Stradivarius

Donald P. Ladew

Description

An inspirational story of love and the transforming power of music, Stradivarius is a novel that will engage and delight everyone who believes that wonderful things can happen to good people.

On the Korean peninsula during the freezing winter of 1951, a wounded American soldier finds a rare violin in the wall of a farmhouse where he has taken refuge. This is the beautifully told story of how a centuries old Stradivarius came to be in that unlikely place and how it changed the life of all those who possessed it. For this great instrument carries a kind of magic and all who use it are wrapped in its spell.

This is also the story of two families from different cultures and different parts of the world: one rural, Baptist, Southern; the other, sophisticated, European, Jewish. The link between them is an abiding love of great music, possession of the violin, and the boy genius from the mountains of West Virginia, Ailey Barkwood.

The remarkable route by which the violin reaches Ailey's talented hands, the course of love between two special but very different young people, and how great music, real genius and moral choices can alter destiny are the ingredients that make Donald Ladew's tale a novel that can be read,reread and remembered.

Sujets

• Musique
• Culture musicale
• Music
• Classical
• Genres
• Styles

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 31 juillet 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456603014
• Langue: English

Extrait

STRADIVARIUS
 
 
A Novel
by
Donald P. Ladew
 


Stradivarius
 
Copyright © 2011 Donald P. Ladew
All rights reserved. No part of this book
May be reproduced or transmitted in any
Form or by any means without written
Permission of the author.
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0301-4
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 


 
 
 

This book is dedicated to my Mother, Harriet Glendine MacElwee Ladew

 
PRELUDE
THE NORTHERN ITALIAN TOWN OF CREMONA - FALL 1685
The Maestro slid back from his bench and stretched. He pushed his cloak away from his face and ran callused fingers through thick coal-black hair. The afternoon sun washed the medieval town of Cremona with crimson and orange. It poured through the two arched windows on the west side of an ancient tower built by invading armies from the north. In the distance the river Po turned gold. The autumn sun brought little warmth to the Maestro’s hands.
The tower wasn’t really a tower, but in Cremona where buildings were stacked so close one could have leapt from one to the other, it stood apart. In the vaulted room the slowly shifting beams of light changed from rose to amber: lucent, liquid, filled with fine particles of wood that swirled in the afternoon air.
This was a supreme moment. There had been other such moments, each unique.
The Maestro picked up the violin and smiled. The wood, so intimately his, was true. He had endowed it with his art, his skill, his love. Now the result, many times magnified, flowed back to his callused hands.
He tucked it between shoulder and chin, took it away, repeated the movement, pleased with it.
Around the shop master carvers, artisans, apprentices, stopped their efforts and held their breath. Antonius Stradivarius, the Maestro of Cremona, picked up a bow, touched the horsehair with amber-colored resin, put it back down.
The drama of the moment reached every corner of the room. With birth there is always anticipation, hope and magic. No Italian with an ounce of passion could allow such a moment to pass unmarked.
He plucked each string in turn. The four liquid notes hung in the air, reverberating as though cast from the most perfect bell. They sang with extraordinary power.
He picked up the bow again and held it over the strings. He paused, let his eyes scan the shop. Here his friends, his men of genius, transformed wood into instruments whose voices were alike unto the voices of saints.
He closed his eyes and brought the bow close to the strings. The Maestro chose a simple, country song: lush, romantic, melodic. As he played, he smiled, his worn face beautiful to behold.
The power of the instrument reached beyond anything he’d ever created. The violin’s voice filled the space effortlessly. When the song ended every man and boy let out a sigh, then stood as one and cheered.
The Maestro bowed. A look of surprise covered his face. He could not believe he had created such a wondrous thing.
“My friends, I shall name this one...Hercules.”
 
