Ferka
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erka stood in the middle of the storm, in the center of the camp, his violin on his shoulder and his body as tense as the bow in his hand. I held my breath. On the first note, the wind changed direction sharply and nearly whipped all the onlookers off their feet. The rain swirled around the violinist, moving to the tempo of the beautiful song. Calloused fingers moved furiously on the strings, muscled arm threw the bow across the instrument—yet Ferka was immovable and remained steady, statuelike, as the storm attacked. The camp had gathered as witnesses. The guards’ smug amusement faded as they watched the hurricane-like storm shift and slow. The clouds began to thin. The prisoners’ eyes, wide with hope, fixed on the violinist. As the sunlight crept closer and closer to the wall of the camp, I could feel the excitement and disbelief rippling through the crowd. If I was honest with myself, I wasn’t surprised, really, to discover that Ferka could control a storm. After all, I’d seen the promise in my friend’s eyes—the same promise given in the song he played: “The moon has risen. The fair day has come. Freedom has come.” He lowered the violin from his shoulder. The only movement now came from the drops of rainwater falling from the rooftops onto the sodden earth. I was startled to realize that my friend was no longer moving, even though the enchanting melody still echoed in my head. The song swirled around the commons, around each person, like a charge or current—centered on Ferka, making him appear to crackle with electricity, to seem almost possessed. The blue eyes glowed, feral, as their owner bowed to Waldhar, and the voice rang with confident authority as its owner spoke: “Open the gates, Waldhar. Let them go.” Waldhar laughed. “Why should I do what you tell me to, gypsy?” I saw a flash of unearthly fury flair up in Ferka’s eyes as he let out a strangled yell, starting towards Waldhar, clenched fist rising up—brandishing his violin. Even as he caught himself, stumbling into stillness once more, I found myself stepping forward, speaking out of turn, motivated by the sight of my fellow officers reaching for their guns. “You gave your word, Kamerad Waldhar. On your honor. I shouldn’t think a promise like that could be ignored.” My superior officer turned to look at me, and his sneer sent dread coursing through me. “What motivates such a declaration, Klemens? Hmm? . . . You know, I find it interesting, Klemens, how the reports of other officers mention his various bouts of small misdemeanors, and the subsequent punishments. Yet he seems to always be a model prisoner when you’re supervising. Why is that, hmm?” My chest felt tight. “I couldn’t say, kamerad. Perhaps they have not noticed his habit of taking responsibility for other prisoners’ poor conduct, as I have.” Waldhar’s eyes narrowed. “Really, kamerad?” I nodded curtly. “Ja, kamerad. Perhaps I never report punishing him because I never have had to. I make it a point to punish the correct prisoner.”
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