Prologue
Dearest Voice,
I love playing my harmonica while my family sings. Yes, the songs they sing are sad, but when I play the harmonica, I have a voice. I can join in on their song. I have a part. It has a function, too. My family's song helps sell the stuff in mother's wagon. Every time someone buys something, it's because of the singing. When someone buys a bullet, it's because my brother Eilif's singing orders them to. When a customer buys a slab of cheese, I believe it's because of the deep voice of my brother Feyos, warning them that it will curdle if they don't buy it. The belts and pans echo like my mother's metallic voice. I like to think that my harmonica brings the customers to us. I love the feeling of my breath forcing extra notes through the harmonica when the wagon rides over a bump or hole in the dirt. Sometimes, Voice, I pretend that the breaths in my harmonica are the last breaths of the dead soldiers. Then my harmonica has more of a purpose. It's like I'm a soldier. Imagine – me! A soldier! Mother would never allow it. Mother probably wouldn't allow Eilif to become a soldier either. She needs us to sing the songs. She needs my brothers to pull the cart and she needs me to play my harmonica.
