlisting in the army, destined to the same fate as other brave men in our family, and I am not sure if I would be able to bear it this time.

I have written this last piece for you, my stories. All the little anecdotes I told you throughout your childhood are apart of my past. James, Mother, The officers, the War, the music, and the lullaby, and now they shall be apart of yours. I am sorry to leave you but now death is inevitable for me. I am an old woman, who has lived far past her prime.

The first memory I have recorded on paper is the one that should stand out to you the most. You should recognize the tune I so carefully described. It is the same lullaby I sing to you. I even play the parts that haven’t been pilfered to you on the viola. Before, I did not remember the name, but now memory has graced my mind. The name of the song is: Voice of the Angels. It suits it, both bitter and sorrowful, yet sweet, a perfect description of life.

Please forgive me, but I need to escape the horrors of this world, for I have had too many loved ones fall. I move on to whatever comes next.

Ich liebe dich. Verzeihen Sie mir. Der Himmel beschütze meinen Sohn.
I love you. Forgive me. Heaven protect my son.