Ce qu'on ne peut dire et ce qu'on ne peut taire, la musique l'exprime.
Music expresses that which cannot be said, and on which it is impossible to be silent.
Victor Hugo (1864)
Now all my singing Dreams are gone,
But none knows where they have fled
Nor by what trails they have left me.
Return, O Dreams of my heart,
And sing in the Summer twilight,
By the creek and the almond thicket
And the field that is bordered with lupins!
Now is my refuge to seek
In the hollow of friendly shoulders,
Since the singing has stopped in my pulse
And the earth and the sky refuse me;
Now must I hold by eyes of a friend
When the high white stars are unfriendly.
Over-sweet is the refuge for trusting;
Return and sing, O my Dreams,
In the dewy and palpitant pastures,
Till the love of living awakes
And the strength of the hills uphold me.
Paiute Song in the Time of Depression*
Jamestown-Sonora Road, November 1874
"Did they ride on up the road? I can't see them anymore," John said, sounding worried. He stood in his stirrups as he scanned the rising and falling terrain ahead of them.
Heath did the same, then sat back and clucked Charger and Tumbleweed to a quicker pace. "Think so. Wouldn't surprise me. Rivka at least has more sense than Audra when it comes to knowing who's dangerous and who isn't." He paused, considering. "Though she's still a bit too brave sometimes for my comfort. Some of the neighborhoods and situations she's gone into in San Francisco sound pretty scary to me. Those lady doctors at her hospital take care of the poorest, most desperate people in the city."
"Hope you're right – I wish they'd waited," John muttered. He was acutely aware, in that moment, of the weight of the responsibility he bore shepherding these three youngsters through what was still wild and unpredictable territory. Three children – Victoria's, Hadassah's, and yes, his own, now. That awareness was accompanied by a metallic taste of fear that he knew was uncharacteristic for him, and he made note of it even as he ordered himself to steady down and pay attention.
He felt a flood of relief (and made note of that, too) as they approached the place where they had last seen the women and could hear sounds of laughter and animated conversation. He and Heath shared a quick – relieved – smile as they crested the rise and descended toward the wagon not far ahead. The peddler was evidently already setting up camp for the night, having parked his wagon off the road on a pleasant flat space beside a small running creek. Audra and Rivka had both dismounted, and Rivka was deeply engaged in dialogue with a tall, thin, slightly stooped middle-aged man, translating continuously to keep Audra in the conversation. The peddler looked up as the men approached.
The pleasure in his expression vanished abruptly when he saw the U.S Marshal insignia, to be replaced by suspicion and fear. He spoke accusingly to Rivka, not taking his eyes off of the two lawmen. She responded definitively, reassuringly, but with seriousness, as she knew he had well-founded reasons to fear the law in these parts. He turned to look her in the eye, assessing her veracity. She said something further in reference to Sheriff Peale – John and Heath could catch at least that much – and the peddler visibly relaxed, then burst out laughing. Rivka smiled at Audra, and then made introductions, translating as she went.
"Herr Schoenberg, this is my father-in-law-to-be, U.S. Marshal John Smith, and my fiancé, Heath Barkley, Audra's brother. And this is –" The peddler interrupted her with a warm but scolding tone as she turned to introduce him. She laughed and obliged him. "I am instructed to drop my formality and 'all this Herr nonsense'. This is Moshe Schoenberg, peddler of small housewares and essentials, Master Violinist and music instructor, we've just discovered he is from a shtetl - a village - not far from my own family's point of origin. It turns out we were landsleit, almost neighbors, so to speak. He came over only just this past year –" she paused, and John could see her flush slightly as she worked to contain some difficult emotion. Heath, too, was watching her closely. "He came here alone. His whole family, the whole shtetl, is gone. The pogroms." She cleared her throat, swallowed. "He tells me our own village, where my father was rabbi, was also razed over a year ago. We had heard rumors, of course, but most everyone we knew when we fled eleven years ago left when we did." She turned back to Moshe, unable to continue for a moment. John had a feeling that a world of mourning and memory and understanding passed between the two of them as they looked silently at each other. The creek bubbled and sang in the silence, and Moshe nodded to her to go on. Rivka took a deep breath, bringing herself back to the present with an effort. "Moshe has information, I think, that brings us closer to finding Peter."
"That is very good news," John said, as he and Heath dismounted. He shook hands with Moshe. "Very pleased to meet you. I am so sorry for your loss. I can't imagine."
"Thank you, Marshal," Moshe answered in heavily accented English.
