Horse hair slid across the strings, streaming decadent tune into the
room. Speaking ceases as he begins his song. At first the slow notes are
somber and sweet. He quickens the pace of his playing, and the instrument
is now blaring beautiful polkas. The others begin to dance with each other.
Even as the others polka around the room, thoughts swim in his ever-
stirring ocean of a mind.
The song fades out, and the bow glides off of the strings. The others
clap. A quick grin is expressed, and soon his face fades into a pale
reminder of the current events. The others begin to talk again, and he
walks into the kitchen. A single ripe apple remains in the fruit bowl, and
he is tempted to take it. Yet, others are in the room, and he knows of
their future. He knows that the tyrant is coming, and that none of the
people alive today are safe. This has to be done, and I am the one to do
it. He steps into the same room again. The room that once housed beautiful
music now houses those who may not ever hear it again.
"I have some.important news," his quivering voice begins, "it's.he's
coming. He's coming to Amsterdam. We have to keep away. We have to take
shelter. We have to hide out."
The women in the room gasp a light scream of shock. His throat
wrenches as he hated to have said anything; He still reminds himself that
he may be saving them. The prospect of losing everything still pits in his
"Is this true, Volker?"
"Aye, we only have until tomorrow morning. I've taken the liberty of
setting us up in an old apartment building."
He knew that it wouldn't sink in. All of those present had heard of
the tyrant's actions in other parts of the country, and yet they never
anticipated that would happen in their cozy abode in Amsterdam.
"What.when? This is all so sudden!"
"I understand, Mr. Gies, but it has to be done. We aren't safe here
any longer. We have another six hours until he arrives."
"I knew it.I just knew it. I thought.oh, well," a large older woman
said as she stood up, "You arranged us a safe place. Now take us there."
"Collect your necessities. Meet me at the crossroads of Brandkast and
"I will go and warn my daughter," Mr. Gies said, "She knows another
"The Franks?" the large woman said as she gathered her knitting.
"Yes, Sophie, the Franks."
The Violinist packed up his instrument, and a few belongings, into a
small knapsack, and stood for a second. He knew they were going to make it.
We will do fine. Yet, a deep feeling told him that something would go
wrong. No, I mustn't worry myself. The worries still tickled his mind.
He went across the hall to his apartment to gather his belongings. In
the hallway, though, he felt a rush of cool air. The Northern Breeze was
blowing into Amsterdam, a time for relaxation. It was a comforting wind,
yet he found no way to make it comfortable for him.
His belongings were packed. They were very few. Amsterdam wasn't a
welcoming place for a musician. Crowds of people would gather to catch the
sweet sounds, but it wasn't a sustainable pay. He decided to take his small
family scrapbook. It was his remaining possession of the family itself. He
felt the emptyness of them being gone, but he still focused on his
'mission'. He glanced to the right side of the picture; a happy old woman
stood in mid-laughter. He remembered her; he remembered her smell, her
voice, and her song.
and roses remember
One simple word
for you, Volker
Love, for you
Love, for all
Love from me
Love from you
Cherish your heart
faith in God
and roses remember
Her soulful voice rang in his head as he remembered her extending
each note as she tucked him into bed at night. Oh, Gramama, what happened
to us? He knew she would be disappointed seeing the world's state. He was
glad she was gone; he didn't want her to witness it anyway.
He packed the photo into his knapsack, along with some other family
photographs and a few documents that he had managed to save over the many
years he had spent alone. He took a last look at his apartment, and made
way out of the door. He slowly walked down the hall, increasing speed. He
simply wanted to get to the safe haven, and not have to worry any longer.
Outside, he found a somber avenue of Amsterdam. He was the lone person
walking down the sidewalk. It was merely two blocks walking distance to
where they had planned to stay, yet it felt like a mile. It was an
agonizingly long distance. He breathlessly arrived at the corner building.
It was somewhat run down, but he knew it would do.
The Loft was cozier than he had thought it was going to be. There
were 4 small rooms, enough space for everyone. The building inspector was a
friend of his, and he gave him the favor of giving the building a
"Condemned" tag, to ward off any curious people. He set his things in the
smallest room, which could become a somewhat livable bedroom. He sat and
waited for the others to arrive. After an hour's time, the mass of seven
people knocked on the door.
"Volker, here we are."
"Aye" he hollered, soon realizing to be quiet. He welcomed them in.
"Here is our new abode."
"I expected this to be a run down old flat, yet it appears to be a
nicer place than that. Thank you, Mr. Meyer, you've chosen us a nice home."
"Mr. Gies, have you warned your daughter?"
"Yes, she had the Franks set themselves up in the upstairs of Otto's
"Good choice. Well, I guess we just wait."
They sat on the couch and thought. They were lost here indefinitely.
Volker knew he had to make something to cheer them up. He untied his violin
from its case, prepared himself, and began playing a slow song. It was a
slow dance style. Of the eight people in the small flat, three were older
and bonded couples. Each slowly arose from the couch, and started slow
dancing. The violin sang its beautiful song, and quickened. The pace faded
from a slow waltz to a quick jig, and soon everyone was dancing. They
bounded around the room happily. Suddenly it stopped as the Violinist
stared out of the window.
"What's the matter?" Mr. Gies inquired.
It happened quickly. He didn't expect it to. He heard the voices. The
voices increased in volume. The reason they were hiding were present at the
time. The Violinist set his instrument on the table, sat on the couch and
sighed. It was far too soon.
And they were already at the door.
Author note: I tried a few new devices in this story, so I left it short
and sweet (