Caprice No. 24

Summer was drawing to a close.

The three-metre high walls of our fort had been reduced to a low mound of grey stones, smeared with blood, ashes, and yellow sand. The corpses of fallen soldiers, both ours and the enemy’s, seemed to form a wall higher than the original stonework of our fort ever was.

Six months ago, I was drafted into the army. On my first day, the sight of a man torn apart by a shell explosion made me vomit. Now, the mountain of dismembered and mutilated bodies, resembling a colossal sculpture made of flesh and blood, couldn't even make me turn my eyes away. I looked at it while munching on a dirty, stale piece of bread. I tried hard—really hard—to find anything at all in this bloody heap of human mince to make me vomit. All in vain. So I gave up. This landscape filled with death had become part of me. It had become part of my normal, everyday life.

All of our officers had been killed. We had agreed that in such a scenario, command would fall to Rafoe. He was the one we'd follow into the hands of death—the one we'd entrust our lives to without hesitation. Tall, strong, usually quiet, but nearly always wearing a smile—that was Rafoe. It wasn't his real name, just what we called him. 

Yesterday, he saved my life. I would've had a sabre thrust into my back if it wasn't for Rafoe. I heard a shot. A single shot. The soldier, in a blue uniform, fell to his knees, dropping his sabre. His trembling hand touched his shredded chest as his tearful eyes nailed me. Then he fell face-first into the mud. Rafoe quickly reloaded his shotgun, nodded at me with a faint smile, saluted, and vanished behind the wall. For a brief but intense moment, I thought it was all over for me—that everything was just a dream. 

Then, a deafening explosion snapped me back to reality. I sprinted towards the north wall. There, the enemy was flooding in through a massive breach caused by a shell fired from one of the five heavy cannons the enemy had received the previous night.

Right after that blast, we lost our last officer. I didn't see how it happened; I only found him on his back under the bodies of two enemy soldiers. His eyes were wide open, a pistol in his left hand, and his right hand clutching a sabre still buried in the enemy above him. Then, amidst the chaos, someone yelled:

"Damn it! The captain's dead! Rafoe, you're in charge!"

Almost instantly, a loud chant filled the air:

"Rafoe! Rafoe! Rafoe...!"

A few minutes later, Rafoe killed an officer in the blue uniform. His death made the enemy pull back—a brief break in the relentless siege.

It was just after noon.

I slumped against the remnants of the stable's once-white wall.  The stones, bricks, saddles, and pieces of horses were all mixed and scattered around. I took another bite of the dirty, stale bread and closed my eyes. A wave of self-loathing washed over me. I hated and despised myself for how desensitised I'd become. The sight of smashed, torn, and massacred bodies could no longer make me vomit. I had grown immune to the sight of death.

As evening approached, we lit a fire. The cook managed to turn the meat from the dead horses into quite a decent meal. It was all we had left to eat. The enemy's relentless assaults and artillery fire had claimed all our steeds. To stay alive a bit longer, we had to consume their flesh. War, after all, has its own rules.

Our numbers had dwindled to twenty. Quite a contrast to the nearly two hundred that made up our company only ten days ago. The mission was to hold the fort for just three days. We needed to buy time for our forces to retreat, with the promise of reinforcements to follow. But they never arrived, and nor did any further orders from the high command. So, we were left with no choice but to last in this manmade hell.

The end was ominously close. Everyone felt it. We had lost our last cannon and run out of ammunition. Our fort was now a miserable heap of rubble. Our once formidable company counted only twenty weary soldiers. What remained—knives, bayonets, and a handful of loaded pistols—wasn't going to save the day.

Beside me sat a young boy with a bandaged head, no older than twenty. He was engrossed in writing a letter. I knew his face, but we had never spoken.

“Who's the letter to?” I asked.

He glanced at me, his eyes hollow and weary. After a heavy sigh, he replied in a faint voice, “I don't know. To whoever finds it, I guess... I hope someone does.”

I felt an urge to ask or say more, but my mind was blank and my imagination failed me. I merely nodded. The soldier resumed his writing. A cruel silence fell heavily on us. I hated it so much. This silence was worse than death itself.

“Alright!” Rafoe's voice boomed unexpectedly, cutting through the cryptic silence. “What shall I play today?” he asked, casting a glance towards a tattered wooden box. This was where he kept his violin.

