Free The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto by Mitch Albom

laughing.
    Frankie wiped the dirt off his shorts. The hairless dog licked his bare legs.
    “Here. Catch.”
    The boy dropped a rope that was tied around the branch. Gripping it and jumping, Frankie pushed his feet against the tree and began walking up the trunk. When he reached the branch, he collapsed.
    “Hmmph,” the boy said.
    Only then, breathing hard, did Frankie realize that this was not a boy at all, but a girl with blond hair tucked under a cap. Her teeth formed a perfect little curve beneath her lips, and her skin was whiter and her cheeks pinker than any Frankie had ever seen. Her eyes were the shade of pool water, which made her seem a bit dreamy, even when she was looking straight at him.
    “You have proven you are brave,” she said matter-of-factly. “So you can be my friend.”
    Something warm spread inside Frankie. He felt as brave as she suggested.
    “Help me pull the rope up,” she said.
    “Why are you in this tree?”
    “I’m spying.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “You don’t know what spying means?”
    Frankie shrugged.
    “I’m seeing secret things that no one is supposed to see.”
    “Why?”
    “So I can tell my daddy. He is very important, you know.”
    Frankie shrugged again.
    “Only brave people can be spies. Like my daddy.”
    “Where is he?”
    “I don’t know. He’s on a secret mission. But when he comes back, I shall tell him what I saw.”
    “What did you see?”
    “The dead bodies. Look.”

    Frankie had almost forgotten about this part. He looked to where she was pointing and saw a large clearing in the woods, where the dirt appeared different from the dirt surrounding it. It had been dug up, churned, and replaced, as if covering something. Nearby was a deep, empty hole beside another mound of dirt.
    “They dug it this morning,” the girl whispered. “That’s where they’ll put them.”
    “Put what?”
    “The new ones.”
    Before she could elaborate, a military truck came rumbling into the woods, crushing weeds and twigs in its path. The girl stiffened and grabbed Frankie’s forearm. He stared at her small white hand, her fingers thin and delicate in their grip. Frankie spent a great deal of time looking at fingers—guitarists often do—and he would never forget his first look at hers.
    “Don’t talk,” she whispered.
    The military truck came to a halt. With the engine still running, a band of men jumped out. They wore scarves over their mouths and noses. There was fast movement, something was unlatched, and then the men were pulling bodies from the back—six bodies, barefoot, still wearing clothes, which were darkly stained and wet. They seemed, to Frankie, to be deeply asleep, so asleep that they bent when carried, like long sacks of rice. He wanted them to stir, to say, “Hey, put me down. I’m awake now.” But they never even flinched.
    With the rumbling engine drowning out any sound, the soldiers silently threw the bodies in the hole, one atop the other, with no more emotion than dockworkers unloading crates. They returned to the truck and brought out long metal shovels.
    Minutes later, enough dirt had been thrown on the corpses that Frankie and the girl could no longer see them. The soldiers didn’t speak. They just packed the dirt with the back of their shovels and stomped on it with their feet. Once finished, they hurried back into the truck, pulling the doors shut as it rumbled away.
    Suddenly it was terribly quiet, as if the earth itself were too stunned to breathe. I know this sound; silence is part of music. But just because something is silent doesn’t mean you aren’t hearing it.
    Frankie looked at the girl. A single tear fell down her cheek. As she stared at the freshly covered graves, she put her hands together in front of her and spoke in a soft, deliberate voice. Her words were from the Catholic ritual of Sancta Missa :
    “ ‘Come in haste to assist them, you saints of God. Come in haste to meet them, you angels of the Lord. Enfold