Cassandra Madison, A reviewer, March 1, 2005, A good book with a great storyline - FOUR STARS     At first this reviewer found it hard to stay with the story, mainly because of my unfamiliarity of the world of Opera. But diligence and persistence pays off for one who commits to reading the entire book. The story gets interesting as a man during the time period where slavery in the US is large and rampant. Peter Stohl visits his old friend whose letters boast of wealth and in-breeding on the backs of his slaves. He decides that a trip will provide both a much needed vacation and a chance to understand his American friend’s obsession with slavery. What he finds during his visit leads him on path to rescuing, educating, respecting and developing the raw vocal abilities of a meager slave. Of course he meets with plenty of opposition and almost fails in his attempt to buy the slave who he envisions will become his next opera diva. The book is short in length but the author, Lynn Kazi does very well in telling the story and keeps the reader interested with the constant flow from chapter to chapter.

Excerpt from COTTONLAND SONGSTRESS Peter turned in the rig at the Montgomery livery, then grasped D’Orleans’ upper arm in disgruntled haste.  He shoved her along to the train station, pretending not to care that she stumbled as he urged her over to the bench area marked “Colored”. “Wait here, gal,” he barked, before marching over to the fare booth. Despite his advance notice that he would turn tyrant, D’Orleans found Peter’s performance a mite too convincing. For all the maestro’s manhandling of the girl whose fears resurfaced, Stohl was stunned to gallantry when the conductor’s greeting outlined the factual seating plans: “‘Mornin’, sir! Yer nigger can take yer bags with her into the slave car.” Reconsidering his impulse to protest, Peter snapped, “You heard the man! What’re you waitin’ fo’, gal?” A tormented D’Orleans hoisted the bags, as a train attendant yanked her to the ash-pelted boxcar behind the locomotive.  Peter’s flinching temples pulsed at how she seemed more burdened by his words than his luggage.  “This way, sir,” the conductor gestured. Peter nodded a hasty thanks, and stepped inside. He prayed that the subsequent thud behind him was not his soprano being heaved into the slave car like a sack of mulch. Plunging into his seat, Peter studied the train schedule for each stop where he could check on D’Orleans. His concern for her safety did not overshadow the urgency to continue her lessons. He hoped to resume teaching before they reached the ship; now, he had to wait. The train’s first stop was Macon, Georgia; that meant close to a day’s loss.  A serious deficit, even for a quick learner. The slave car had no windows and little ventilation. A putrid hay pile rested in a distant corner. The musty air did not seem to affect an older black man and woman who shared car space. D’Orleans backed herself against the wall opposite the secured doorway, and slid herself down to the floor. Only after she was seated did she notice the silent, elder couple, as they blended seamlessly into the dark, wooden surroundings. They never diverted their constant stares upon the girl since her abrupt entry. D’Orleans decided to test whether those folks owned any tongues. “Mornin’,” she nodded. “Mornin’,” they mumbled, still staring. “How far is you goin’?” asked the woman.  “My new marsa say 300 miles,” recalled D’Orleans. The modest girl smoothed her skirt, giving the couple more action to gaze at. “You ain’t never been on no train befo’, is you?” noted the man. “I ain’t never been stared at so hard since the white folks was pokin’ me up fo’ a sale,” D’Orleans retorted. “Sassy nigger,” muttered the woman. “Why that stinkin’ hay over there?” D’Orleans pointed. “You’ll find out,” sneered the woman, “when yo’ water can’t hold fo’ no 300 miles.” D’Orleans clicked her tongue and reached into her sack. When she extracted a pencil and paper, the couple’s stares grew wider and their jaws slackened. The youngster ignored them, scrawling lines upon the paper. “You tryin’ to git us all killed?” the woman railed. “I ain’t tryin’ to kill nobody,” a studious D’Orleans maintained. “You bes’ put dat writin’ away!” cautioned the man. “Ain’t nobody gonna open that door whilst the train’s movin’,” D’Orleans snubbed.  “Yo’ marsa know you’s writin’?” the woman goaded. “It was him what taught me. Taught me a hex, too: oyree- an-tuh, goot-uh nackt...eyens...zvy...dri...veer!!” The older couple clutched each other and leaned further back against the wall in terror. “I knowed she was a conjure th’ second she flew into dis here car.”

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   Abram's thirst for release chafed him every minute of his 30 years.  Every ripple across his chestnut-shaded flesh demanded a man's overdue entitlements.  He was tired of gritting back moans under a leather stropping, tired of spitting dirt from his shoveled trenches, tired of pocketing one-minute wages for two week's work, tired of a griping belly growling to be full just once.  Through one night, no master or overseer bossed his food intake, ordered hay bales heaved across his broad back, or decided who would make him the perfect wife.  Maybe one free night could extend into two ...