Heath had walked the horses a little ways off, loosened their cinches, and let them take a drink of water while he washed his own face and hands. Once he'd tethered the animals and checked on Nike and Nox, he walked back over, drying his hands on his shirt front. He nodded to Moshe and extended his hand. "Howdy. Welcome to California, sir. I overheard some of what Rivka was saying. Must have been a hard road for you. I'm sorry."
"I thank you – Heath, your name is?"
"Yes, sir."
Moshe winked at Rivka. "Ehr is sheine - aun heflech, nu? Ehr hat sechel, Ich hofn?" (Handsome - and polite, I see. He has brains, I hope?)
To John's surprise, Rivka blushed, clearly both pleased and a little embarrassed. She smiled, glancing at Heath. "Ja, sechel aun hachma, afilu mer vi sheinkeit." (Yes, brains and wisdom, even more than beauty.)
"Far a goyische mensch?"
"Afilu far a yiddische mensch, landsman."
Heath watched the exchange, knowing they were talking about him but enjoying Rivka's suddenly girlish demeanor. There was something of a loving uncle in this peddler's manner that seemed to bring it out in her. She looked at Heath and they shared a smile.
"Moshe wanted to know if you have brains to go with your good looks and polite manners."
Heath laughed. "And…?"
"And I told him, you'll be happy to know, that you are smart even by Jewish standards."
"Thank you, darlin', that does make me happy."
John and Audra, too, were following this conversation with amusement. Curiosity won out, though, and John spoke up. "Before you tell us what you've learned, I wanted to ask - what language are you speaking? It sounds like German, but it isn't. Is it?"
"We both speak German," Rivka explained, "but what we're speaking is Yiddish. It's a hybrid of German, Hebrew, some Russian and Polish mixed in – it's the language of our villages and households, our Mamaloshen, our mother tongue. But Moshe does speak English, contrary to what that horrible Martin Peale says."
"Forgive me, but English I do not speak very well. Enough to buy and sell and ask for a haircut at the barber, perhaps. But with such a lovely iberzetser –" He bowed in deference to Rivka. "I think I will have her help me."
Heath considered the road winding up to the east, their shadows already long as the low winter sun sank toward the western horizon. "Gonna get dark quickly. Moshe, if you wouldn't object to our company for the night, maybe we could set up camp here with you and talk over dinner. Feels like it's going to be a cold one tonight, we should probably get a fire going and a good supply of wood."
"Bruchim haBa'im, welcome, friends, please, join me."
The night came on quickly, and with it some mist, though not with the impenetrable density of the tule fog of the valley, John was glad to see. Heath appreciated that as well – as tenuous as his hold seemed to be these days on the reins of his memory, it helped to have such pleasant, engaging company, a bright fire, and simple, necessary tasks to keep him busy; and he was very happy not to be closed in with blank gray walls of fog. While John and Audra got some stew bubbling over the fire, Moshe shared with them what he knew, while Rivka translated.
"Rivka explained to me what you are seeking. I have not met the boy you describe, but I am almost certain this is his violin." He rose to bring the instrument in its case out into the firelight. The case appeared to be a match to the one they had found scorched in the Dutch couple's wagon. This one had clearly been battered and muddied and even dunked in water at some point in its history, though Moshe had clearly made some effort to clean and repair it. "It had a carrying strap. It was stained – probably with blood, though I tried not to think about that. I got rid of that part." He opened the case. The inside was a beautiful deep green velvet, cradling a violin of burnished, red-toned wood. "I will be honest with you – this violin is worth far, far more than what I paid for it. It is a Guarneri violin, over one hundred years old."
"Where did you find it?" John asked, looking at the instrument with renewed interest.
"At the trading post – the outdoor market area – outside of Sonora. The market is part of my route, buying, trading, selling. It's mostly full of journeymen, miners, militiamen – and sometimes Indians, trying to barter and scrape together enough to survive. When I saw Dr. Robinson, the town physician, trying to sell something at one of the peddlers' wagons – well, that's not a common sight, and I was curious. When I saw the case he was carrying, then I ran over.
"I thought I would faint when I opened it and saw what he was trying to sell. Ten dollars he wanted for this. Ten dollars! He didn't even notice my reaction – he was just glad to get some cash and get away from the rabble of the market. He did allow me to walk with him for just a bit, because I had to ask him where he had gotten it, and I was enough of a nudnik that he answered me finally, if only to get rid of me. He said he had been given it in payment for his medical care by a badly injured boy who had been found nearly dead up river east of town. He gave me the impression, at the time, that the boy was still gravely ill and under his care. This was about two months ago. Perhaps the boy – you said his name is Peter, correct? – perhaps Peter is still with him. Or at least the doctor may have an idea where he is now, yes?"
