Discipline

Sicily | 1943

Rosalie quietly led Corrado through a camouflaged passageway built into the rear wall of the terrace, down to the convent’s subterranean crypt. It was a sacred location the American and British soldiers were still ignorant of. Plus, due to the ongoing renovations, and restorations, it currently housed hundreds of old, and new church instruments used for the masses held upstairs in the church of The Madonna Della Rocca. It had become more of a glorified storage room at this point in time, and less of sanctified crypt.

Without the proper glue, there was no way Corrado could successfully repair the violin their father had sent them, and with time becoming more sensitive with every passing second, they were forced to find an alternative solution. The pieces of that violin were still stashed inside of the satchel Corrado took from the farmhouse, and were hidden beneath Friar Gioacchino’s bed up on the second floor of the convent. He prayed its existence remained undiscovered.

Descending down a twisting series of dirt-crusted planks, they were finally welcomed by a stone archway. A cross, and a single word were carved into the curved stone, instructing all who enter the crypt to practice faith, and discipline.

Dark, dreary, and visibly limited by three oil lanterns, Rosalie carefully instructed Corrado on where to look, and where not to step.

“Those black crates along the back wall each have the choir instruments inside of them. I’m not sure of which ones exactly, but I know for sure there are violins down here somewhere. The tall racks along the left wall have more of the smaller instruments, like marranzanos, and flutes. The ground is also horribly uneven, so be careful of where you place your foot. We shouldn’t linger long, so let’s find a violin and get back up the terrace.”

They each began scouring opposite sides of the room, searching in every crate, barrel, box and shelf. Behind the shelves, and dug deep into the walls, were tiers of stone coffins sheltering the resting remains of past friars. They made a point to execute their search with care, as to not disturb them.

Rosalie quickly made her way up and down each of the three sets of racks. Finding nothing but wooden flutes, a handful of marranzanos, harmonicas, various sized bells, and hand-painted tambourines, she moved onto the black crates.

With only two crates left to open, they have found wooden harps, lute-shaped spruce guitars, and hand-crafted Salterio Secolos.

“Are you still sure there’s a violin down here?” Corrado asked.

Rosalie sniffled, and shook her head with a grin.

“We’re about to find out.”

Kneeling down together, they each assumed a position in front of each crate. In tandem, they unlatched the two bronze clasps on each crate, then lifted the lids. The light from the oil lanterns flickered as the flames twitched on the burners, forcing them both to squint at the contents. Rosalie dug her hands in first and pulled out more tambourines. Corrado didn’t remove anything, but continued to rummage through his crate.

“There’s nothing here,” he said.

“There has to be,” Rosalie said, frustrated, “You remember the masses. The choir always had a violinist.”

She continued to pillage the crates, searching for something she knew she wouldn’t find. Her heart raced, and tears tickled against her eyelashes. Then she heard a voice.

“Disciplina.”

Rosalie turned around, and saw Corrado holding out his hand.

“Disciplina. Remember? You taught me that. We’ll find a violin. We just have to keep looking.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, breaking down, “I’m sorry we’re in this horrible situation. I’m sorry about mom and dad. I’m sorry about Miceli.”

“You’re at fault for none of those things, Rosie. Never for a second think you are. You and I are in this together. Until whatever end. We can’t dwell on faults. It will only poison our resolve. Remember all of the stories we used to tell each other on the roof of the garage? Miceli’s were always about adventure. Risks. And the evolution of heroes. Every time he told one of those incredible stories, the image I created in my mind of the hero he was describing always defaulted to you. I need you, Rosie. You’re not just my hero now. You’re everyones.”

Corrado stepped in and hugged his sister with all of his strength, trying to help bear the weight he had just bestowed upon her.

“No pressure, of course,” he said, laughing softly in an attempt to remain respectful to the dead.

A quivering, vibrational song seeped down the secret stairwell, and pierced both of their eardrums with soothing, mellow notes.

Someone was playing the violin on the terrace above them.

Corrado snorted at the odd coincidence.

“Unbelievable.”

“Come on,” Rosalie said, eager to return to the world above ground.

Pushing open the camouflaged door, Rosalie and Corrado snuck back into the terrace. They quickly discovered the source of beautiful music. It was one of the convent’s friars. He was sitting alone, along the lowest tier of the rear wall, playing a very old violin.

“We’ll wait for him to finish, then we’ll ask to borrow it. Considering our circumstances, I’m sure he won't mind us returning it to him at a later date.”

Approaching the elderly gentleman with care, they aimed to sit on a raised, stone planter beside the water fountain.

The doors to the courtyard abruptly opened, and three armed American soldiers marched towards them. Leading the group was the man who had brought them back into town. Captain Lynch. The man on his right was a stranger, and the man on his left was the man who had winked at her when she first entered.

“Rosalie Tutino. And Corrado Tutino,” Lynch said with his deep draw, “Will you please come with me.”

“Come with you where?” She asked.

“Somewhere where we can talk.”

“I don’t feel much like talking, captain. For right now, we would like to enjoy the music. Perhaps another time,” Rosalie said.

Lynch smiled, and took two steps forward. Provoking Corrado. He then craned his neck back towards the younger men standing behind him, and nodded at the violinist. The man who had winked at Rosalie stalked over to the elderly man, and forcefully, although somewhat gently, confiscated the violin from his fragile hands.

“Well,” Lunch said, “Now that there’s no more music. Perhaps we can have our conversation after all.