Chapter Text
On the darkest days when his stomach felt pinched and his back ached from hard labor, Izuku liked to remember a story his papa told him years ago. They used to have many stories around the little kitchen stove, but this particular night always stood out among Izuku’s memories. His oldest brother Mirio let Ochako have the spot closest to the stove because he said she was always cold. And he shared his bannocks with his siblings because they liked them better than he did. Izuku and Hitoshi were huddled under a quilt with Dad in his rocking chair on their other side, a baby Kota swaddled in his lap. Eri wasn’t with them yet. And last was Papa, sitting in his chair with firelight dancing in his blue eyes. The yellow tufts of hair on his head also looked like flames, but the kind that wouldn’t burn. Looking back now, Izuku realized how absurd of a notion that was, fire that wouldn’t burn, but it made sense to him at the time. He couldn’t imagine anything about his papa causing pain. He was warm and comforting like sunlight on a cold day. Dad was almost the complete opposite of him in both looks and personality. His hair and eyes were dark. Where Papa was bright and cheerful, Dad was grumpy and pragmatic. They were like sun and moon, existing in the sky at the same time, but barely acknowledging one another. That hadn’t changed in the years since. This night was before the lord took half their land forcing them to sell most of their cattle which was their livelihood—something Izuku didn’t understand at the time. This was before Papa’s cheeks were hollowed out with hunger and age, before he started getting sick. This was back when Dad didn’t look so tired all the time and smiles weren’t stretched thin.
Firelight glinted off Papa’s violin as he raised it to his chin and pulled the bow across the strings in a lively melody. His shoulders dipped and swayed along to the dancing notes. They would have to sell the violin eventually too, but for now Izuku listened eagerly bouncing along to the music, much to Hitoshi’s annoyance. Izuku paid his brother no mind. If Papa was playing, then a story was sure to follow. Finally, the last note rang out sweet and clear and he let the bow fall against his leg.
“You know,” he said after a moment of silence. “There’s a fiddler on our roof.”
Izuku, Mirio, and Ochako burst out laughing. Even Hitoshi cracked a smile at the absurd image.
“No there isn’t!” Izuku said.
Papa let out his great booming laugh. “I know, it sounds crazy. But it’s true.”
“I would have seen him,” Izuku insisted, earning himself a scolding look from Dad.
“Don’t contradict your papa, Izuku.”
“Ah, but here’s the thing.” Papa stretched a pacifying hand toward Dad. “He tries not to be seen. You may catch a glimpse of him on the Holy Day, just at sunset. Maybe you’ll hear his fiddle mingling with the wind. But he only reveals himself to those who live as One for All decreed we must.”
“Why does he stay up there?” Ochako piped up. “It’s so dangerous.”
Papa shrugged. “We stay in Anatevka because it is our home. It is the same for the fiddler. The roof is where he belongs.”
“How does he keep his balance?” Mirio said.
Papa smiled widely. “That I can tell you in one word. Tradition!”
Izuku exchanged confused looks with his siblings. “Tradition?”
“Tradition,” Papa repeated. “The things we do to show our constant devotion to God. Tell me children, what traditions do you know about?”
“We keep the Holy Day sacred,” Mirio said. “Twice a month we give thanks and take time to rest.”
“Yes. What else?”
“We keep everything clean,” Hitoshi said.
“Yes.”
“We call people by their family name until we know them really well,” Izuku said.
“Yes.”
“We obey our parents.”
“I should hope so.”
“Papa, how did these traditions get started?” Izuku said.
“Ah, I’ll tell you—” Papa blinked. “I don’t know. But they are traditions nonetheless. They are how we keep our balance between right and wrong. Because of our traditions, we know who we are and what God expects us to do.”
“Amen,” Dad said.
“So, playing his violin on the rooftop—that’s the fiddler’s tradition?” Mirio said.
Papa nodded and raised the violin back to his shoulder. “And you may see him, if you keep yours.”
As he grew older, Izuku came to realize that there was no fiddler. It was just a story, like so many Papa had told before. They were made up and yet he was never quite able to believe that they weren’t real. He would find himself craning his neck at sunset to look for a shadowy silhouette on top of the barn. He would strain his ears for the telltale sound of strings. Sometimes, he would see Papa staring wistfully at the rooftops with a sad smile on his face. He would wonder then if his father did actually see the fiddler up there. And as the years got harder, he fell back on the lesson he learned that night clinging to some stability as the days grew ever more uncertain.
Without their traditions, their lives would be as shaky as a fiddler on the roof.