“THE VIOLIN THIEF” a sweet story about unexpected mercy and justice by Joseph Auslander and Audrey Wurdemann
The third story in our special series—DAYS OF MAGICAL and MIRACULOUS CHRISTMAS STORIES…one great story every day from now until Christmas! WITH Audible Podcast narrated by Chinmayan for you!
Selected, edited and published by Chinmayan…May your Christmas be bright, loving and full of kindness and miracles of every kind as these magical stories for you and your family and everyone on earth!
All images in this story courtesy of Pixabay
ANNOUNCING A SPECIAL SERIES OF “CHILD PEACE STORIES”TO CELEBRATE THE LOVING HEART OF THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
To celebrate this Christmas Holiday season,
we are launching a special series of magical and miraculous stories
That are perfect for READING ALOUD to children of all ages
With the publishing of 22 “Child Peace” stories, one for
Each day from now until Christmas Day.
I have been collecting these stories for a long time…
all from different authors, and different times…
All stories you probably have never heard of
But which are well written, powerfully heart opening and
Inspiring stories that will move you to tears….
These special stories about amazing acts of kindness,
Caring, compassion and Love have been carefully chosen
And edited by me to help you get into the Christmas spirit…
This series of mind blowingly good stories is our
Christmas Gift to our wonderful community of readers,
Subscribers and supporters and everyone who discovers them
Here in our newsletter and labor of Love “The Dawning Light”….
During these crazy and tormented times, and with all the
Fears and uncertainties about what our future will be like,
I feel it is vitally important to tap into the true meaning
And purpose of Christmas which to my mind and heart
Always is, always has been and always will be to open
Our hearts to share Love, Caring and compassion in
Daily life now and in all the days of change and challenge ahead!
A Wonderful story in our special series…DAYS OF MAGICAL and MIRACULOUS READ ALOUD CHRISTMAS STORIES for children of all ages…
The third story in our special series…
One great story everyday from now until Christmas Day!
THE VIOLIN THIEF
By Joseh Auslander and Audrey Wurdemann
It was a day or two before Christmas.
Like all courtrooms, this one smelled of disinfectant and too much steam heat.
A few scant rays of pale winter sunshine, struggling in a watery rise through the high dirty windows, dulled the unshed electric lights to whitish blurs.
Spectators were few. The docket didn’t look exciting.
The accused little man stood before the golden oak bar of justice.
He was an old man; they had allowed him the dignity of keeping his hat, but the big blue –coated policeman stood close behind him as the accuser spoke.
“All kinds of people come to my place.” The plaintiff was saying. “You’d be surprised. Your honor ...bums, actors out of work, women from over on Park Avenue, too, sometimes.
When this little guy comes in, he looks respectable, see?
So, when he asks to see the violin, I take it out of the window and hand it to him to look at.
If he’d asked to see a watch or a ring, no matter how respectable he looked, I’d keep my eye on him like an eagle.
But a fiddle! I turn my back for a second, he’s run halfway down the block. You wouldn’t think he had the nerve!”
The violin lay on a table before the bench; the pale winter night tangled with its amber lacquer.
“Seventy-five dollars, Your Honor,” said the pawn broker. “I wouldn’t have let it go for a cent less. And this old goof, he thinks he can run out with it for nothing.”
The judge, a fat, tired man, nodded wearily. “Did you tell him the price?”
“Sure, I told him. And he said he didn’t have it, but maybe he could buy it on time.
And I told him five dollars down and a dollar a week, but he said he didn’t have the five.”
The judge glanced at the waiting cop. “Suppose we hear from you now.”
“It’s like he said, your honor,” the blue coated policeman stated flatly. “I was just rounding the corner when this little character ran into me.
I hear a lot of hooting and hollering where he came from, so I hung onto him.
Then up comes Sol, here, who’s had his shop on that same block for twenty years.
And up come five or six other people who see the guy running out of Sol’s place with the fiddle.”
The big cop looked down at the little man.
“One thing I’ll say about it, he doesn’t make any trouble coming to the station. Only I have a real job getting him to let loose of the fiddle.”
“Well,” said the judge, “and what have you got to say about all this?”
The little old man lifted his head; the judge saw that his eyes were a cloudy blue soft as a child’s.
“Sir Magistrate, I don’t speak English so much, so maybe I can’t explain, I pay, sure I pay, someday, but I can’t pay now. This all I got.”
He held up two fingers. “Two dollars I pay. Not five. But here I am lonesome for the violin, and her.”
He put his hand over his heart and then at his neck, cocking his head as though his chin rested on a fiddle, “And here.”
He held out his hands, and though they were gnarled and twisted you could see that they might once have been the supple hands of an artist.
