My Song

Sicily | 1943

Under a firm mutual agreement of trust, the misfitted group of four banded together to clean up their mess. Corrado helped Father Burgio gather the dead bodies of the Italian soldiers, and Rosalie helped Garret give Private Hale a temporary burial - which consisted of blanketing him with a few layers thick sheets - until Garret was able to get his body back into the hands of the American military.

After an hour of hard, cruel labor, they took refuge inside of the house, and were cared for by the surviving family members who owned the home. Burgio spoke with them in Italian, and was given access to the entire property for as long as they needed. It was the least they could offer considering they owed their lives to these strange travelers.

Burgio poured four large glasses of water from the kitchen, and filled three ceramic plates with any food he could find. The soldiers overturned the house to the studs, so the plates were pretty limited. He returned to his friends, who were huddled around a small fire crackling within the blue stone hearth in the living room, and handed each of them their own cold glass. He walked back into the kitchen and retrieved the plates from the table. Each plate had three pieces of goat melted cheese, a handful of green grapes, and one chunk of stale brioche bread.

He gifted each plate with care to his three young companions, and smiled as they filled their bodies with nutrients, even if only a little. He turned to leave again when a chewing mouth inquired about his movements.

“Where are you going,” Corrado asked in Italian.

Burgio responded in English so the Sergeant wouldn’t suspect anything out of line.

“I’m going to search the supply truck for more food and first aid equipment. You three stay here and get to work on the violin.”

Burgio nodded at Garret, who nodded back, then exited the home.

Rosalie gathered the plates and glasses, stacked them on the granite counter top in the kitchen, then sat down next to her brother on the burgundy sofa. She pulled the heavy coffee table closer to her and Corrado’s knees, leaving behind two, impressive depressions in the old carpet - an indication that this table had not been moved in years.

She reached into her pocket, and pulled out the smooth knife she found in the kitchen while putting away the dishes. She handed it to Corrado, then addressed the room - making sure to keep the conversation flowing in English.

“Do it.”

Corrado took the knife from his sister, then began to flaunt his unique skills as an instrument repairman.

Delicately sawing and sliding the knife between the panels, slicing through the glue seal, Corrado popped the rear panel free, and carefully removed it. Rosalie reached out and took the panel from his hands, and immediately began studying it for carvings or inscriptions that help shed more light to the mystery.

She could feel Garret’s breath caress the back of her neck, so she slid closer to her brother then invited Garret to sit next to her on the couch.

“Why don’t you sit down, Garret, and help me with this panel.”

Garret didn’t need to be told a second time. He stepped to the front of the couch, then sank himself down into the plump cushions. His knee bumped hers, and he tried to pull away so as to not invade her personal space. Rosalie giggled under her breath then pushed her knee back into his, smiling softly.

“Here. What do you see?”

Garret scoured the dark piece of maple for any hint of a clue. Turning it over in his hands several times, he finally placed it down on the table and ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a deep sigh of frustration.

“There’s nothing on this,” he said.

Rosalie lifted the maple panel from the table and brought it between them. She angled it just right so the light from the sun streaming in through the windows could illuminate the camouflaged carving.

“Is that a…volcano?” Garret asked.

“Mount Etna,” Rosalie said.

“What’s the significance?”

“The significance, Sergeant, is that this violin is a true one-of-a-kind,” Corrado said while he continued to dismantle the instrument, “The pegs, fingerboard, saddle, and tailpiece were forged from the volcanic ash of Mount Etna. It’s a rare, and expensive process most violin makers tend to avoid. The volcanic ash adds an unrivaled level of elegance, as well as severely increases the value. The downside to using volcanic ash is that it has been known to be unreliable when it comes to longevity. Violin’s made from ash are usually destined for display, rather than use. Here, if you look closely, you can actually see faint streaks of gray mixed into the rich black. That’s the main indicator of volcanic ash, and there’s only one shop I know of in all of Sicily that uses volcanic ash in their violin production. The brand on the panel you’re both holding is the shop’s emblem.”

