Transcript

Echoes from the Square author: Elizabeth Wellburn

publication date: 1998, Rubicon, Oakville, Ontario, Canada

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Not too long ago, this was a beautiful place. Magnificent buildings stood around the cobblestone square. They had been there for hundreds of years. Trees lent their shade over benches placed by the streets. All around the square, pots brimmed over with colourful flowers. Everything was well-tended and loved.

A boy named Alen used to pass through his square every day with his friends. Alen liked to listen to the rhythm of footsteps and bicycle wheels clattering over the stones. In the background the murmur of people laughing and talking was gently muffled by the breeze and the birds singing in the trees. The air smelled clean. Alen loved coming to the square.

After school, Alen and his friends often stopped to buy cakes and pastries from a bakery nearby. While the other children lingered to play, Alen usually hurried off on his bicycle to a music class or rehearsal

Not too long ago, this was a safe place. People greeted each other with smiles and exchanged stories and laughed together. Children darted about, busy with their games.

Then a day came when grown-ups whispered about wars beginning in nearby cities. With worried looks they said, “It could never happen here.: When they first heard the rumours, Alen’s friends thought a war might be exciting. But Alen wondered if he could be brave if it ever happened. He cringed when his friends laughed and said, “You’ll probably hide away somewhere with your violin and miss everything.”

Now the war has come, and Alen knows there is nothing exciting about it. Only horror and destruction.

Everything has changed. A cloak of darkness smothers the city. Bombs and bullets fall like rain. Faces show the fearful expression of those who must listen for every sound and watch around every corner.

Around the square, many buildings are in ruins. Every day yet another pile of rubble appears where a building used to stand. Trees have been cut down for firewood, the birds have flown away, and no flowers are to be seen. When Alen comes here, he almost chokes from the evil-smelling smoke that never goes away. Even his bicycle has been destroyed.

It has been months since Alen has seen most of his friends. Some, he knows, have been injured or killed. Many have left the city. Schools are closed so children continue their lessons in shelters.

Each night in his cellar, Alen practises the violin. Sometimes his father sits with him and listens. Alen’s parents work long hours at the hospital, and when they return they are weary and sad.

Alen wishes he could stay indoors, but there is no choice.

Every day, he must go outside to stand in line for water and carry it all the way home. If he doesn’t do this, his family will have no water to drink or to use for washing.

Alen’s heart pounds loudly with fear as he waits. When he is finally able to leave he can barely hear the beat of his own footsteps agains the blasts of explosions and shootings.

Every step requires great caution. For just yesterday, there had been a devasting bomb explosion nearby. Alen’s heart is gripped in terror. He longs to move faster, to get home quickly, but there is rubble under his feet, his legs tremble, and he is weighed down by the heavy bottles of water.

Suddenly, he is started by a sound, at first terrifying, and then strangely familiar. Could someone really be tuning a cello…. Here…. Now?

Alen turns the corner and is astonished. A man is sitting in a chair in the middle of the street calmly preparing to play a cello that he has unpacked from a worn looking case. Alen shakes his head in disbelief.

“Who is that man?” What is he up to?” he wonders as he hurries off, having been warned never to loiter here.

The music rises up as Alen leaves, and he realizes that the stranger is a great musician. People appear in doorways and and windows and watch in amazement.

For the first time in months, Alen walks past ruined buildings without thinking about bombs and snipers. Instead, his thoughts are with the cellist, and he wonders again, “Why is he making music in the street?”

Every day after that, Alen hurries through the square after fetching the water, wondering if he will see the cellist again.

Day after day, the man is in the square and his music soars above the broken cobblestones, touching the people who gather to listen.

Alen lingers for a few seconds longer each day. He knows he has to hurry on, but he is unable to pull himself away.

Alen can’t stop looking at the cellist’s face. The man’s eyes are nearly closed, but Alen senses that he is seeing many things as he plays. People have gathered around to listen, and they hold each other and cry. Music fills their hearts and reminds them all of happier days. It stirs in them the hope that these forlorn times can pass.

One day, Alen stops and listens until the man has played the entire piece of music. He has forgotten to be afraid.

