The Pianist

by Wladyslaw Szpilman

  I was not as familiar with the dead as I would become later. I hurried down the streets in fear and disgust, to get home as quickly as possible. Mother would be waiting for me with a bowl of spirits and a pair of pincers. She cared for the family’s health during this dangerous epidemic as best she could, and she would not let us through the hall and on into the flat until she had conscientiously removed the lice from our hats, coats and suits with the pincers and drowned them in spirits.

  In the spring, when I had become more friendly with Roman Kramsztyk, I often did not go straight home from the café but to his home, a flat in Elektoralna Street where we would meet and talk until late into the night. Kramsztyk was a very lucky man: he had a tiny room with a sloping ceiling all to himself on the top floor of a block. Here he had assembled all his treasures that had escaped being plundered by the Germans: a wide couch covered with a kelim, two valuable old chairs, a charming little Renaissance chest of drawers, a Persian rug, some old weapons, a few paintings and all kinds of small objects he had collected over the years in different parts of Europe, each of them a little work of art in itself and a feast for the eyes. It was good to sit in this small room by the soft yellow light of a lamp, with a shade made by Roman, drinking black coffee and talking cheerfully. Before darkness fell we would go out on the balcony to get a breath of air; it was purer up here than in the dusty, stifling streets. Curfew was approaching. People had gone inside and closed the doors; the spring sun, sinking low, cast a pink glow over the zinc rooftops, flocks of white pigeons flew through the blue sky and the scent of lilac made its way over the walls from the nearby Ogród Saski (Saxon Garden), reaching us here in the quarter of the damned.

  This was the hour of the children and the mad. Roman and I would already be looking down Elektoralna Street for the ‘lady with the feathers’, as we called our madwoman. Her appearance was unusual. Her cheeks were brightly rouged and her eyebrows, a centimetre thick, had been drawn in from temple to temple with a kohl pencil. She wore an old fringed green velvet curtain over her ragged black dress, and a huge mauve ostrich feather rose straight into the air from her straw hat, swaying gently in time with her rapid, unsteady steps. As she walked she kept stopping passers-by with a polite smile and asking after her husband, murdered by the Germans before her eyes.

  ‘Excuse me … have you by any chance seen Izaak Szerman? A tall, handsome man with a little grey beard?’ Then she would look intently at the face of the person she had stopped, and on receiving an answer in the negative she would cry, ‘No?’ in disappointment. Her face would distort painfully for a moment, but was then immediately softened by a courteous if artificial smile.

  ‘Oh, do forgive me!’ she would say, and walk on, shaking her head, half sorry to have taken up someone’s time, half amazed that he had not known her husband Izaak, such a handsome and delightful man.

  It was around this time of day that the man called Rubinstein also used to make his way down Elektoralna Street, ragged and dishevelled, his clothes fluttering in all directions. He brandished a stick, he hopped and jumped, he hummed and murmured to himself. He was very popular in the ghetto. You could tell he was coming quite a long way off when you heard his inevitable cry of, ‘Keep your pecker up, my boy!’ His aim was to keep people’s spirits up by making them laugh. His jokes and comic remarks went all around the ghetto, spreading cheerfulness. One of his specialities was to approach the German guards, hopping about and making faces, and call them names – ‘You scallywags, you bandits, you thieving bunch!’ and all kinds of more obscene terms. The Germans thought this hilarious, and often threw Rubinstein cigarettes and a few coins for his insults; after all, one couldn’t take such a madman seriously.

  I was not so sure as the Germans about that, and to this day I don’t know if Rubinstein was really one of the many who had lost their minds because of the torments they had suffered, or was simply playing the fool to escape death. Not that he succeeded there.

