The name of Wladyslaw Szpilman was vaguely familiar to me and, running a quick gaze down my bookshelves, I saw that I owned a book written by him called SmiercMiasta, translated as Death of a City. It was written in Polish, which posed no problem for me. Indeed I hardly even realised it wasn’t in English until I was halfway through it. Szpilman was a Polish Jew; a survivor of the Holocaust who wrote about his experiences mere months after the war had finally ended. It was later renamed The Pianist. The memoir is quite a slim volume and, after showering and picking all the tiny pieces of glass out of my skin with tweezers, I sat and read it all the way through that day.
The story disturbs me greatly. It appals me, in fact. For the truth of it is that Captain Wilm Hosenfeld was indeed a good and brave man. Can I say that? Is it blasphemy? Or was Stephomi right? Hosenfeld saved Wladyslaw Szpilman’s life at risk to his own, and was ashamed to be German at the realisation of what was happening. He was ashamed of himself for not doing anything about it. He was a schoolteacher by profession, with a love of children, and he absolutely deplored what was being done to the Jews. He deplored it. And he cursed himself for a wretched coward and he cursed his lack of power to do anything. But, really, how very illogical of Hosenfeld to feel that way, for he would have been quite unable to do anything to influence the war even if he’d wanted to.
Six million Jews died during the Second World War. Six million of them. Captain Wilm Hosenfeld’s actions saved Wladyslaw Szpilman’s life. And so what? Six million dead. Hosenfeld saved one. In the grand scheme of things, what difference did it make…? All the difference in the world to Szpilman himself, one supposes.
Captain Hosenfeld, like all other citizens of Hitler’s Germany, had been bombarded with anti-Semitic propaganda for years: the Jews were the cause of all Germany’s problems; the Jews were the cause of all economic crises and political instabilities; the Jews were a subhuman race, who would pollute the purity of German blood if they were given the chance; the Jews were a disease, an infestation, a cancer that would have to be removed from the Earth’s gut. God, what utter madness that anyone should ever have accepted such nonsense. But people love to hate other people and pain comes easier when there is someone to blame.
When Wladyslaw Szpilman’s hiding place was discovered by a German officer, the Jew was convinced that the man’s appearance meant death for him, convinced that he would be shot in the head, as had so many others he had known. But instead of shooting him in the head, this German brought Szpilman food, wrapped up in current newspapers so that the Jew might see the war really was nearing its end. He ordered Szpilman to hold on just a little longer. Soon this will all be over and everyone can go back to being human beings again… He even brought him blankets to protect him from the bitter cold of his attic hideaway. Why did he do that? Why did he?
Szpilman wrote in his memoirs that, had it not been for this man’s assistance, had it not been for the newspapers he brought that talked of imminent German defeat, had it not been for those things, then he might have taken his own life before the war was out. He might have killed himself, unable to go on with the constant fear, the constant misery of what his life had become… when only a few years earlier he had been a respected and admired Polish pianist who played on the radio for a living.
When Hosenfeld went to visit Szpilman for the last time before he left Warsaw with his detachment, the Jew tried to persuade the German to take his watch — the one remaining treasured thing he owned — to show his gratitude for what the officer had done; but Hosenfeld refused point blank to take it. A Jew’s watch, a Basilica’s bell… how do these things become so important at a time when they should be so utterly insignificant? Why do they matter?
So what of the German captain? Was he born heroic? Nazi Germany surely wasn’t the ideal environment in which to foster heroism, so was the man simply born that way? A simple enough matter of a genetic predisposition towards bravery and decency? This story frightens me. I like black and white. I am comfortable there. Nazis should not be heroes. Just as angels should not be devils. It’s not right. When I look at some of the photos of renowned Nazi war criminals, they do not all look evil. They do not all look depraved. They do not all look soulless. Some of them look like human beings. This is not right — monsters should look like monsters; they should not be allowed to wander round among other people in such a flawless disguise.
It must have been about 9 p.m. when the note was shoved under my door. I’d just finished reading Szpilman’s memoirs and had gone into the kitchen for a glass of water when I heard the faint sound of a folded piece of paper being slipped under the door. I turned and, even as I did so, I could hear footsteps treading rapidly along the corridor. I crossed the kitchen in moments, flinging open the door and gazing out at the now empty corridor. Slamming my door behind me, I ran down to the end, just in time to see the elevator doors closing although I couldn’t see who was inside. My apartment is several floors above street level and there is only one lift so I had no choice but to run down the flights of stairs, sliding and occasionally tripping in my haste, reaching out to steady myself on the twisting steel rail.
Who the hell knew where I lived? The only person who knew my address was Stephomi, but I couldn’t believe he had shoved the note under my door and then run off down the corridor to the elevators like a child playing a prank. If nothing else, he was a clever man, and if he really wanted to torment me I am sure he would have found subtler and smarter ways to do it.
By the time I got down to street level, I was too late. There was no one. I had not been fast enough to beat the lift for it was now standing empty. The foyer was deserted but for a small, dark-skinned boy who was hovering by the front doors. I had been about to ask him if he had seen anything when a girl I recognised came into view.
I did not see much of my neighbours; probably because of the unsociable hours I kept, leaving the apartment early in the morning and not returning until late at night. But this was the pregnant girl I had tried to talk to a couple of months ago. What had she said her name was..? Casey March? I had since seen her going back into her apartment at hours similarly late to mine. I had been too afraid to talk to her after the spectacle I had made of myself before, and I hid when I could if I saw her coming.
It made me wince just to look at her as she scolded the boy for keeping her waiting, took his arm and walked out into the city. I hated seeing her coming in late at night. I got the impression that she had a late job in the city somewhere, although I didn’t know what she did with the boy while she was there. She couldn’t be his mother as he must have been at least eight. My guess was that she was his sister. I had never seen anything of any parents. It seemed it was just the two of them. I had wanted to introduce myself properly but after the grand job I’d made of it last time, she probably thought I was some kind of nutcase… this man who couldn’t even remember his last name.