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The Chain

The tracks near the apartment building had been quiet for years. The shoe factory in that part of Warsaw had closed as the Depression spread, and nothing took its place so the railroad had suspended its freight runs. That day the gypsy had finished his violin lesson with the boy. It had been three years and he had taught him all he knew and had given him all he was. He had shown Dabo how to feel the sound in everything around him, how to sand away the silence and begin to speak for it. He taught him to be truthful and unafraid of being hurt by what he felt in the truth. “You must reach into the worry and past the fear in your heart. Memorize it, then banish it forever. How will you ever be able to speak for others if you have not felt the wound yourself?” That day in early autumn the old man closed his eyes and listened to the boy play. “Put that down for now. Come and sit with me.” The boy stood still then stepped closer and sat beside his teacher. "You have learned all I can teach you about tone and sound but there is something else. Something you can’t reach with just your fingers and your ear. You must be willing to step into it, the sharp part, the struggle beneath the sound,” the gypsy said. “It’s only there, underneath, that you will find what you seek.” The boy’s eyes grew wide and his fingers curled around the fiddle’s neck. “I don't know why... only that it is," the old man said. He turned to the boy and spoke from the center of himself and all he had come to know. "Beauty is chained to loss. And to fear,” the old man said. “And once you understand that, you will see . . .” He closed his eyes and his voice shook. “You will see that loss is inevitable." He turned to the boy, "but defeat is not.” Then running his fingers through his thinning gray hair he whispered, “But you must learn to rattle your chains before you can break them.” “Teacher” the boy said. “I don’t understand.” The old man looked away. “It takes strength to free it . . . beauty . . . and I am no longer strong enough. The dark in the strings has become too heavy for my heart. I can no longer break its chain.” Dabo touched his teacher’s arm. “I have grown old and tired and I cannot hear its voice so clear anymore. Once I was free but my heart has grown fearful. And all I can do is rattle the chains.” Then turning away the old gypsy said, “Leave me now. Come again tomorrow. Leave me.” And outside on the dim stairway Dabo stood alone trying to understand what courage would be demanded of him. Then he whispered a prayer. “Let me be strong. Strong enough to rattle the chains. So that someday I may break them.” WLM

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