A week gone by.
Much for Szpilman's dismay, Ivan still didn't talk. To him. Because he had caught Ivan trying to speak to Erich, following him around the faster he could until the German soldier locked himself in his bedroom and Ivan had no other option but to hide in his bedroom as well, disappointed.
"It's heartbreaking..." Szpilman muttered one night, when Erich left the kitchen and Ivan hurriedly followed him. "How... how can Erich, so young, be so... so cold?"
"He's not cold, Wladek... He's just angry," Hosenfeld sighed and collected his and Szpilman's dish and cutlery. He stood up and made his way to the sink.
Szpilman shook his head as Hosenfeld, the kindest man he had ever met, and also the most untalented for domestic chores, began to spill water everywhere as he washed the dishes and cutlery. How could it be possible, that two men raised in the same regime, under the same orders, the same ideologies, could be so different? Why couldn't Ivan, whose scarred and amputated body evidenced the horrors he had lived, have a friend who had also been through the horrors of the war, someone to fully understand him? Why couldn't Erich, who Hosenfeld claimed to be a good soul under all the Nazi brainwashing, be indeed a good soul... be like Hosenfeld?
The Jewish musician knew he was a lucky man, knew it because he had made it through the war... but in that moment he realised exactly how lucky he had been. Unlike Ivan, he had a friend to understand him, he had a friend to talk to, he had a friend to support him. Had the horror in his life been so much worst than the horror Ivan had gone through, that god had made it up for him through Hosenfeld?
Hosenfeld closed the water tap and looked over his shoulder, frowning, taking in the sight of his friend; his tired, very tired friend. Hosenfeld knew Szpilman was worried with the Russian soldier, knew his friend would suffer because of a problem he couldn't solve. He went to sit at the table again, shaking his head:
"Wladek-"
"It's not fair! For... for Ivan, even for Erich!" Szpilman widened his eyes and slammed his hand on the tabletop, frustrated. "Why-"
"Wladek, calm down... please," Hosenfeld held his friend's hands, carefully, concern written all over his face. "They are young... they don't know. But we are old fools. Old and overly sentimental."
Hosenfeld succeeded in making Szpilman smile. The former officer nodded, pleased, and squeezed Szpilman's hands affectionately:
"You've done more than you can possibly imagine, Wladek... Life must go on," The German man stood up, pulling his friend with him. "You have to focus in your career. Maybe finish that music that's been sitting on the piano since last week...?"
"Do you know you are bossy?" Szpilman asked in return, amused. He was so grateful Hosenfeld was there...
When he was sure Hosenfeld and Szpilman had gone to work, Erich left his bedroom and made his way to the living room. He had been secretly reading a poetry book, one the many books in German that Szpilman had in display in the living room.
Erich had just reached the stairs when he heard a door opening, at the far end of the corridor behind him, and the already familiar - and unwelcomed - sound of Ivan's only foot and crutches on the wooden floor. He glanced briefly over his shoulder, to see the former Russian soldier approach him the faster he could, eagerly, ridiculously thin in the large civilian clothes Szpilman had given him. Erich had to confess he didn't look better, though...:
"Wie geht's?" (How are you?) Ivan asked, and Erich sighed, annoyed, and made his way downstairs:
"You've already asked that at breakfast..." he grumbled. Ivan carefully began his way down:
"Bitte nicht schnell!"
"Stop butchering my mother-tongue!" Erich yelled and turned around to look at the young Russian man, who was halfway down the stairs. "Aggravating Bolshevik!"
Ivan finally reached the first floor and followed Erich into the living room. It was a wide area, with a big window, a built-in bookshelf, a couch in front of it and, standing gloriously in the middle of the living room, Szpilman's piano and Hosenfeld's favourite armchair.
Erich picked up the poetry book, sat on the couch and opened the book where he had stopped the day before. With a sigh, Ivan sat next to him.
Silence stretched between them, exactly like in the previous week. Ivan looked sadly at Erich, imagining they could actually get along if only the German didn't play deaf, didn't run upstairs to hide in his room or didn't yell at him, telling him to shut up. He decided to give it another try:
"I want to go West," he told quietly. "London. And you?"
Erich kept reading, like Ivan wasn't there at all. The Russian shrugged and proceeded:
"Comrade Szpilman seems a good man... but I don't know if I can trust him. I'm afraid he'll hand me over to the NKVD if he knows I want to go West..." Ivan looked at Erich, who still ignored him completely. "But he wouldn't, right? His friend is a Nazi too, like you. Isn't he? He would not hand me over to the NKVD when he's living with a Nazi, right?"
Erich slammed the book shut and looked at Ivan, grey eyes piercing as a blade and mouth wide open to yell at him. One of his fists was closed and raised, and would surely collide with Ivan's face.