“I understand, Sir Magistrate. I Pay, I want to pay, I don’t know what came over me. I went crazy for a minute when I had the violin in my hands. I pay, little by little I pay up. But I need the violin now.
Before I die. I die soon, without the music.”
“Suppose you tell the court why you need the music so badly,” said the judge, his eyes on the lozenges of light hovering over the violin on the table.
“Because I am a musician!” that old man drew himself up proudly. “Year in, year out, in Prague and then in Vienna I am a musician in the orchestra.
First, I am a third violin, then second, then first.
I play in the Theatre twenty years, in the summer for people who sit under trees, in the winter for skaters.
Oh, how they waltzed on their skates to our music.
But then the enemy invader came and took over our country.
And he broke our violins over our heads because we would not play the propaganda songs they demanded and they took us away.” He shivered. “I was away five years.”
“You mean you were in a concentration camp?” asked the judge.
“Camp. . . salt mines. . . mills. . . camp again after I get too sick to work.” The little man looked at his hands. “I don’t know if I can play anymore. . . so good. But here . . . in my heart. . . it will still sing.”
“And what do you do now?”
“I have job. I sweep out, sometimes I wash dishes. Busboy, they call me. In cafeteria . . .After I come back after the war . . from being away nobody was left.
My wife, my son, my friends, all gone. So, my brother in America sends for me and I come here on an old ocean liner.
But he’s poor, big family, so I don’t ask him to buy me violin. I buy myself, only little by little, but I die without.”
“Let me see that fiddle,” the judge reached across the bench; the cop handed it up to him, carefully he turned it in his hands, unfastened the bow which was attached to one of the pegs by a rubber band.
After a moment he tucked the instrument under his chin.
Curved his hand around the finger board and twanged the strings gently, But he did not lift the bow.
“Sir Magistrate,” said the little man,” do you know what it means to be without music? It is as if they take away my soul.”
The judge picked up the bow, held it for a moment on the strings and then laid it down.
“Oh please,” said the little man. “I must have the music. If I had the violin I can breathe again.
“What do you want for the instrument?” His fingers were softly plucking the strings.
“Seventy-five dollars, Your Honor.”
“Seventy-five dollars . . . to breathe again.”
Then silence fell in the courtroom and resounded through the fading light; the handful of people in the back of the room stared first at the judge and then at each other.
“Case dismissed,” said the judge. He reached into his trousers pocket. “I think we can fix up a way for you to have the violin. Five dollars down; Here’s five.”
He reached toward the pawn broker with the money and said, “I will stand behind this man’s guarantee to pay you the balance.”
The cop fished in his own pocket and came up with a five-dollar bill. “I must be the Irish in me,” he said, shaking his head.”
From the back of the room two men came up the aisle to the bench. “We’re witnesses on another case,” one of them said. “How about letting us in on the deal?”
Others struggled down the aisles.
The little man tried to speak; choked; he could not be heard above the clamor. The judge rapped for order.
And above the clamor the little man found his voice. He turned his hip around as he spoke.
“No, Sir Magistrate,” he said. “I hope you will understand. It is hard to talk now. I am filled up, here, in my heart so much that it hurts.”
He pointed to his throat. “How can I take so much. . . take the violin this way.
I know what you try to do for me here, Judge, Sir Magistrate, how can I fix it up with him?”
He pointed to the pawn broker. “So, he knows I do not steal. . .Please, Sir Judge. . .I. . .What happens today squeezes in my heart.”
The judge looked at the pawn broker. “How much have you got there?”
The pawn broker regarded the grimy bills in his hands. He counted them slowly. “Twenty-nine dollars and thirty-five cents.
Your Honor, but that’s okay by me,” he said, “Seeing as he’s a musician, I’ll make it my professional rate, thirty dollars. . .with the bow thrown in.”
The little man bowed, “A professional rate, yea, that I understand. Always In Europe the shops made rates for the artists. But these people who have paid for me. . .”
And, there, in that court, on a pale winter afternoon a day or two before Christmas, the little man with twisted, gnarled hands took the fiddle lovingly and reverently, as though he took up the pillow upon which rests the Holy Grail, and after a moment he tucked it under his chin, and twanged the strings into tune, and the room was filled with the simple heart searching magic of “Silent Night, Holy Night.”
After he finished, the judge glanced around the room. “Anybody who thinks he’s guilty enough to spend Christmas in jail can stay and be sentenced,” he said gruffly.
“Otherwise, you all clear out. I’m remanding every arrest in this room till after New Year’s and then I want you back here, and if you don’t come in and police have to go hunting for you, I’ll crack down hard.
And you. . .” He pointed to the little man. “You’re coming home to dinner with me and my family and afterwards, maybe you’ll play for me. I could use a little music.”
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