The old Polish man and his granddaughter, Micah, live in a simple world. Their beach house is the picture of peace, the sea is consistent in its beauty, and the small family enjoys the quiet of each other's company. Though it is in the middle of World War II, the Polish village has not tasted any battle or danger. However, one night, the old man and Micah hear sirens, meaning enemy airplanes have been sighted. The bombs start going off, and soon the old man realizes the war has discovered his beloved home.

Rushing off into the house's basement, the two take refuge until morning. The old man is the first to survey the damage. A part of the kitchen wall has been blown away, but this isn't what shocks him. A mere twenty feet away, a German airplane lies smoldering in the sand, and its downed pilot is sprawled on the ground, still breathing. 

Chapter One: The Fiddler

A house propped its legs on a beach and was glad to be painted cool blue, because the house liked blue, and liked the ocean. Its shingles were drooping but at the same time firm, and the paint on the porch was peeling but somehow fresh and admirable.

It was an old house good enough to suit an old man, and lenient enough to be burdened by a girl of twelve. The village was snugly behind them, set in a pleasing arrangement of colors and sizes, but the crags and cliffs above them were even more pleasing, though they were arranged by nature and scoffed the ocean with black, stony hands.

Supposing that having few possessions means happiness, the old man and his granddaughter were two of the most well to do people around. The old man had a fiddle that he played to the girl on frightening nights, and the girl had a small guitar, its six strings still miraculously intact and its battered neck sleek from use. They played the instruments and had nothing else to smile on. The table in the kitchen was a scarred plank. The bowls were old and cracked, and the electricity flickered. The music from the fiddle and guitar, however, overruled the ruts in the wood, even the sad blinking the overhead light gave in the kitchen. The twangs and high cries only reminded the old man that he belonged to the girl, and that the girl belonged to him.

The night skies were more often lit with flash bombs in the distance than ocean storms. War cut through the southern villages but hadn’t the time to visit the small, rather unnoticeable beach town. Even when rumors of air raids forced the people on their toes, no planes except the mail deliveries ever circled overhead.

“Why is there war, Papa?” It was a night when the bombs sporadically made the beach town tremble. Beads of white like lightning sliced their way inside through the window in the kitchen. The old man was drinking a lukewarm cup of coffee and polishing the fiddle with his handkerchief. At the other end of the table, the girl was expectantly staring at him, waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know, Micah,” he said without looking up. “People make friends, but their friends always have enemies.” Another soft boom and a dim flash of light.

“It scares me,” said Micah.

“Me too.” Micah continued to stare, but acquired surprise. The old man had not changed the intent bleeding of his eyes on the dark wood. The admittance that he was afraid hadn’t hindered the motion of his hands.

“You’re afraid?” Micah said softly. “That can’t be.” He looked up and caught Micah’s rich, brown eyes, which he labeled as deep as any forgotten myth. He fingered his mustache and studied the child for a couple of silent moments.

“Do you think fear is a childhood pastime?” he asked her.

“I always thought it goes away when you get old,” replied Micah.

“I hope you are not disappointed, my dear. Fear is a parasite. It doesn’t go away unless you fight it away.”

Not a second subsequent to his words the wailing of a siren slit the night’s throat. Micah’s heart jumped and her pale cheeks became flushed. The old man put down the handkerchief, his eyes fixed through the window.

“Heaven forbid,” he whispered.

 The tremors from the bombs had turned into vehement quakes. The beach town was no longer unacquainted with the war.

“Papa!” The old man stood up and snatched Micah’s hand.

“It’s going to be all right,” he said. “We have to go down into the basement.”

The shriek of the siren became a molecule in the ensuing chaos; the little blue house shook and tried to see the ocean. It was cold in the basement. The old man lit a lantern and set it on the ground, but all it illuminated was the outline of his face and the distraught picture frames quivering on the colorless walls. Down there it was silent enough to hear each other’s breath. The explosions were dull but resonate and unchecked. Like the sound of a morose marching parade.

“The Germans,” whispered Micah. She saw the silhouette of her grandfather’s head bob up and down, nodding.

“If there was ever a time to be scared, would it be now, Micah?” His voice was calm. 

“Yes,” she said. The old man couldn’t see her tears. “Yes, now is the time to be afraid.”

“Now is the time to be brave, my dear. You must be brave.” An explosion compelled the ceiling to cough away some mortar. The dust touched Micah’s nose. She sneezed.

“I’m not brave.” The siren screamed. She screamed. “I’m not brave! I’m NOT brave!” Above them, a piece of shrapnel blew a hole in the side of the kitchen and turned the old man’s fiddle into splinters. Both Micah and the old man toppled over and felt parts of the ceiling rain on their backs. Micah thought they were bullets. “I’m not brave!” she shrieked. “Papa! Papa!”

“I’m here!” he shouted. They huddled together in the corner, knitted by their arms.