We all stayed silent.

“What’s with you all?” Rafoe called out, almost bursting into laughter. “Since when have you been so speechless?” His eyes settled on me. “What do you think I should play today?”

Rafoe had often talked to me about music. He'd been a violin prodigy since the age of five. A true virtuoso, Rafoe had learned from the most renowned violinists. At the age of ten, he received a gift from his father—a nearly two-century-old violin. It had since been his constant companion. While I didn't play an instrument, I had a great passion for music and knew quite a bit about it. I would suggest a piece, and Rafoe and his violin would bring it to life. That had almost become a tradition; a touch of cleansing rain in the relentless desert of anguish and death. Over two months of Rafoe's playing, our company had become familiar with Bach, Mozart, and Vivaldi. Many soldiers began to develop favourites among the classical pieces played—pretty impressive, given the fact that their previous musical experience had been limited to the tunes of a perpetually drunk barmaid.

Rafoe believed that the violin helped him remain human. The violin was the only thing reminding him that he could love and create, not just kill and destroy. He said to me once, “You are only truly alive when you are sensitive to beauty.”

“I don't know,” I answered.

“Ok—today, we’ll play something special,” Rafoe said, winking at me.

“Do you have something specific in mind?” I asked.

“You tell me.”

I had to think.

“The finale needs to be impressive… something really stunning. It needs fire!” I replied with excitement.

“And…?” Rafoe pressed. “What should I play, then, for the grand finale?”

“If you are as good as you claim,” I teased, “there’s just one piece.”

“I am good,” Rafoe retorted half-seriously, stressing the word ‘am’. “What’s the piece?”

“Caprice No. 24. Paganini,” I stated with confidence.

For a moment, Rafoe seemed slightly taken aback. But his surprise quickly morphed into a gentle smile.

“One of the toughest... no, the toughest... Caprice No. 24,” he muttered, letting out a heavy sigh. Then he looked at me. The fire blazed in his eyes. “Right! That is the perfect finale!”

Reaching into the inner pocket of his uniform, Rafoe produced a flask of whisky.

“This won’t be needed where I’m going, and one shouldn’t even touch a violin with dirty fingers,” he said, handing me the flask. “Pour some on my hands. I need them clean. Just a slow drizzle, make it last. We don’t have much.”

I took the flask and did exactly as he said. Rafoe stretched his hands out, patiently waiting for them to dry, then opened the wooden box. With the utmost care, he took out the violin. That instrument was his soul. It was his beauty.

Rafoe casually strolled to the centre of the parade ground, his eyes searching for the right spot. Choosing a tipped cannon, he effortlessly leaped onto its carriage.

“We’ve done what was expected of us, and even more, haven't we?” Rafoe's voice echoed in the dusty air.

I gave him a salute, smiled, and nodded in agreement. Beside me, the soldier with the bandaged head carefully slipped the letter into his pocket. Leaning his head against the wall, he closed his eyes. “Finally, I’ll be able to rest,” he murmured. A sigh of relief escaped his cracked lips.

The music flowed as if coming straight from heaven. It cut through the dry air with its rich, colourful sounds, falling down on us like a long-awaited refreshing rain. I closed my eyes, feeling lighter with each note. My heart began to race, keeping pace with the melody. I wished for wings to fly. Every single note made my heart beat faster. It was like falling in love for the first time, again and again and again. The memory of watching my first sunset over the ocean when I was seven flashed before me. I suddenly realised how much I’d missed that moment, that view; in that instant, all I wanted was to fly towards that very sunset!

Rafoe and the violin merged into one.

The wind itself fell silent, unwilling to interrupt such incredibly beautiful music. It was like magic. Pure magic. The melody was so powerful that even Mother Nature seemed to pause and admire the creation of the human genius. Nature was sensitive to beauty and had a soul. Tears carved burning paths down my dirty face. I didn’t brush them away, though. For the first time in my life, I took pride in my tears. I was proud that, despite the omnipresent darkness, I had somehow managed to preserve light and remain human on the other side of the wall. Here there was a minority sensitive to beauty. In that moment, I knew my heart and soul were truly my own.