As their dinner simmered by the camp fire, there was general agreement that visiting Dr. Robinson in Sonora was the next stop on their quest to find Nox's owners. Moshe admired the size and beauty of the horse as she browsed by the creek with the other mounts. Heath had just finished getting them groomed and settled for the night; there was some decent greenery for grazing, and so he had elected to hobble rather than tether the horses, allowing them to forage and drink as they wished. The physical activity warmed him, and as he returned to the fireside, he shrugged off his fleece-lined coat and hung it together with his hat on an overhanging oak branch. Kneeling to add a log to the fire, he looked sympathetically at the violinist, marveling at his fortitude to move forward and hold on to life in the face of such terrible loss and adversity. Heath sensed, also, that this was a man of considerable intelligence, and (he suspected) considerable skill and talent. Yet here he was, making his living as a peddler in the foothills of the Sierra. The man's story spoke to Heath not only of deep humility and courage, but of hope, and faith in the value of life. He could see joy in Moshe's eyes as he teased Rivka and made her laugh, and he wondered how long it had been since he had been able to joke and express himself so freely in his mother tongue.
"Moshe," Heath asked, "would you play us something?"
His request was enthusiastically endorsed by the group, and Moshe, clearly pleased, brought out the instrument, spread rosin on the bow, and, with familiarity but unmistakable reverence, stood and lifted it to his shoulder, tuning it expertly. He gave Rivka a small bow.
"First, a familiar melody for Dr. Rivka Levi, beloved daughter of the esteemed Rebbe Solomon Levi and Dr. Hadassah Levi." Moshe closed his eyes, took a breath in through his nose, and with a stroke of his bow the violin began to sing. The slow, mournful strain in a minor key wrapped around them, holding them close there by the fire, and yet seeming to open them to the whole star-covered expanse of the world. Rivka caught her breath and smiled the moment the song began, and Heath saw tears in her eyes as under her breath she sang the traditional Yom Kippur prayer that accompanied the melody. There was a hush as the last note resonated upward and faded into the trees.
Rivka rose to hug him. "Oh, thank you, Moshe, that was so beautiful. I wish my parents could hear you play."
Audra too had been mesmerized, and was about to add her praise to Rivka's, when her eyes widened with a gasp. "Nox…?"
She had come, slowly, quietly to the edge of the circle of firelight, her whole attention focused on the music, the violin, and the violinist. She knew this man was not the one whom she sought, but still, she couldn't keep away, couldn't help coming close to the soaring voice that to her meant love and family. She whickered low in her chest, a yearning sound, and she stretched her nose out to touch gently the violin, and the arm that held it. Then she withdrew slightly, and dropped her dark head back down. Audra hurried to her and stroked her neck, murmuring promises to her that they would find her family, soon.
"That is remarkable," said Moshe, solemnly.
"Truly," agreed John.
"I think I will play a slightly happier tune," Moshe decided. "Perhaps I can lift the spirit of the sad horse too. This is Chaconne. The score was discovered a few years ago by Ferdinand David, the greatest violinist of my time, if you ask me. And, we were friends, for a time, as students. He was brilliant. He converted, though, and was so successful, well, he had his own path. He died last year, very suddenly. But I go off the track. Chaconne. Probably written two hundred years ago, by Tomaso Vitali, but found and raised back up to life by my friend Ferdinand."
He tuned the violin again, very slightly, the changing temperature having altered the tension of the strings and wood. Audra whispered to Rivka, "Converted? What does he mean?"
"Ferdinand David was very famous. He is – was - a Jew, but he converted to Protestantism as an adult. It opens doors, allows one to advance and rise in certain kinds of careers and in society, if one renounces Judaism for a Christian faith. In Hamburg, it was best to be Protestant." Rivka explained this dispassionately as she waited breathlessly for Moshe to bring the violin again to life.
Audra took in this information, frowning slightly, but then as the music began, she was immediately caught up. After the initial melody – breathtakingly beautiful and sad – the variations became increasingly agile and airborne, leaping and dancing as though the cascading notes were part of the night breeze and the bubbling creek. On impulse, Audra spun over to Heath, taking both his hands and leading him to waltz with her around the fire. Smiling, he rose willingly, then pulled her in close and dipped her down, as she laughed up at him. Rivka curtsied to John, and he too waltzed happily around the camp with his future daughter-in-law in his arms. At some unspoken cue, they changed partners, and Rivka stood on tiptoe and kissed John's rough cheek.
"Good practice for the wedding, Papa," she whispered with a smile and a wink, as she spun away into Heath's waiting arms. Then it was Audra with him, dancing like a fairy tale princess, but grinning up at him like a cowgirl.
"Marshal, I do believe you're blushing just a bit."
"I believe I am. You two young ladies are going to keep me on my toes well into old age, I think."
