Looks like no-one wrote about Max' life before the war (Please correct me if I'm wrong). So I decided to do. Here is the result.
Ah, before I forget: Thanks to all of my reviewers, you are great! And a special thanks to the hyperactive obsessive Bookworm =)
The Pianists
"So. What. Have. You. Done?"
Each word was spoken clearly.
She was blocking the doorway and he knew, she would only leave with his answer.
He sighed. Living with her could be very, very complicate.
"Would you just let me into the kitchen? Bitte?", he added, reminding his usual good manners.
She didn't move. He was sure, whole Stuttgart could fall, she wouldn't go. Not without his answer.
"Would you just answer my question?"
Her eyes were sparkling.
She left the bitte. But usually, her manners were good.
Usually.
He was rolling his eyes.
"Oh come on! You're acting like your own mother."
"Well, you're acting like a baby! One has to be the adult here!"
"I'm older than you!"
She wasn't impressed. Not a tiny bit.
"Oh really? That's not the way adults should act. Jacob is more adult than you! That's blaming, you know."
Jacob was nine months old.
"Well…"
He decided to answer her question, to avoid it from getting more blaming than it already was.
"I got myself a bit into trouble…"
"A bit? Bloody hell! You will get us all into trouble!", she schimpfte.
But she moved. Into the kitchen.
He followed her and sat down on the bench.
She was looking for something. Then she found it.
She sat down next to him, putting it around his arm.
"What are you doing?", he asked, completely shocked. He had looked out of the window.
"Saving you from blood-poisoning", she said, completely seriously.
"Blood-poisoning? Don't be ridiculous! It's just a scratch!"
She didn't rise her head. Spoke to the scratch.
"We can't get you into a hospital. If you really get a blood-poisoning, I mean. Too expensive."
Her voice was very quietly. The mood was a disaster. He tried to joke.
"I won't die."
She looked up. Her glance was speaking for her.
A-ha.
"Really. I'll do my best." He grinned.
She sighed.
"Who tried to kill you this time? Walter?"
His grin was gone as quickly as it came.
"Worse. Felix Bauer."
"Do I have to know him?"
"I hope not."
"Nazi?"
He didn't answer. She knew what he would say.
She stood up. Walked to the window.
"You are really getting us into trouble, Max. It's not the right time to fight Nazis on open streets." It was summer 1933.
She looked so sad. So adult. She was only twelve, damn it!
Thin. Elf-like. Shoulder-long smooth brown hair. Muddy eyes. White skin.
"But when then, Sarah?"
She turned around. Fixed him with her eyes. Just for a moment.
Then she walked away. Stood a moment in the doorway.
"You won't die. It's just a scratch."
Seventeen years old Max was alone in the kitchen.
Later, he was alone in the living room.
Which was unusual.
Supposedly all was unusual in those times.
The old black piano in it's corner.
Max sat down. His fingers on the keys.
Black and white, like a photography.
He played. Music against the loneliness.
Somebody sat down next to him.
He didn't need to look at her. He would have recognised her everywhere.
He didn't know, whether anyone would ever mean so much to him like she did.
He was playing second voice now. An invitation. She took it.
Twenty fingers on the keys. He was playing the harmony, she the melody.
Light-hearted. At least for ten minutes.
Years and years later, Max sits exactly where he sat this time.
The room is empty. Only the piano is left. Dusty. Guilty. Lonely.
His fingers lie on the keys. And then he plays.
But his music is without melody. Heavy. With a grey heart made of dead memories.
And then he cries.