Rosalie and Garret both stared hard at the brand, and ran the tips of their fingers across the burnt edges of the tiny volcano.

“Where is the shop?” Garret asked.

Corrado reached his hand up into the hollow neck of the violin, removed the small cylinder object that’s been rattling around inside, and handed it to Rosalie.

“Adrano.”

Rosalie’s spine stiffened at the ominous coincidence as her brain tried to wrap itself around the evolving mystery.

Corrado continued to probe the depths of the hollow neck, and scoured every inch of the violin for any other secret compartments or etchings.

“Anything?” Garret asked.

“Nothing,” Corrado responded, placing the pieces of the violin onto the table, “Just that.”

Rosalie was relentlessly turning the five-inch brass cylinder, that oddly resembled a key, over in her hands trying. Desperately trying to make sense of its existence. There was an elevated groove in the center that rotated around the entire cylinder, making it appear to have two halves. She pulled, pushed, and twisted until her fingers flared with pain, but was unsuccessful at revealing its secrets.

“This has to mean something,” Rosalie said, “If the violin holds no more clues, then this object must be the reason for all of its murderous attention,” she paused, “It has to be.”

“May I?” Garret asked.

Remembering their mutual agreement of trust, Rosalie handed the brass key to the American. Garret examined it closely, then placed it down onto the table.

“There’s clearly two halves to this strange key,” Garret said while removing a single round from the magazine of his Colt pistol, “I don’t know if this is going to work. But it’s worth a shot.”

He unscrewed the cap from the casing, picked the cylindrical key up with his left hand, then poured the gunpowder from the bullet over the belly of the brass object. Ninety-eight percent of the gunpowder fell to the table in front of them, but the other two percent remained caught along the cylinder’s raised groove.

He motioned for Rosalie to hold the key, then used both of his hands, and breath, to remove the excess gunpowder from the table top. What he was about to do was risky, and extremely dangerous if handled improperly.

He plucked his matchbook from his coat’s chest pocket, placed it down onto the table, then reached for the cylinder.

Rosalie returned it to Garret as steadily as she could, making sure not to shake loose any of the gunpowder.

“What are you going to do?” Rosalie asked.

“When the flame touches the gunpowder, it will ignite. My hope is that the amount of gunpowder stuck within the groove will only weaken the outer casing of the cylinder enough to separate the two halves.”

“Absolutely not,” Rosalie said, “Whatever may be inside, if there is anything inside, we cannot risk damaging it.”

“Rosalie’s right,” Corrado added, “If you light that gunpowder, that thing will explode, and whatever is inside will be ruined.”

Garret knew that they were both right, and that igniting the gunpowder could indeed destroy anything hiding inside, but they had no other choice.

“What else do you suggest we do?” Garret said, “We all know that we can’t stay here for long. This area is crawling with lingering, and rogue German and Italian patrols. Which means we can no longer linger in the shadows, playing games. We need to pick up our pace, and get back into town. From there, I will acquire safe transport to Mount Etna.”

Rosalie knew Garret was right, and the look in her brother’s eyes told her that he knew the American was right as well. Because she knew they needed to get to the volcano. But where exactly, she had no clue. Her hope in finding out more pieces to her impossible puzzle hid within the stomach of the brass key.

“Trust,” Garret said softly, “Remember?”

Rosalie nodded, giving Garret the green light to proceed.

“The two of you may want to stand back a bit. There’s not enough gunpowder to cause any serious injury, but just as a precaution.”

Rosalie rose from the couch, and with a firm grip to the bicep, lifted Corrado from his cushion. They stepped back towards the threshold of the kitchen, and took visible cover within the narrow hallway Garret and Hale had entered through during their assault on the soldiers.

Garret stood from the couch, peeled back the cover of the matchbook, tore off two matches, then struck them against the strip of red phosphorus. They ignited with passion, snapping and crackling in the anxious silence as they began consuming themselves. Making sure to keep the flame held above the clean table surface, he knelt down on one knee and hovered the small fire over the brass key.

