The Minstrel
He was a soldier. He had always been a soldier. Even when he was still a boy, his father kept reminding him what he was about to be.
"Wilm, don't lean back. Sit straight!"
For a nine-year-old, it was amazing to know how certain his future was.
Being a soldier, it was doubtless he was accustomed to the way all the soldiers behaved and reacted to things, to the defiant glare in their eyes. Yet somehow it had not surprised him in the least that he did not see any of those familiar bearings in the man standing before him now, neither did he sense any trace of fear and trepidation. Even if the man shivered, it was all due to the chilling breeze slipping into this damp room through the cracks on the walls or the broken windows.
But again, Wilm could definitely understand. After all, he had artistic blood running in his vein. And to artists, there was no boundary for them to share and spread the beauty of their work. Not wars. Not bombs. Not guns pointed at their heads could stop them creating or playing their instruments. And Wilm could feel the same understanding the Polish pianist directed towards him, making him almost feel ashamed of the fact that he was a soldier.
But this one – this one was a real artist. Even his name accentuated that fact.
Szpilman – Spielmann. The Minstrel.