Chapter 1
SOUTH KOREA, FEBRUARY 1951
A relentless, gray-brown world. Aching cold, a cruel wind driving clouds of debris across the landscape. War in winter: a hard-rock, vicious war; paranoid, xenophobic, wasteful, mean.
There was no relief from one broken horizon to the other. Not one leaf, not one full standing tree.
Amid a barrage of artillery and mortar fire, Master Sergeant Martin Luther Cole stumbled out of the trench that zigzagged down the south ridge of hill 406. It was one o’clock in the afternoon.
Luther had slept four hours in the last thirty six. During the hours he was awake waves of Chinese and North Korean soldiers battered the narrow ridge. By one o’clock in the afternoon he commanded the remnants of two companies. Every officer and senior NCO had been killed or wounded.
Of the twenty seven men he trained and brought to Korea, the last, private Rodriguez, had been killed in hand-to-hand combat an hour before.
He searched the length of the trench for one, just one of his men that he could help. A dozen times he carried men to safety, only to have them killed in the next assault.
That was what he was supposed to do. He had failed.
The explosion was so close, he couldn’t hear it. It blew him to his hands and knees amidst a hailstorm of earth and stones. He tried to think. He tried to remember his name and could not. He sensed force, felt pain. Not minor pain, not bruises or scratches, not even the bayonet wounds on his arms.
A hole went in the front of his shoulder and out through the large bone in the back. It burned with a terrible heat.
Luther trembled like an animal beaten beyond understanding. His eyes locked onto his right wrist. He tried to comprehend what he saw. A three-inch wound filled with congealing blood in the shape of a half circle on both sides of his wrist.
Teeth marks! He remembered. A Chinese soldier clung to him, clawing and biting until Luther, howling like a rabid dog, strangled the man with a length of barbed wire.
He should do something; act, move, but he couldn’t force his body to respond. Awareness had been compressed, pounded, beaten inward. The spirit that was Martin Luther Cole was blind, hidden behind a wall of reality as dense as the center of a star.
An enormous explosion, preceded by a giant, metal-tearing screech, ripped into the hill top, and Luther, still kneeling, was thrown backward off the hill, down the steep rear-facing slope.
He rolled and tumbled away, a helpless mote on the surface of an insignificant planet, itself a fleck of dust in the eye of God. At the bottom of the hill he staggered to his feet.
The explosion and fall down the hillside added no more than bruises to a litany of harsher wounds. And as if his flight down the hill were a step on an incomplete journey to oblivion, he rose and stumbled away to the south.
His knees buckled and unlocked. Still he trudged onward, gaze fixed on the ground. All that was left was movement and a dull awareness of the body.
The sun, dim in a flat pewter sky, shifted from above his head to the horizon. He stopped. Something opened a narrow vent into his world. His head came up. He looked around slowly.
He stood in a bowl between low hills. To one side were twenty acres of rice fields, deserted, dry, the dikes crumbling like a Persian ruin. Beyond the paddy a small farmhouse, its once-whitewashed walls blackened and shattered by a direct hit from artillery fire, blended into the dun-colored landscape. The front room still stood.
Luther sensed rain. He stumbled toward the farmhouse, a burned-out farmer-turned-soldier, in a burned-out land.
He walked around the building, rifle ready. Somehow he’d held onto it through the madness of the past three days. In the rear he found a well filled with water, clear, and sweet.
Inside the farmhouse were the remnants of two rooms, every piece of furniture gone, all evidence of former life vanished. Although the front room was intact, the rear wall of the back room had a large hole from a few feet above the dirt floor to the roof line. The broken roof sagged and chunks of shrapnel jutted from the mud and plaster walls.
Luther salvaged wood from the fallen ceiling and built a fire in the middle of the front room. Over it he hung a square tin filled with water. As the water heated, he removed his clothing inch by agonizing inch down to bare skin. His large, spare body was surprising white against the purple-black streamers of dried blood.
From his knapsack he removed a worn brick of army soap and washed slowly, carefully. He barely noticed the scalding water as he cleansed his wrist.
This was Luther’s second war. He’d learned to survive in the first. Routine is good: routine plus pain prevents thought, and Luther did not want to think. He washed his wounds, under his arms, his crotch, his feet, and between his toes carefully. He was as patient and thorough as a cat.
From his pack he removed bandages, and where he could reach, sprinkled penicillin powder before taping the field dressings in place. At times the pain caused him to cry out. It didn’t occur to him to use the morphine syrette in his pack. War is supposed to hurt. It wasn’t a game, never was. The hole in his shoulder burned. It gnawed impatiently at his strength.
From his pack he took khaki shorts, socks, T-shirt, trousers, and dressed. He would wash clothes the next day. Martin Luther Cole was an orderly man. He heated a can of K-rations and ate, chewing each mouthful carefully before swallowing.
Still, he did not think, attempt to understand. He was where he was. He was alive. He could move. It was enough.
In the distance, at every point of the compass, the war muttered and snarled, Old Testament cruel, but did not approach his sanctuary.
Darkness came. He didn’t notice. He made coffee and sipped slowly. The fire died. Using strips of reed blasted from the walls, he built a shelter in the corner of the room.
He gathered his gear and dragged it within. He crawled inside, curled up in his poncho and slept.
Two hours later a North Korean patrol moved past the farmhouse. One soldier, a sergeant like Luther, slipped into the ruined building and carefully shone a flashlight around the interior. He didn’t smell the foreign odors, and seeing nothing but debris, hurriedly rejoined his squad.
An hour later a fierce fire fight flared several miles to the south. Not long after, the North Korean Sergeant stumbled by Luther’s hideout, headed north. He carried one man, terribly wounded. It was what he was supposed to do. Minutes behind the North Korean soldier and his wounded burden, a column of American soldiers roared by, headed for the ridge Luther had been forced to abandon. In his cave Luther did not move.
At dawn, Luther’s eyes, thick with an unhealthy residue, opened a fraction at a time. The accumulated injuries hit him all over and he jerked upward with pain. He tried