She gazed up at him, suddenly serious. "I hope so, Marshal. Truly, I hope so."
He met her eyes, smiled gently. "As long as I have feet to stand on."
They danced, and she was silent, regarding him thoughtfully. "I don't know what to call you," she said, finally.
"I'm not sure either. But I'm certain between the two of us we'll figure out something."
That answer seemed to please her, John thought. She brightened. "You dance well," she pronounced. "That's good. Mother loves to dance." They turned together once more as the music ended. He bowed slightly over her hand, very formally, and she hugged him, very informally. John smiled, both surprised and pleased. Heath caught his eye and grinned, thinking, that's Audra.
They all four turned to Moshe with animated praise for his playing. He entertained them with a few more popular tunes, some cowboy songs and a jig or two, and then he turned to Nox, who had remained, waiting and listening through his whole performance. He laid a soft hand on her forehead. "Do not despair," he said to her. "You are not lost. Do not despair."
You are not lost. Heath, tending the diminished campfire, heard the words echo as he looked into the veil of smoke and sparks and heat-distorted air. The fitful wind shifted abruptly, and his throat and eyes burned as a billow of acrid smoke and ash enveloped him. Briefly blinded, he brought a hand to his face as he coughed and backed up. The earth turned sickeningly and vanished from under his feet, and with a ferocity that took his breath away, it was upon him.
No. No. Stop, dammit, I'm not doing this, I'm -
He could hear Rivka calling his name from far, far away as he staggered and dropped to his knees, one hand groping for balance on the ground, the other covering his burning eyes.
Sutamasina, April, 1859
"Me'weh, Me'weh!"
The pleading, desperate, terrified sound of Husu's voice cut through the fog and yanked Heath awake. He felt the boy's small, frantic hands shaking him, begging him to wake up. He gasped for air, and immediately began coughing as his lungs filled with hot smoke.
Smoke – heat – fire - roaring above and around them. Staring wide-eyed about him, even in the midst of the burgeoning apocalypse that was surrounding them, Heath thought, I can see! I can see something, I wasn't imagining it before, there's dark, and less dark, and something moving –
Husu shook him again. Heath could hear tears and terror in his voice, and all thought left him other than the need to get this little boy out of the burning building. He reached out toward the fear and wrapped his arm around the small child, pulling him close against his chest. He could feel his warm skin, his rapid breathing, the hammering of his heart against his ribs. Keeping low as he could below the smoke, Heath began crawling toward where he remembered the door of the roundhouse to be, crying in pain as he dragged his broken, splinted leg behind him. His eyes were pouring water, his throat was on fire, and he was coughing more than he was breathing. Husu, he could tell, was slipping away; the child had gone limp against him, his breathing growing shallow and faint. Heath could feel the panic of his own approaching suffocation rising up around him, and he knew he was out of time.
He reached the door. It was slightly askew, but Teleli's uncles had clearly replaced it adequately when they left him here. Now it was too hot to touch, as sparks began to rain down from the low ceiling. Husu had stopped moving, and Heath felt his own consciousness beginning to slide through his fingers. Desperately, he changed his position, and began kicking the door with his good leg, over and over again, roaring his frustration, shouting his hoarse defiance at the unyielding boards.
"Heath!"
"Hannah…? Hannah? Hannah, here, I'm here -!" He yelled her name over and over, his voice and his strength nearly gone. He hear banging, scraping, then the groaning protest of the overheated door as she pried it away from the lintel. All at once, it sprang open, and a gush of flames leapt inward, riding the blast of fresh air from the outdoors. Heath flinched away from the lunging heat, instinctively trying to cover Husu's body with his own. He choked on the smell of burning hair and cloth, as Hannah's crisis-strong hands grabbed him and the Miwok boy and pulled them out into the blessed open air of the devastated village.
Hannah was throwing her poncho over both of them, extinguishing the last of the fire that had been so eager to consume them both, and Heath ran his hands over the little boy, weeping now with relief to feel his breathing, his hammering heart, and his grasping fingers. "Husu – he's OK? Is he OK?"
"He's got some burns, but I think we can get him patched up," she said, still breathless.
He searched the shifting light and dark around him with his watering eyes, dizzy and still unable to see anything identifiable. "Hannah," he rasped, barely able to make a sound. "Hannah, I can't see, where are you –"
He felt her strong arms come around him, her face wet with tears against the side of his face. "Oh, child, thank the Lord I found you, oh my child."
"Hannah –" He clung to her and cried like the little boy he was. "Hannah, I was lost, I thought I was lost – I heard you singing to me to hold on – I was so scared -"
"Shhh, child, you're not lost. Don't you fear. You're not lost."