Walking home, Alen imagines the music as vividly as if the cellist was still playing beside him. He remembers a cherry tree laden with fruit that is nearly ready to pick, and he comes up with an idea.

Three weeks after the musician first appeared, Alen’s father comes home early from work. Alen says to his father, “Papa, please come with me for the water today. I want you to meet the cellist I have been talking about.” After filling the bottles, Alen and his father walk to the square and listen until the cellist stops playing.

Then Alen’s father approaches the cellist and says, “My son and I have enjoyed your music. Alen plays the violin and he wants to become a musician like you. We do not have much to offer, but we would like you to share a meal with us at our home.”

In another time and place it might seem unusual to invite a stranger into your home, but a war can change many things.

“My name is Vedran,” the man says. “I would be very happy to join you. Thank you.”

They eat in the cellar, the safest place. It is a simple meal of homemade bread, lentil soup, and water.

Alen has picked enough cherries to fill the largest bowl. The bright red fruits are sweet and juicy.

After the meal, Vedran looks up and begins to speak.

“Nothing starts with the present you know, Alen. The music I have been playing in the street these past weeks came from a man who lived long ago. His name was Albinoni and he wrote hundreds of beautiful pieces. Sadly, much of his music is gone because the only copies were kept in buildings that have been destroyed by wars.

After one terrible war, a small fragment of a music script was found amongst broken stones and dust.”

“Was it Albinoni’s music?” Alen asks.

“Perhaps,” says Vedran, “we’ll never know for sure.”

Then he continues, “Only someone who loved the good things from the past could have dreamed of creating a whole piece of music from that simple scrap containing just a few notes. A man named Giazotto had this dream. He rebuilt Albinoni’s music and created the beautiful “Adagio” that you have heard me play for the past 22 days.”

Vedran’s voice now drops to a near whisper, every word is almost a sigh.

Next to my house was the bakery. You probably remember the days before the war, when the bakery was full of many types of bread and rolls, cookies and cakes… it was not too long ago.

It was morning, 23 days ago. By the bakery a long queue of people waited patiently and with dignity for a truck that would bring them bread. They waited for hours. They waited until late afternoon. Then suddenly, there was a terrible explosion. A shell had exploded, just steps away form them. In the first instant there was utter silence… shock… and then chaos!… Fearful screams, yelling, shouting, blood…. People lay about… dead and wounded. From my home, I heard the cries for help. I dashed out and saw… intermingled masses of bodies… blood everywhere. Everyone was in shock. Some ran away, agony on their faces… some ran towards the massacre, trying to help the wounded. Then cars arrived with rescuers… to help those who were injured.

Can you imagine Alen, even some rescuers were hit by sniper fire. Finally all the wounded people had been helped and the dead people taken away. Twenty two people were killed in the blast.

As if coming back from a distant place, Vedran’s voice slowly returns to normal.

“The whole town was filled with pain. I didn’t sleep that night, wondering why this had happened to these innocent people. My good neighbours and friends.

The next morning, I went out to look again… the area was adorned with flowers and wreaths. I had brought my cello, but I didn’t know what to play. Tears just slid down my cheeks as I thought about the people who had died. I opened the cello case and somehow… something guided me to begin playing. Part way through, I recognized what I was playing -- Albinoni’s “Adagio”. It had emerged as my musical prayer for peace.

When I finished I noticed that people had stopped to listen and cry with me. As I talked with them I realized that this healing music helped us all to feel better. It provided us with hope.

That was when I decided to play the same piece at the same place each day as a dedication to the 22 people who were killed in the bread queue. Today was my last day.

Then as if answering Alen’s unasked questions, Vedran continues to speak. “I was afraid. I am still afraid. Everyone who’s sane is afraid when there are bullets and shells in the air. But when I play, the darkness is lifted and I am able to show the world my other feelings.

Music is love that connects people.

My wish is for everybody to be able to share this.

Now Alen imagines a time when all the fear and grief will be over and rebuilding will begin. He picks up his violin and plays his favourite music, which echoes in the cellar. His eyes are nearly closed, but he sees many beautiful things.

When he finishes, he looks up at the smiling faces of his family and his new friend, Vedran.

They are sharing a dream and they know that one day music will be played again in this city, in peace and perfect harmony.