It was in a small suburb of New York, in a small neighborhood, the houses were your typical American suburb houses. Most 2 stories, 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, kitchen, dining room, family room, garage, large backyard. 838 6th Ave. was exactly that type of house. The exterior was white with blue shutters, a car sat outside on the driveway, there were some lawn chairs, a bucket with weeds in it sat, abandoned when the sun got too hot. Windows propped open to let in the barely there breeze of the July afternoon.
Inside the suburban home, a piano could be heard. If you were to look into the large picture window that framed the living room, you'd see it, in the corner, jutting out at an angle, pictures in frames sat on the top of it, little trinkets from places they had traveled on there as well. Sheet music half written on, sheets of completed music on the stand in front of it. A tall, elderly gentlemen hunched over it, his gnarled fingers lightly dancing over the keys, knowing most of it by memory, where the keys where, what to play and when, all of it by memory. His tan coat rested on the back of the chair, white shirt sat simply on his frame that seemed to get smaller and smaller each time she saw him. For this man was no ordinary man, this was Wladyslaw Szpilman. Famous pianist. Holocaust survivor. Devoted husband. Father of 2. Now aging and greying, hunched over a piano, the way he had always been.
Regina Szpilman wasn't home often, she had decided to leave the nest, going to school in the city at New York University. Studying music. Just like her father. It took most of her time and even though it was a short cab ride away, she didn't make it out as often as she should, too wrapped up in her own life to do more than give her parents a ring every now and again. Her father seemed to be aging faster than she could keep up, her mother was doing a bit better, but not by much.
Growing up, Regina's father was quiet, a reserved man, who didn't say much, but when he did, he had a lot to say. His opinion was always taken into consideration. You knew you were in trouble if dad came out and had his "stern" voice on. He never got mad, only disappointed. Which was about 10x worse than being mad. Her mother, Carol, would get mad. Not him though, not papa. He would give you a look with those intense eyes of his and shake his head. Carol and Wladyslaw had met when he had come overseas to play with the New York Orcrestrha. Carol at the time had simply been attending a concert, but they had met through a mutual friend, traveled the world touring for several years and finally settled down. Regina at 21 was their youngest. Dennis, their eldest had been at school and then moved to California, he had met some young woman and fallen madly in love. They seldom heard from him.
It wasn't until she was about 16, did her father open up to her about what had happened to him. How he and his family had been forced first to wear the armbands with the Star of David on them. How his father had been slapped and forced to walk in the gutter for not bowing. How they had been moved into the ghetto, selling books to make ends meat. How when they were being forced into the box cars, a Jewish Officer had pulled him out and threw him aside, all while he was yelling "Papa!" over and over as he watched his family disappear to a labor camp. How he never saw his family again, they were exterminated. All the horrors he had to endure. How people had been kind to him. Some not so kind. The Nazi general who helped save him by bringing him food and giving him his jacket as he left.
It was now that she saw the affect all this had taken on him. While he had a great life, she could tell her father was tired. He had gone through so much, much more than any person should ever have to go through for simply being Jewish. It was a familiar sight though. Her father hunched over the piano, fingers playing quickly on the keys. Every once and a while he'd stop and scribble notes onto the blank sheets. "Papa, why don't you go into the dining room and go eat? Supper is almost ready." Regina said softly. Not wanting to scare her father.
"I'll be there in just a moment. I've almost finished." He said quietly, his fingers stopping for only as long as necessary.
"Alright, papa." She said, walking over to him and kissing his greying head. "Don't take too long, your chicken will get cold."
The music started up again. For Regina, the piano had brought her and her father together. Late night teachings, those years when she was a teenager and didn't feel "normal", the piano was an escape. It was a way to express herself. It had landed her a scholarship to school and had provided her with comfort in trying times.
For Wladyslaw, the piano was his everything. The piano lead him to being youthful again. Took him to a time when he'd play the piano and his mother would sing over family dinners, to a time when he would play it for the Poland radio. A time when his family was together and he had every hope in the world. A place where his family was alive, a place where he could disappear. It had been his only hope during those trying times. When it came winter and he was cold, he would take his numb fingers and play the imaginary piano in front of him. The music sounded in his head as if it was real. The notes twisting and turning, crescendo and decrescendos all moving in his head. For him, the piano was more than just an instrument it was his very elixir of life. You could take away his family, you could take away his food, you could lock him a tiny flat in the middle of winter, you could never take away his music though.