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memory, like the grooves on a phonograph record. At five, he could play the same tune on his little quarter-size violin, which was crafted specially for him by his father in the shop on Calle della Chiesa. At eight, whenever Lorenzo practiced in his room, passersby on Calle del Forno would stop to listen to the music drifting out the window. Few could have guessed that such perfect notes were produced by a child’s hands, on a child’s violin. Lorenzo and his grandfather Alberto often played duets, and the melodies pouring from that window drew listeners from as far away as the Ghetto Vecchio. Some people were so moved by those pure, sweet notes that they wept in the street.
    When Lorenzo turned sixteen, he could play Paganini’s Capriccio #24, and Alberto knew the time had come. Such demanding music deserved to be played on a fitting instrument, and Alberto placed his cherished Cremona violin in the boy’s hands.
    “But it’s your violin, Grandpapa,” said Lorenzo.
    “Now it belongs to you. Your brother Marco cares nothing about music, only about his politics. Pia would rather dream her life away, hoping for a fairy-tale prince. But you have the gift. You will know how to make her sing.” He nodded. “Go on, boy. Let’s hear you play it.”
    Lorenzo lifted the violin to his shoulder. For a moment he simply held it there, as if waiting for the wood to meld itself to his flesh. The instrument had been passed down through six generations, and the same ebony chin rest had once pressed against the jaw of his grandfather’s grandfather. Stored in the memory of this wood were all the melodies that had ever been played on it, and now it was time for Lorenzo to add his own.
    The boy stroked the bow across the strings and the notes that sprang from that varnished box of spruce and maple sent a thrill through Alberto. The first piece Lorenzo played was an old Gypsy tune that he’d learned when he was only four, and now he played it slowly, to hear how every note made the wood ring. Next he played a sprightly Mozart sonata, then a Beethoven rondo, and finally he ended with Paganini. Through the window, Alberto saw people gathering below, their heads lifted to the glorious sounds.
    When Lorenzo finally lowered his bow, the impromptu audience burst into applause.
    “Yes,” Alberto murmured, stunned by his grandson’s performance. “Oh yes, she was meant to be yours.”
    “She?”
    “She has a name, you know: La Dianora, the Sorceress. It’s the name my grandfather gave her when he was struggling to master her. He claimed she fought him at every measure, every note. He never did learn to play well, and he blamed it all on her. He said she obeys only those who are destined to own her. When he gave her to me, and heard the notes I could coax from her, he said: ‘She was always meant to be yours.’ Just as I say to you now.” Alberto placed his hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder. “She’s yours until you pass her on to your son or grandson. Or perhaps a daughter.” Alberto smiled. “Keep her safe, Lorenzo. She’s meant to last many lifetimes, not just your own.”

5
    June 1938
    “My daughter has a fine ear and excellent technique on the cello, but I’m afraid she lacks focus and perseverance,” said Professor Augosto Balboni. “There is nothing like the prospect of public performance to bring out the best in a musician, and perhaps this will be the motivation she needs.” He looked at Lorenzo. “This is why I thought of you.”
    “What do you think, boy?” Alberto asked his grandson. “Would you do my old friend here a small favor, and play a duet with his daughter?”
    Lorenzo looked back and forth at Alberto and the professor, desperately trying to come up with an excuse to bow out. When they’d called him down to the parlor, he’d had no idea this was the reason he’d been asked to join them for coffee. Mama had laid out cake and fruit and sugar-dusted biscuits, evidence of her high regard for Professor