Tis is fiction and contains one swear word and a dark theme.

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The Chosen; The Chooser

A Parable

by Winslow Parker

With the gratitude of a faithfully corrected one, I am indebted to Mitch Lang and John Cronin for their critique.

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The scene is familiar, though the trees are older, more gnarled, more seasoned. The barracks are empty, the furnaces silent. I stand at the edge of the ten-thousand square-foot space, its edges and corners clearly marked. No one walks or picnics or plays? on this sacred lawn. The grass is mown to a millimeter of perfection. The marker in the center is a perpetually-burning? torch. My lips tremble, I weep, my Sholder heaving, chest convulsing.

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Now, when I perform, when I stand before large audiences, cut a new record, I always include Paganini's First Violin Concerto. I play it with all the tears I have.

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I was the fourth, the newest member of the section. It was a privilege to sit in the same row with the master. He began to mentor me. I was young and talented, but his years of experience put him at the top of stringed masters in the Germany of 1942. He, too, though, was here with the rest of us. His Jewishness and mine were the passports into this hell. Our occupation, listed on the transport manifest, gained us this reprieve from the labor camp or the ovens.

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The Commandant, it turned out, has a love for the symphonies and sonatas of Bach, Beethoven, Mozart and the vast constellation of other German composers, all long dead, but revered in Germany and by this sadistic killer.

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Our status gave us privileges. We had our own barracks, one musician to a room, a large practice space, instruments if we were so unfortunate as to not own our own. We received extra and better rations. Fortunate indeed, we knew, for they made sure we were witness to the heinous chaos inflicted on the rest of the prisoners. Daily, long lines snaked to the gas chambers and carts of bodies were shuttled to the consuming fires. A pall of smoke drifted over the camp on windless days. Everything was covered in a sheen of half-consumed fat. We knew our families were somewhere in the milieu, though we did not know if they were dead or alive. We became self-centered, insulating ourselves so we could continue to play, continue to live.

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I was the fourth. I was grateful to be chosen, to be protected by my talent.

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It all changed in a moment. The Commandant, rigid and Prussian, marched into the hall. We stopped playing and stood. Our conductor bowed to him, a required obsequie. We, in turned bowed as well.

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He looked into the eyes of each member. It must have taken five minutes though it seemed like hours. We held our collective breath.

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"You're all swine, Jewish swine," he said. "But needed swine. You make this place tolerable. It is a damn chore processing so many thousands of you." He paused, "I have an order."

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We cringed, knowing that orders rarely resulted in benefit.

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"My order is that you, Maestro," he pointed at our conductor, "are to reduce the number of violinists to three. I am no musician, but I am an afficionado. I know orchestras, their sizes, compositions and I know this one has one too many. By this, you are harboring one person from their just fate. By next week, this orchestra will be pared to its standard size. You are to decide and I don't care how." He executed a crisp about-face and left.

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Our conductor covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook.

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The four of us, suddenly competitors, dared not look the others in the eyes. I trembled, knowing I was the newest, the fourth. The principal was a recognized name in Germany before the ascension of our foul leader. The other two were up-and-coming musicians in their own right. They were not so well known, but highly accomplished, nonetheless. One was professor of stringed instruments at a university. The other was Principal violinist for a State orchestra. My talent and resume` could never match theirs. I collapsed into my chair, burying my head in my hands.

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My fellow instrumentalists dispersed, leaving me alone in the midst of vacated chairs, empty music stands and abandoned instruments. Trembling, I rose and wandered to my quarters. I lay, face up, staring at the ceiling. My door opened.

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"Come. Maestro has determined that the only fair way to decide is to hold a blind challenge. The best three will remain," said our Principal Violinist.

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I wiped my face on my shirt sleeve, and joined him.

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"We are assigned Paganini's first Violin Concerto, the Allegro Maestoso. The musicians will accompany as we play from behind a curtain. We will draw straws among ourselves to determine the order of presentation. Now, go practice like you've never practiced before. Your life depends on it"

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He handed each of us a copy of the first violinist's score.

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We well knew that our lives depended on it, but his words put a sharp point the reality.

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I played, dawn to dusk, until no light remained with which to see the printed notes. It became a part of me, ingrained into my very soul. I no longer needed the score. I played on long after the small candle guttered into its holder. I took breaks, listening to the others through their closed doors. There was no question, the Principal was the true master. Flawless, the notes flowed from his instrument as if it were his own composition. He never missed a note, always interpreted the feeling of the composition in a way that would move an audience to tears. The other two were good as well, but held no candle to the master. Once, I caught another of my competitors in the hall doing the same thing. Furtive, he returned to his room, closed the door silently behind him.

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The day arrived. Maestro looked at us, questioning, as we filed into our seats. The principal violinist said, "I have four straws. Shortest goes first. We will draw once we are behind the curtain."

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The conductor nodded. "Very well, let us begin. We will play to letter F from the beginning when the person challenging signals his readiness with a single note."

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Behind the curtain, Principal Violinist held the four straws, tops even, in his fist. He pointed at me. I chose, holding my straw carefully.

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Each of the others drew. I went first, signaled. The music began.

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I played with all the skill, all the heart I could. At the end, I was sweating. The first chair said, "Very good." The other two played. He said the same of them.

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The famous violinist went last. As the orchestra paused for his solo, he was a sixteenth beat off the timing. In several other places, he was a fraction sharp or flat and had to slide into the correct note. He missed the highest note entirely. My mouth was agape when he finished. He bowed and smiled at each of us in turn. None of us knew what to say. I well knew the consequences. He well knew the consequences.

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He turned to our barracks. We followed. He opened the door to his room, handed the longest straw to me, closed the door, shutting us out. We heard the sweet strains of the Concerto played perfectly, without error, with every nuance and emotion demanded of the music. We, outside, wept.

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Author's Note: This is a piece of fiction. However, at least one death camp had an orchestra consisting of talented inmates who played for the pleasure of the German guards and officers. The Paganini concerto mentioned in the story may be found at the link below.

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MenIhT7umeM

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6/28/24

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