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Authors: Kristy Cambron
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rest? We’ll see if we can change that to three blinks when I return.”
Three blinks? I. Love. You?
Adele smiled in spite of the world that threatened to fall around them.
For the first time in months, she had something to look forward to. She could look out in their future and finally see an end to war and a start to the life they might have together. It was hope filled, the promise of those three blinks, and she had a feeling it would get her through to his return.
“I see you’re considering it?”
She nodded and wiped a frozen tear from her cheek with her gloved hand. “I am.”
It was all she had to say.
“Good,” he said, putting an arm around her to lead her inside. A barely there whisper caressed the side of her ear: “You can do it, Butterfly.”
And the snow continued to fall.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A dele walked onstage.
She could feel the eyes of everyone in the auditorium boring into her. Her mother, no doubt finding something inappropriate in her dress. Her father, puffing up like the proud peacock he was. And the rest of the affluent guests, the ladies dripping in jewels and furs, each clinging to a Nazi officer’s arm.
All of it sickened her. It was the first time in her life she could remember hating her gift. She didn’t want to use it like this. Surely God wouldn’t want her to play for this crowd?
The click of her heels echoed off the ceiling as she walked across the stage and stood out in front of the rest of the orchestra.
Nerves set in. Her hands, shed of the protective gloves and gauze, now lay naked at her sides, their blistered and puckered appearance tucked beneath the folds in her gown on one side and cradling her violin on the other. And when she thought she could not play, when she thought of forgetting what she must do and walking offstage, she looked up. Not with her entire head, just with her eyes. She looked at the second chair in the back row.
And there he was. Vladimir. Smiling. Urging her on. Telling her it was okay to play, to love the gift of music God had crafted in her heart, and to not be ashamed to share it with the rest of the world, even if that world was filled with SS officers. He tilted hishead down in a light nod and blinked three times. And as if by magic, Adele smiled in return.
She felt something come alive, and if only for that night, it was okay to play. She felt as if God was granting her permission through Vladimir’s accepting gesture. She wasn’t playing to honor the Führer. Instead, she was playing for the honor of another.
Adele vowed then to play for the lost. She’d play for Elsa, her friend. For Elsa’s husband, Abram, and their little boy, Eitan. She’d pick up her violin and touch her bow to it, playing the haunting melody for the little Jewish girl, Sophie, hidden by Vladimir somewhere in the darkness of the city. And she’d play for the rest of them, for the world’s loss of innocence and the coldness of hate that fought to overshadow the love she knew to be born of God.
She would play.
The conductor raised an arm and they were brought to attention, all of them prepared to do their job for Austria, to play as they never had for the leader of the Third Reich. And Adele joined them. She let the notes dance from her heart and out her fingertips. She allowed the pull of creation to take over every breath in her body as the notes cried from her innermost soul.
Then came the moment for her solo.
Adele played each note with precision. Brought to tears, feeling as if her soul had finally expended what God had called her to do. She knew then that an artist could feel it, could know when her craft is practiced, when it is used to its fullest potential. Adele felt it, maybe for the first time. She felt the music come alive from the inside out, pulling her away from the fear of the night before and pouring a measure of peace upon her.
It felt like hours that she stood up there, whisked away in the moment, sailing through her act of worship
Three blinks? I. Love. You?
Adele smiled in spite of the world that threatened to fall around them.
For the first time in months, she had something to look forward to. She could look out in their future and finally see an end to war and a start to the life they might have together. It was hope filled, the promise of those three blinks, and she had a feeling it would get her through to his return.
“I see you’re considering it?”
She nodded and wiped a frozen tear from her cheek with her gloved hand. “I am.”
It was all she had to say.
“Good,” he said, putting an arm around her to lead her inside. A barely there whisper caressed the side of her ear: “You can do it, Butterfly.”
And the snow continued to fall.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A dele walked onstage.
She could feel the eyes of everyone in the auditorium boring into her. Her mother, no doubt finding something inappropriate in her dress. Her father, puffing up like the proud peacock he was. And the rest of the affluent guests, the ladies dripping in jewels and furs, each clinging to a Nazi officer’s arm.
All of it sickened her. It was the first time in her life she could remember hating her gift. She didn’t want to use it like this. Surely God wouldn’t want her to play for this crowd?
The click of her heels echoed off the ceiling as she walked across the stage and stood out in front of the rest of the orchestra.
Nerves set in. Her hands, shed of the protective gloves and gauze, now lay naked at her sides, their blistered and puckered appearance tucked beneath the folds in her gown on one side and cradling her violin on the other. And when she thought she could not play, when she thought of forgetting what she must do and walking offstage, she looked up. Not with her entire head, just with her eyes. She looked at the second chair in the back row.
And there he was. Vladimir. Smiling. Urging her on. Telling her it was okay to play, to love the gift of music God had crafted in her heart, and to not be ashamed to share it with the rest of the world, even if that world was filled with SS officers. He tilted hishead down in a light nod and blinked three times. And as if by magic, Adele smiled in return.
She felt something come alive, and if only for that night, it was okay to play. She felt as if God was granting her permission through Vladimir’s accepting gesture. She wasn’t playing to honor the Führer. Instead, she was playing for the honor of another.
Adele vowed then to play for the lost. She’d play for Elsa, her friend. For Elsa’s husband, Abram, and their little boy, Eitan. She’d pick up her violin and touch her bow to it, playing the haunting melody for the little Jewish girl, Sophie, hidden by Vladimir somewhere in the darkness of the city. And she’d play for the rest of them, for the world’s loss of innocence and the coldness of hate that fought to overshadow the love she knew to be born of God.
She would play.
The conductor raised an arm and they were brought to attention, all of them prepared to do their job for Austria, to play as they never had for the leader of the Third Reich. And Adele joined them. She let the notes dance from her heart and out her fingertips. She allowed the pull of creation to take over every breath in her body as the notes cried from her innermost soul.
Then came the moment for her solo.
Adele played each note with precision. Brought to tears, feeling as if her soul had finally expended what God had called her to do. She knew then that an artist could feel it, could know when her craft is practiced, when it is used to its fullest potential. Adele felt it, maybe for the first time. She felt the music come alive from the inside out, pulling her away from the fear of the night before and pouring a measure of peace upon her.
It felt like hours that she stood up there, whisked away in the moment, sailing through her act of worship
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