I opened my eyes and saw Rafoe, who, with the ease of a summer morning, was giving us back something long lost—ourselves. The sunset was breathtaking; its beauty amplified by the magnificent music, the red disc of the sun appearing grander than ever.

“What a beautiful ending,” the soldier with the bandaged head whispered.

“The most beautiful,” I agreed. “One couldn’t dream of a better one. One couldn’t have a better one, my friend.”

I felt like a vast desert valley suddenly brimming with life-giving water. Everything in me, long parched and dying in unimaginable pain, sprang to life as if touched by a magic wand. I thought the tears would burn my face. I never knew tears could carry such joy and relief.

The solace that flowed with the music into every corner of my heart and soul was boundless. It was infinite, like beauty itself. It was vibrant, just like the sunset. The music spilled from the violin, engulfing the finest threads of our consciousness.

It was then that I realised that, over on the enemy’s side, the military drum had ceased its beat. The violin didn't pick sides; it just shared beauty, and anyone who wished could take it. The once-loud drum was now silent. That huge drum, a messenger of death and destruction, now mute. This was our triumph. Rafoe and his old violin had given us that victory—the final and the greatest one.

And then something incredible happened. Something that restored my faith in myself and in humanity too. Our entire company, all nineteen soldiers, converged on the parade ground. We stood shoulder to shoulder beside the toppled cannon, offering a salute to Rafoe, to his violin, and to the beauty.

As the violin played its last notes, the dreaded, so familiar screech tore through the air. A shell exploded just behind us. In our line, only eleven remained—and Rafoe, who kept playing. He replayed the final bars in defiance of the enemy! And replayed them again, and again, marking our victory. Another shell exploded near the cannon where Rafoe stood, taking three more lives. Yet still the music didn't stop. The violin continued on, louder and louder!  And we, standing amidst the chaos, saluted.

No one flinched when the third blast took five more souls. Still, the violin played on! Louder and louder, faster and faster! We gathered around the violin to defend it. We were sacrificing our lives so the music could soar far, so that beauty could triumph, and we could preserve our humanity and safeguard our souls. We drew the fire towards us. In that moment, we were making amends, purging the darkness from within ourselves. At last, we were doing something we believed in with our hearts and souls, not just our minds.

It was just me, the soldier with the bandaged head, and the cook left standing in line. The shelling had stopped. No more explosions. Soldiers in blue uniforms stormed the parade ground, engulfing it like a tidal wave. They froze, struck by the sight of Rafoe playing the violin. Their envy of our victory was painted on their faces. And they couldn't take the victory from us! They simply lacked the necessary strength and courage. Amidst the sea of blue, Rafoe and his violin stood out, a light too bright and way too strong to be put out.

The soldier with the bandaged head and the cook were shot in the head, executed by an officer. As for me, collapsing to the ground, I still heard the violin's song and watched my last sunset. I was smiling. Several soldiers took turns driving their bayonets into my chest. The pain was terrible, but surprisingly brief. I didn't feel the last five stabs or the bullet in my head. The violin's beauty was all I felt.

Then, all of a sudden, I found myself looking down from above. I had wings and was soaring! I knew I would fly! Beside me flew the cook and the soldier who’d been writing a letter; his head was no longer bandaged. And soon after, Rafoe joined us, his smile as broad as ever. But his old violin wasn't with him; it remained down below, alongside his massacred body.

We soared after our company, towards the sunset. Looking down one last time, I saw a young boy, no more than twelve, standing over Rafoe's bullet-ridden body. A small boy stooped under the weight of a large, heavy military drum slung over his skinny shoulder. The blue uniform he wore was way too big, hanging off his thin frame. Long, dirty hair shadowed the boy's forehead. His small, tanned face was smeared with grime and blood. Yet his big, black eyes, mirrors to the soul, were as clear and pure as the music the violin had played. The boy's soul seemed untouched by the darkness around him. He let the drum slip from his thin shoulder, dropping it carelessly to the ground and kicking it aside. He then leaned over the violin, reaching out with his thin, delicate hands, his fingers long and graceful.

I drifted closer to the boy; Rafoe had joined me.

“Hey, buddy, remember, your hands need to be clean to touch the violin,” Rafoe whispered into the boy's ear, his voice filled with warmth and endless love.

