Free The Spanish Bow by Andromeda Romano-Lax

Luisa called out to her a final time but she continued slowly up the steps. I hadn't given up—I was thinking hard, trying to sort things out, wishing that Enrique were home. But I did not come to any decision. I did not act. I did not follow my heart. Perhaps I lost a piece of it then and there.
    We heard Mamá shout through the closed door above us, "
No pasará!
" Which meant, in that economical way that has no English equivalent, both
He won't come in,
and
It won't happen.
Again and again she shouted the phrase, imprinting it in my mind. Decades later, I'd hear nearly the same words, said to a slightly different purpose:
No pasarán—They will not pass.
They were futile words, on both occasions. Don Miguel did enter, and they did pass, the fascist Nationalists who would end up ruling Spain. The worst part for Mamá, I imagine, was that her own loved ones were accomplices.
    We heard the door swing open, and once more my mother shouted "
No pasará!
" Then all was quiet.
    Tía reappeared, dug her fingers into my shoulder, and said, "Play now and play loud. For your sister."
    For a moment I did not understand, until the sounds started above us, worse sounds than the shouting. Then I did understand, and I began to play, hating the fact that music couldn't stop what was happening upstairs, only drown it out.

    I couldn't sleep that night. My mother hadn't come out of the room since Don Miguel had left; only Tía had seen her. Every time the wind blew against the house or the floor creaked, I thought it was Don Miguel coming back. I kept thinking of the sounds I'd heard from upstairs and the songs I'd pounded out on the piano, to cover the other sounds.
    An hour before dawn, I sneaked into the bedroom Mamá and Tía shared, slid the Bible out of my mother's nightstand drawer, pulled out the letters inside, and tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, to examine them by candlelight. The letters were both dog-eared and smudged, which surprised me. I could imagine my mother reading and rereading the first one from my father, which bore the stamp of the customs service, and the 1898 date. But I was surprised to see she had equally worn the second. Dark stains tattooed its yellowed, softened surface. Opening it, I nearly ripped the letter in three parts at the crease lines, where it had been folded and unfolded countless times. Wax had dripped onto the paper near Al-Cerraz's self-caricature.
    How could it be that my mother had worn this letter to its present state, without ever letting me know that she had taken its brief message and its grand possibilities into serious consideration? Evidently she had deliberated for years, paralyzed by anxiety and pessimism. Worse than disregarding the letter, she had worried it nearly to shreds, unable to make any decision at all. We were not so different, she and I.
    I heard a whisper at my shoulder: "Careful, Feliu. Don't tear it. We're going to need that letter now."
    I jumped, nearly knocking over the candlestick. Turning, I saw her face, half-illuminated, half in shadow. I was afraid to look, but when I did, I found with great relief that there were no bruises or physical marks. It helped me to pretend that everything was going to be better, that we weren't simply running away from Campo Seco, but running toward a future that had awaited me all along.

PART II
Barcelona 1907

CHAPTER 4
    "And how many years has he played?" Don José asked my mother after we had presented Al-Cerraz's letter at the Barcelona Conservatory.
    "Violin, two years—a fast learner, even without a good teacher. Piano, about the same. His father—"
    The professor interrupted. "No, Señora, how long has he played the violoncello?"
    "He has not, sir, but he has great desire to learn."
    Don José muttered under his breath.
    "It's a rare instrument," my mother said. "He hasn't had the opportunity...."
    "Rare? If only," he said, glancing toward the half-circle of students assembled before him. One boy, about my age, tapped his