Luigi e Giuseppe; Violin Makers

Umbrellas shielding us from the pellets of rain, our group of eight, including the mayor of the town we visited earlier in the day, his wife, our historical guide, and five bloggers, made our way on slippery cobblestones across the tiny town center and through a short brick tunnel and down some stairs.

“A la destra,” the mayor directed, ushering us all to the right through an open gate into someone’s yard. The cobblestone walkway was decorated on either side with terra cotta planters overflowing with overgrown plants of every size, shape, and variety. I wondered what we were doing here, not knowing the magic that was in store for me as I closed my umbrella and placed it by the doorway before entering.

Inside, the room was filled with wood, tools, half-made musical instruments, interesting woodcarvings, bottles and spray cans filling every shelf, and wood chips lining the floor. I stood in awe for a moment, taking in all the organized chaos that surrounded me, wanting to absorb every inch of the jam-packed room, unwilling to pass over even the smallest of details. The room reminded me of those I Spy books that I was obsessed with when I was a child, eagerly trying to find every hidden object.

Luigi, the proprietor, happily gave us all a demonstration of how violins are made–from finding the perfect piece of wood (hold it up to your ear and have someone knock it on the other end, then spin the piece around and try again–if the tones match, it’s a good piece of wood) and the chiseling of the body, to the drying for 30 days and letting the wood settle for years, allowing the violin’s “voice” to age like a fine wine or cheese.

Upon hearing that the shop had been in existence for around 200 years, one of the group members inquired if it was a family business, to which Luigi responded, “si, mio fratello, mio padre, e mi.” He went on to tell one of the most beautiful stories I’ve ever heard:

His father, Giuseppe, was in a concentration camp during World War II, and one day decided to make a violin from the extra wood that could be found all around the camp. He broke an umbrella in half, and used the pieces to construct an instrument with which to make the violin.

After its completion, he would play the violin and guards would pass by, thinking that the music was coming from a radio. When they finally discovered that it was Giuseppe playing the violin, and not the radio as they’d assumed, one of the guards confiscated the violin and broke it over his knee.

So, Giuseppe made another.

One day, a captain came by, who just happened to be a violinist. He met Giuseppe and played his violin–Giuseppe said he’d never heard a violin played so beautifully.

This captain decided to take Giuseppe with him, giving him a truck with a violin workshop in the back. In the period of time that he was with the captain, he made 54 instruments and sold them to the orchestra. The orchestra was called to play in the court of the palace of the king in Baghdad (around 1943 or 1944), where there was a competition between Giuseppe’s band (Italy) and the United States.

Italy won the competition.*

Tears welling up in his eyes after sharing this touching story, Luigi hid his face and walked toward the cello toward the back of the room where he played us a few little ditties.

When the instrument making tutorial was over, Luigi showed us that he also made coins by having several kinds of molds, placing a piece of metal on top of them, and pounding the molds into the metal disc. In his generosity, he made one for each of us in the room. A keepsake I’ll never let go; and a day I’ll never forget.

(*Note: I tried to do research on this story regarding the father’s name and the orchestra competition, but could not find any information. The story is exactly as was translated, but I cannot confirm its authenticity.)

This post was a part of Buonvivere Blog Tour, organized by Settimana del Buonvivere in collaboration with 21grammy.