  The mad took no notice of curfew time; it meant nothing to them, or to the children either. These ghosts of children now emerged from the basements, alleys and doorways where they slept, spurred on by the hope that they might yet arouse pity in human hearts at this last hour of the day. They stood by lamp-posts, by the walls of buildings and in the road, heads raised, monotonously whimpering that they were hungry. The more musical of them sang. In thin, weak little voices they sang the ballad of the young soldier wounded in battle; abandoned by all on the battlefield, he cries out, ‘Mother!’ as he dies. But his mother is not there, she is far away, unaware that her son lies dying, and only the earth rocks the poor man into eternal slumber with its rustling trees and grasses: ‘Sleep well, my son, sleep well, my dear!’ A blossom fallen from a tree to lie on his dead breast is his only cross of honour.

  Other children tried appealing to people’s consciences, pleading with them. ‘We are so very, very hungry. We haven’t eaten anything for ages. Give us a little bit of bread, or if you don’t have any bread then a potato or an onion, just to keep us alive till morning.’

  But hardly anyone had that onion, and if he did he could not find it in his heart to give it away, for the war had turned his heart to stone.

  2 ∼ War

  By 31 August 1939 everyone in Warsaw had been sure for some time that war with the Germans was inevitable. Only incorrigible optimists had still cherished the delusion that Poland’s determined stance would deter Hitler at the last moment. Other people’s optimism manifested itself, perhaps subconsciously, as opportunism: an inherent belief, in defiance of all logic, that although war was bound to come – that had been decided long ago – its actual outbreak would be delayed, so they could live life to the full a little longer. After all, life was good.

  A scrupulous blackout was imposed on the city at night. People sealed the rooms they were planning to use as gas shelters and tried on their gas masks. Gas was feared more than anything else.

  Meanwhile, bands still played behind the darkened windows of cafés and bars where the customers drank, danced and stirred up their patriotic feelings by singing belligerent songs. The need for a blackout, the chance to walk about with a gas mask slung over your shoulder, a journey home at night by taxi through streets that suddenly looked different added a certain spice to life, especially as there was no real danger yet.

  The ghetto had not yet been created, and I was living with my parents, my sisters and my brother in Śliska Street, working for Polish Radio as a pianist. I was late home that last day of August, and as I felt tired I went straight to bed. Our flat was on the third floor, a location which had its advantages: on summer nights the dust and the street smells subsided and refreshing air came in through our open windows from above, carrying the moisture that rose from the river Vistula.

  The noise of explosions woke me. It was light already. I looked at the time: six o’clock. The explosions were not particularly loud, and seemed to be some way off: outside the city, anyway. Obviously military exercises were in progress; we had become accustomed to them over the last couple of days. After a few minutes the explosions stopped. I wondered whether to go back to sleep, but it was too light and sunny now. I decided to read until breakfast time.

  It must have been at least eight when my bedroom door opened. Mother stood there, dressed as if she was off into town any minute. She was paler than usual, and could not conceal a certain disapproval when she saw me still in bed reading. She opened her mouth, but at the very first word her voice failed her and she had to clear her throat. Then she said, in nervous, hurried tones, ‘Get up! The war … the war’s begun.’

  I decided to go straight to the radio station, where I would find my friends and hear the latest news. I dressed, ate breakfast and left the house.

  You could already see large white posters on the walls of buildings and the advertising pillars: they bore the president’s message to the nation announcing that the Germans had attacked. Some people were standing around in small groups reading it, while others hu
rried off in various different directions to deal with their most urgent business. The proprietress of the corner shop not far from our building was sticking strips of white paper over the windows, hoping that would keep them intact in the coming bombardment. Meanwhile, her daughter was decorating platters of egg salad, ham and sausage rings with small national flags and portraits of Polish dignitaries. Paper-boys selling special editions ran breathlessly down the streets.

  There was no panic. The mood swung between curiosity – what would happen next? – and surprise: was this the way it all began?

