Title: Nearing Curfew
Author: Virginia Wildchild
Disclaimers: The Pianist, an ingenious work of art, is NOT mine. I'm merely grateful to bask in the playground of the mastermind that is Polanksi. And Focus Features. I do it for love, not money.
Summary: A day in the life in the Ghetto for Wladyslaw Szpilman.
Nearing Curfew
The restaurant where Wladyk worked always seemed to be getting noisier and busier every day he was there. Instead of complaining about it, he would do what he always did. Carry on. Smile at the patrons. Play.
In the middle of his number, a manager came up to him. "Excuse me, Mr. Szpilman, those men over there--" pointing to a table of two patrons—"asked if you'd stop for just a moment. Please." They smiled at him imploringly.
Sighing heartily, Wladyk yielded and waited for whatever important task they needed to accomplish. The men began flipping and counting their coins. Slowly.
Oh, for the love of God.
As he waited, a woman across from him smirked at him flirtatiously. Being the charming and courteous man he was, he graciously nodded.
A few seconds later, he looked back at the table that interrupted him for an absurdity. The last coin had been flipped and the two men smiled again, mouthing to him in a 'Thank you, you may proceed' gesture. Wladyk gritted his teeth and commenced. He hoped this would be the peak of excitement for the day.
It was nearing curfew as the worn and tired souls of the Ghetto turned to sleep or at least lie abed trying. To be outside in the blistering cold did not matter, for the dense grouping of people, the nonexistent space, and the lack of privacy smothered any chance of fresh air.
When there seemed to be no end to the restless day, Wladyk walked home. He trudged the million miles back from the restaurant as a woman crashed into him. She did not stop to apologize but looked up at the great wall, her face dogged, hands outstretched. A burlap bag had been flung over and she leaped to get it, nursing it fiercely and darting away as hurriedly as she came.
Before Wladyk recovered himself and started home, someone had belted a piercing wail. This was not uncommon, therefore often ignored, but it didn't come from the usual place of unrest. He desperately ached to go home, but his mind was too urgent to find the source. His eyes raced for sight of the object from which the scream came, unable to follow the sound. Suddenly, there! Beneath the twilight sky, underneath that wall that failed to separate the alive from the dead.
It was a boy. A small boy, who attempted to escape some form of punishment, beat upon the dirt, wriggling and squirming away from underneath, bawling for help. Wladyk also heard a man's angry shouts, who struck and tried to pull the child back in.
For God's sake, will this never end?
"Stop it! Let him go! Stop it! Stop it!" he yelled repeatedly, engaging in a pathetic tug-of-war with the other side, but the man would not, relentlessly striking the boy.
"Help! Somebody!! No!" The incessant wailing unnerved Wladyk, almost willing to just let go. But then, the other man released young one, his voice traveling further and further away.
Wladyk scooped child up, shaking him violently. "Get up, boy! Get up!! C'mon, stand up, stand up …stand—"
No use. He wouldn't rouse. He couldn't.
Wladyk gently lay the dead child on the ground, letting out a small sob, wiping his tearing eyes. He supposed he should head home now, should he happen upon any more of this madness. He knew, as he walked on, feeling heavy and helpless, that this child, this body was not the first or last he'd cast aside to save himself.
The fact that he was aware of this new cynicism, this self-serving survival one acquired when in suffering, gnawed at his insides. Making his stomach growl with uneasiness.
Maybe he was just hungry.
Nothing but a curt, stifled cough seared through the still of the night.
Overworked hands, numb and muddy, wrung together to produce little heat.
It was nearing curfew. Another cloudless night had gone by. It wasn't him. The only thing he was sure of.
The last thought he had before going to sleep made him bitter and sorrowful.
It wasn't me.