But a horse neighed outside and Erich froze in the spot, only to recover in a matter of seconds, jump to his feet and run to the window, peeking carefully from behind the curtains. Curiously, Ivan stood up and hopped on his only leg to the window. Being practically the same height as Erich, he had to crane his neck to peek over Erich's blond head.
A cavalry regiment was crossing the street.
Abruptly, Erich stepped back, colliding with Ivan, who lost his balance and fell backwards on the floor. The young Russian man cursed as pain flared in his ribcage, but he managed to drag himself to the couch and, with the help of his crutches, stood up and followed Erich upstairs.
Of course, when he made it to the second floor, Erich was already hidden in his bedroom. Ivan knocked at the door, but it was useless. Defeated, he made his way to his own bedroom.
Later that day, while Hosenfeld went upstairs to bathe, Szpilman made dinner. And he was setting the table when Ivan came in the kitchen:
"Hallo," Szpilman saluted with a friendly smile. Ivan looked at him, with his characteristic sad face, then looked at the table and shrugged:
"I don't think Erich is coming, comrade Szpilman..." the former soldier muttered and sat on his chair.
Szpilman was momently shocked; Ivan had never told him that many words before. He hurriedly finished to set the table and pulled his own chair closer to Ivan's, smiling widely:
"Ah! So... so you are friends! Is he alright?"
Ivan shook his head, sadly:
"He's not my friend... He doesn't want to," he sighed. "I think he's upset, he won't come down."
"Why is he upset?" But by no means could Szpilman make Ivan talk more. Anyway, some progress had been made, and the pianist presumed the former Russian soldier was simply shy.
Hosenfeld joined them little later, his damp hair sticking to his head:
"Ivan said Erich is upset, so he isn't coming down," Szpilman said, and that made Hosenfeld frown, turn around and go back to the second floor, only to knock at the door of Erich's bedroom and have no answer:
"Weiber?" Hosenfeld called. He waited a bit, and finally Erich opened the door. And the first thing Hosenfeld noticed was that Erich's grey eyes, so cold and hard and full of hatred, were reddened and sad. The former captain frowned. "Is everything alright, Weiber?"
"I'll be down in a minute, Herr Hauptmann..." Erich carefully avoided the question that had been made to him and closed the bedroom door again.
Later, when there were just Szpilman composing at the piano and Hosenfeld listening, sitting in his favourite armchair near the piano, the German man decided to tell his friend what had happened:
"Erich had been crying, and for a long time," he stated when Szpilman paused the music to note down something:
"Ivan said he was upset, but didn't tell me why," Szpilman replied and turned around on the piano bench to face his friend:
"I asked him if he was alright, he was evasive..." Hosenfeld rubbed his temples. "Wladek, what are we going to do with them? I've seen more Russian soldiers in the streets... If I let Erich go, he'll get himself killed; if you let Ivan go, he'll probably get caught by his compatriots and deemed a traitor..."
"I've been thinking about that..." Szpilman bit his lower lip and they made their way to the couch. Szpilman had nothing to fear from the Russians, but he did fear for Hosenfeld and for their two guests. Hosenfeld was right, Erich and Ivan couldn't stay there forever, it wasn't safe... and maybe Hosenfeld shouldn't stay there as well...
The thought that he might lose his only friend, his saviour, the only person who made the after-war bearable, had Szpilman panicking. He let out a strangled sob as tears began to run down his face. He was vaguely aware of Hosenfeld's voice, apologising for bringing up the subject and promising him everything would be alright. Yet he was fully aware than Hosenfeld embraced him tightly, still mumbling apologies against his shoulder, and the feeling of the former captain's arms around him slowly calmed him down.
They stood like that for a long moment, until Szpilman's breathing was normal again. Their heads were resting on each other's shoulders:
"I'm sorry, Wladek... I didn't want to-" Hosenfeld whispered once more, but Szpilman interrupted him:
"I don't want to be alone again," he blurted out, clutching to his friend, like he was drowning and Hosenfeld was the only thing that kept him anchored to life. It was selfish, Szpilman knew, but that was the truth:
"You won't, Wladek. I'm not going anywhere! Heck, I don't want to be alone, too!"
"But it's not safe for you! What if-"
"Then we'll leave!" Hosenfeld moved away a bit and tilted Szpilman's head up. He was smiling, reassuring, and Szpilman could see why men had followed Hosenfeld to battle. Why Erich hadn't killed him yet. "But for now... we're going to sleep. Yes? Then we can start planning things."
"I have friends who can help us," The pianist nodded, eagerly, and allowed himself to smile as well.
Weee, review?