  A grey-haired, clean-shaven gentleman stood rooted to the spot beside one of the pillars bearing the presidential announcement. His agitation was visible in the bright red blotches covering his face and neck, and he had pushed his hat back on his head, something he would surely never have done in normal circumstances. He studied the announcement, shook his head incredulously and read on, pushing his pince-nez down more firmly over his nose. He read a few words out loud, indignantly. ‘They attacked us … without warning!’

  He looked round at his neighbours to see their reaction, raised a hand, readjusted his pince-nez and remarked, ‘Really, this is no way to behave!’ And as he walked away, having read the whole thing through once more and still unable to control his agitation, he was shaking his head and muttering, ‘No, no, this won’t do!’

  I lived quite close to the broadcasting centre, but it was not at all easy to get there; the walk took twice as long as usual. I was about halfway when the howl of sirens sounded from the loudspeakers installed on lamp-posts, in windows and over shop doorways. Then I heard the radio announcer’s voice. ‘This is an alarm warning for the city of Warsaw … Be on the alert! Now on their way are…’ At this point the announcer read out a list of figures and letters of the alphabet in military cipher that fell on civilian ears like a mysterious cabbalistic threat. Did the figures mean the number of aircraft on their way? Were the letters code for the places where bombs were about to be dropped? And was the place where we were now standing one of them?

  The street rapidly emptied. Women scurried to the shelters in alarm. The men did not want to go down; they stood in doorways, cursing the Germans, making a great show of their courage and venting their anger with the government for bungling mobilization so that only a small number of the men fit for military service were called up. The rest were going from one military authority to another, unable to get themselves into the army for love or money.

  There was nothing to be heard in the empty, lifeless street but the arguments between the air-raid wardens and people who insisted on leaving the doorways of houses on some kind of business and were trying to go on their way, keeping close to the walls. A moment later there were more explosions, but still not too close.

  I reached the broadcasting centre just as the alarm went off for the third time. However, no one inside the building had time to make for the air-raid shelters whenever it sounded.

  The broadcasting schedule was in chaos. As soon as something like a provisional programme had been hastily cobbled together important announcements would come in, either from the front or of a diplomatic nature. Everything had to be interrupted to broadcast this sort of news as quickly as possible, and it was interspersed with military marches and patriotic anthems.

  There was also hopeless confusion in the corridors of the centre, where a mood of belligerent self-confidence prevailed. One of the broadcasters who had been called up came in to say goodbye to his colleagues and show off his uniform. He had probably expected everyone to surround him for a touching and uplifting farewell scene, but he was disappointed: no one had time to pay him much attention. There he stood, buttonholing his colleagues as they hurried past and trying to get at least a part of his programme entitled ‘A Civilian’s Farewell’ on the air, so that he could tell his grandchildren about it some day. He was not to know that two weeks later they would still have no time for him – not even time to honour his memory with a proper funeral.

  Outside the studio door an old pianist who worked at the radio station took my arm. Dear old Professor Ursztein. Whereas other people measure out their lives by days and hours, his had been measured for decades by piano accompaniments. When the professor was trying to remember details of some past event, he would begin, ‘Now let’s see. I was accompanying so-and-so at the time…’ and once he had pinpointed a particular accompaniment by its date, like a milestone at the road-side, he let his memory range on over other and invariably less important reminiscences. Now he stood stunned and disorientated outside the studio. How was this war to be waged without piano accompaniment – what would it be like?

  At a loss, he began complaining, ‘They won’t tell me if I’m to work today…’

  By that afternoon we were both working, each at his own piano. Music broadcasts were still going on, although not to the usual schedule.

  In the middle of the day some of us felt hungry and left the broadcasting centre for a bite of lunch in a nearby restaurant. The streets looked almost normal. There was a great deal of traffic in the main thoroughfares of the city – trams, cars and pedestrians; the shops were open, and since the mayor had appealed to the population not to hoard food, assuring us that there was no need to do so, there were not even any queues outside them. Street traders were doing good business selling a paper toy which represented a pig, but if you put the paper together and unfolded it in a certain way it turned into Hitler’s face.