“Stop,” Rosalie shouted.

Startled, Garret hesitated and stood back from the table.

“This has to happen, Rosalie.”

“It will,” she said in stride, “By me.”

The flame had devoured the match, causing the final blue licks of fire to bite Garret’s fingertips. He shouted, and cursed under his breath while shaking and rubbing his burnt fingers.

Rosalie giggled at the young American paratrooper, then struck two more matches from the matchbook.

Garret took three large steps towards the hallway, and huddled beside Corrado who was also giggling at Garret’s childish injury. He wanted to whack the younger boy, or push him down to the floor and assert his dominance, yet instead he found himself also giggling at his untimely, self-inflicted wound. He smiled, then nudged his shoulder into Corrado’s with enough force to indicate that he was physically superior, and to not forget it.

Rosalie dangled the diminishing flame over the glowing brass cylinder while every traumatic memory from the last few days, and years, replayed in her mind. She saw the suffocating pile of rubble that buried Miceli on the side of the road. She saw the cold backs of her parents on the day they left home for Africa and never returned. She saw the twisted faces of the brutally tortured Milici brothers swaying in the breeze from their nooses. She saw Ulrich’s oval glasses flicker in the silver haze of cigarette smoke. She saw private Hale’s pale face the moment before she wrapped it with white cloth. She saw the priest’s bloody neck. Garret’s crippling absorption of loss, and Corrado’s ability to take another human being’s life.

Blending each one of her tremendous traumas together, Rosalie was able to unveil the singular solution to her dilating problem. It was the way to avenge the ones she had lost, and it was the route she needed to follow in order to save the ones still alive.

Forward.

Carefully placing the lit match next to the brass, cylindrical key, close enough for the flame to lick the gunpowder, she skidded backwards to a safer distance.

The harsh friction of her quick movements against the rug forced the key to roll. The flame instantly reacted with the gunpowder, snapping and hissing as they annihilated one another.

The explosion was small, yet it was blinding for Rosalie who was standing closer than the other two. All eyes immediately shifted their gaze towards the cylinder key on the table. It was smoking, and tiny embers were floating in the air around it, disintegrating to ash against the hot brass. Rosalie stepped forward and waved away the smoke to examine the damage.

“What in God’s name was that?” Father Burgio said, breathing heavily with a reddened face of concern, “Is everyone alright?”

“Everyone is fine, Father. Just a little bit of science,” Garret said, stepping out of the shadowy hallway.

“It sounded like a gunshot,” Burgio said.

“That’s because we used gunpowder,” Rosalie responded.

“To do what?” Burgio asked.

Holding up a finely rolled up piece of thin paper, Rosalie addressed her entire audience.

“To get this.”

“What the hell is that?” Garret asked.

Pushing past the older boy, Corrado rushed over to his sister’s side.

“What is it, Rosie?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

Needing more light, Rosalie took the paper into the kitchen. Corrado and the priest followed closely behind her while Garret examined the two brass halves on the table. Unsure if the brass casing had any further importance, specifically the end that looked like it fit into a very distinct lock, he shoved both pieces into his pant’s pocket before joining the others in the kitchen.

With all eyes on Rosalie, she gently unrolled the sheet of paper.

“What the hell,” Garret mumbled.

Not being musically inclined in any capacity, Garret, and Father Burgio were too ignorant to comprehend the layout and design of what they were looking at, so they remained quiet and hoped one of the siblings knew what the odd shapes and symbols meant.

Corrado snatched the paper from Rosalie’s fingers, and studied it with wide eyes.

“What’s wrong Corrado? What is that? What are those weird phrases?”Rosalie asked.

Father Burgio leaned in closer, squinting his eyes at the piece of paper.

“Ah. Latin,” he said, leaning back, “I do believe I can be of some assistance with the translation, my son.”

Feeling left out of the loop, Garret asserted himself into the mix.

“Can someone tell me what the hell is on this piece of paper?”

“It’s a song,” Corrado said in awe, “It’s my song.”