If the Germans bombed the farmhouse, he would be the first to die, here in the tallest part of the house. Maybe that would be a blessing, Peter thought. He slid the family picture under his violin and closed the case.
He carried the violin with him down the low-ceilinged attic stairs. “Under the stairs! Don’t dawdle!” Maude yelled to Peter from the stairwell.
“Why would they bomb Coventry?” Peter asked.
“Munitions factories,” Emil said.
Peter crawled under the supports and sat down, his violin resting in his lap.
“There’s no room for your violin!” Emil scolded, as he huddled in a corner.
“It’s small,” Peter said. “It doesn’t take up any room.”
“No,” Maude said gruffly.
Peter sighed and crawled back out from under the stairs. He thought he’d rather die than be without the violin his father gave him. It was his last connection to music and all joy, and to his father.
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