The boy quickly pulled his hand back and, with a mix of anxiety and surprise, glanced up at the sky. He fished a canteen from the worn grey bag, uncorked it with his teeth, and rinsed his hands with the water. He thought about drying them on his uniform but realised it wasn't clean enough. Instead, he held his hands out and waved them in the air to dry them more quickly. After returning the canteen to his bag, he paused, giving the violin a long look. Then he knelt down, gently touched it, and carefully lifted the violin off the ground.

“Hey, pig!” yelled the officer who had shot Rafoe. “What do you need that violin for? Got nothing better to burn in the stove?” He laughed loudly.

“I’m going to play it,” the boy replied in a firm tone.

“What are you going to play?” The officer moved closer to the boy. “What are you going to play, pig?”

“What he did,” the boy said firmly, pointing at Rafoe’s body.

The officer slapped the boy across the face, making him fall onto the mangled remains. The boy, however, kept his grip on the violin. The officer stopped laughing. He yanked the boy up by his hair.

“Give me that instrument, or I’ll break your dirty neck!” he yelled in rage.

Tears streamed down from the boy’s large black eyes.

“I won’t give it up; it’s mine! I found it! It’s mine!” the boy shouted back.

The officer hit him again, harder this time. Yet the boy didn't let go of the violin. Instead, he clutched it even closer, pressing the precious instrument to his chest. With a scowl, he gave the officer a defiant glare and yelled, “I won’t give it up! It’s mine! Mine!”

“I’ll kill you, dirty peasant! You pig!” The enraged officer swiftly pulled out his sabre and took a swing.

“No!” The field medic caught the officer’s strong hand.

“I’ll kill you too, doc!” the officer screamed, boiling with anger.

“He’s just a child! Have you completely lost your mind? He's a child!”

The officer lowered his sabre, drew a pistol from his belt, and pointed it at the boy’s head. Facing the medic, he spoke in a voice as cold as ice:

“To me, he’s a traitor, not a child!” He then turned his eyes back to the boy.

“If you can name the piece that dirty rat played,” the officer spat on Rafoe’s body, “you can keep the violin and your pathetic life. But if you can't, I’ll blow your tiny skull off!” He cocked the pistol and gave a cynical smirk. “I’ll count to three, pig.”

“Don’t do this! He’s just a child! How could he possibly know?” the medic pleaded. “He can’t even read!”

“Good that he can’t... And he also doesn’t know the name of the piece. You get it, doc? He doesn’t know... And that’s exactly my point.” The officer sneered and began to count slowly. “One... Two...”

I soared down to the boy and whispered in his ear, “It’s Caprice No. 24, by Niccolò Paganini.”

The boy lifted his large eyes to the sky once more. Then, with a frown, he locked an angry look on the officer and said with confidence:

“Caprice No. 24, Niccolò Paganini...! And this violin is now mine!”

The officer froze in shock and disbelief.

“This violin is mine!” the boy repeated.

Slowly, the officer lowered the pistol and tucked it back into his wide leather belt. He looked at the boy, still in shock.

“You, peasant... It’s impossible. How? … How? You can’t even read,” he muttered, his voice shaking. Then, almost in a whisper, he added, “Keep the instrument. And you’d better make sure I never see you again, filthy pig.” The officer turned, spat on the ground, and walked away.

The boy lifted his head and looked up. Pulling the violin close to his chest, tears rolling down his sunken cheeks, he whispered:

“Thank you, Paganini. Thank you so much! And I promise you, I’ll play like him.” He then took his blue jacket off and gently laid it over Rafoe’s face.

“Buddy, did you hear? He called you Paganini!” Rafoe said to me with a smile, and saluted. “You’re one lucky guy, so you are, my friend!”

The boy was still looking up at the sky, his eyes big and brimming with the joy of a pure soul.

“Let’s fly,” Rafoe said. “It’s time. We've won our battle, but the boy's just starting his.”

I looked at the boy.

“But who’s going to teach him to play the violin?” I asked, really concerned.

“Don’t worry about that, my friend," Rafoe said with his usual smile. “I’ll take care of that. But now, we need to fly. The company’s waiting.”

***
I want to thank Justine Carey, the editor, for her invaluable assistance in editing this story. Without her help, it wouldn’t have seen the light of day.