  We got a table in the restaurant, though with some difficulty, and it turned out that several of the standard dishes on the menu were not available today and others were rather more expensive than usual. The speculators were already at work.

  Conversation revolved mainly around the forthcoming declaration of war by France and Britain that was expected very soon. Most of us, apart from a few hopeless pessimists, were convinced they would enter the war any moment now, and a number of us thought the United States would declare war on Germany too. Arguments were drawn from the experiences of the Great War, and there was a general feeling that the sole purpose of that conflict had been to show us how to conduct the present one better, and do it properly this time.

  The declaration of war by France and Great Britain became a reality on 3 September.

  I was still at home, although it was already eleven o’clock. We left the radio on all day so as not to miss a word of the all-important news. The communiqués from the front were not what we had expected. Our cavalry had attacked East Prussia and our aircraft were bombarding German military objectives, but meanwhile the superior military power of the enemy kept forcing the Polish army to withdraw from somewhere or other. How could such a thing be possible when our propaganda had told us that German aircraft and tanks were made of cardboard, and ran on synthetic fuel that wasn’t even fit for cigarette lighters? Several German planes had already been shot down over Warsaw, and eyewitness accounts claimed to have seen the corpses of enemy airmen wearing paper clothes and paper shoes. How could such wretchedly equipped troops force us to retreat? It made no sense.

  Mother was bustling about the living room, Father was practising his violin and I was sitting in an armchair reading, when some inconsequential programme was suddenly interrupted and a voice said that an announcement of the utmost importance was about to be made. Father and I hurried over to the radio set while Mother went into the next room to call my two sisters and my brother. Meanwhile the radio was playing military marches. The announcer repeated his remarks, there were more marches and yet another announcement of the forthcoming announcement. We could hardly stand the nervous tension when the national anthem was finally played, followed by the national anthem of Great Britain. Then we learned that we no longer faced our enemy alone; we had a powerful ally and the war was certain to be won, although there would be ups and downs, and our situation might not be too good for the time being.

  It is difficult to describe the emotion we felt as we listened to that radio announcement. Mother had tears in
her eyes, Father was sobbing unashamedly and my brother Henryk took his chance to aim a punch at me and say, quite crossly, ‘There you are! I told you so, didn’t I?’

  Regina did not like to see us quarrelling at such a moment and intervened, saying calmly, ‘Oh, do stop it! We all knew this was bound to happen.’ She paused, and added, ‘It’s the logical outcome of the treaties.’

  Regina was a lawyer and an authority on such subjects, so it was no use arguing with her.

  Meanwhile, Halina was sitting by the radio set trying to tune in to London; she wanted first-hand confirmation of the news.

  My two sisters were the most level-headed members of the family. Who did they take after? If anyone, it must have been Mother, but even she seemed an emotional character compared to Regina and Halina.

  Four hours later France declared war on Germany. That afternoon Father insisted on joining the demonstration outside the British Embassy building. Mother was not happy about it, but he was set on going. He came back in a state of high excitement, dishevelled from the crush of the crowd. He had seen our foreign minister and the British and French ambassadors, he had cheered and sung along with everyone else, but then suddenly the crowd was asked to disperse as quickly as possible because there might be an air raid. The crowd energetically did as it was told, and Father could have been suffocated. All the same, he was very happy and in good spirits.

  Unfortunately, our joy was of short duration. The communiqués from the front became more and more alarming. On 7 September, just before dawn, there was a loud knocking at the door of our flat. Our neighbour from the flat opposite, a doctor, was standing outside in high army boots, a hunting jacket and a sporting cap, carrying a rucksack. He was in a hurry, but he thought it his duty to let us know the Germans were advancing on Warsaw, the government had moved to Lublin, and all able-bodied men were to leave the city and go to the far side of the river Vistula, where a new line of defence would be built up.