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The Pianist, by Wladyslaw Szpilman. Picador,
1999, 240 pages.
War, Crisis, and
Character by Jo Ann Skousen
Seldom do I finish a book feeling so moved that I want
everyone I know to read it. Yet such was my experience upon finishing "The
Pianist," Wladyslaw Szpilman's personal account of his survival in and around the
ghetto of Warsaw during the German occupation 1939Ð1945. Szpilman, one of
Poland's foremost musicians, performed on radio and in concert halls both before
and after the war. His musicality is reflected in the writing style of this small
book, which he writes "with an almost melancholy detachment"; the stories
presented as spare vignettes of powerful truths. We see the ghetto as he did,
peeking through windows and around walls; we glimpse the horror, and the
kindness, without knowing the beginning or the end of the stories. He underplays
his own role in the Warsaw rebellion, when he and other workers risked certain
death to smuggle food, guns, and ammunition into the ghetto. At times he seems
almost apologetic about his survival.
| | Jo Ann
Skousen is a writer and critic living in New York.
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Several months ago I stumbled onto the film, which has since earned three
well-deserved Oscars, and was blown away by its power. It is perhaps the best
film I have seen all year. I was put off at first by what appeared to be director
Roman Polanski's gratuitous violence in presenting seemingly random, senseless
acts of German brutality. Indeed, two groups of ladies left the theater during
the viewing I attended, and I considered following them. Thankfully, however,
Polanski focuses mostly on Szpilman's indomitable will to survive. I became
engrossed and uplifted by the coincidences that saved his life and the music that
saved his sanity. It is a brilliant piece of work, and Adrien Brody, who has
danced around the edge of stardom for a couple of years, deserved his Oscar for
this deeply moving portrait of Szpilman's withdrawal into starvation. Now that I
have read the book, I realize that there was nothing gratuitous about Polanski's
portrayal of what Szpilman experienced and observed. He portrayed these acts with
brutality because they were brutal; he portrayed them as random and senseless
because they were random and senseless. War is hell, and it brings out the worst
in people.
But it can also bring out the best in people, as this book demonstrates.
Szpilman was helped by numerous Poles in Warsaw, both Jewish and Christian. He
was also helped, almost inexplicably, by a German officer whose name he did not
learn until many years later. Appended to this new edition of "The Pianist" are
excerpts from the wartime diary of Captain Wilm Hosenfeld, an officer in the
German army who became increasingly disgusted by the actions of his fellow
Germans and kept a journal of his observations. Imagine if his writings had been
discovered by another officer! In 1942 he wrote, "If you are going to arrest an
enemy of the State, you should have the courage to accuse them publicly and hand
them over to public justice." Of Nazi hypocrisy he wrote, "They declare
themselves in favor of the right to personal and religious freedom, but they
destroy the Christian churches and conduct a secret, underground battle against
them. They speak of the rights of capable people to develop their talents freely,
but they make everything dependent on Party membership. They ask ordinary people
to observe [principles] but have no intention of doing so themselves." He records
many vicious atrocities that he observed in Warsaw, and then notes that the
result of these atrocities was "to arouse not fear and terror but bitter
determination, anger and rising fanaticism." Some of that bitter determination
was aroused within himself, leading Hosenfeld to protect individual citizens of
Warsaw whenever he could. "When the terrible mass murders of Jews were committed
last summer," he wrote in 1943, "I knew that we would lose the war." Like Oskar
Schindler, Wilm Hosenfeld kept a list of those he helped, and this was how
Wladyslaw Szpilman eventually learned the name of his
benefactor. |
| We see the ghetto as he
did, peeking through windows and around walls; we glimpse the horror, and the
kindness, without knowing the beginning or the end of the stories.
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Incidentally, Hosenfeld did not fight in the front lines but was assigned to
oversee the College of Physical Education, a sports facility in Warsaw
commandeered for German soldiers. Thus he writes, "I hardly notice the war, but I
can't feel happy." His journal entries are often profound in their simplicity, as
when he answers the question, "Why does God permit this terrible war with its
dreadful human sacrifices?" His thoughts may surprise you.
Why are we fascinated by books and movies about war? Santayana observed that
if we do not study history, we are doomed to repeat it. But I think there is more
to our interest than this pragmatism. War is a time of crisis, and in times of
crisis we discover who we really are.
Many people are pragmatic about crisis, taking advantage of changing economic
demands during personal or political upheaval. Doug Casey's "Crisis Investing" is
a good example of this concept. People can make good profits while providing
needed services during such times. In the free market, both the buyer and the
seller gain — even, or perhaps especially, during crisis. Szpilman reports
purchasing a single caramel cream for "a ridiculous price" as they awaited the
train for Treblinka, and then adds, "heaven knows what [the seller] thought he
was going to do with the money." Meanwhile, the family divided the caramel into
six pieces and ate it reverently. Each participant in the exchange valued his
acquisition more than what he had traded. Similarly, despite crisis conditions,
Szpilman imposes no hint of obligation on anyone to help or even to share. Those
who had more goods or money to trade were entitled to have more food or services.
This attitude kept the black market open and brought needed food and supplies
into the ghetto.
| War is hell, and it
brings out the worst in people. But it can also bring out the best in people.
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Sometimes the character revealed by crisis is shameful. Henrik Ibsen makes
this point in "A Doll's House." In the play, Nora Helmer has forged her father's
signature on a note in order to borrow money to purchase treatment crucial to her
husband's health. When the holder of the note threatens to go public with Nora's
forgery, her husband lashes out: "You've wrecked all my happiness — ruined
my whole future! . . . I'll be swept down miserably on account of a
featherbrained woman." Only after the crisis has passed, when the lender has
decided to tear up the note, does Helmer try to smooth things over with his wife
with these self-congratulatory words: "My frightened little songbird. You can
rest easy now; I've got wide wings to shelter you." But the time for sheltering
has passed. Crisis has revealed the true character of Torvald Helmer, and Nora
isn't buying it.
Lorraine Hansberry explores the same question in "A Raisin in the Sun." The
Younger family anxiously awaits the arrival of a $10,000 insurance check, more
money than any of them has ever imagined. Mama dreams of buying a house, Beneatha
dreams of tuition for medical school, and Walter Lee dreams of starting a
business with some friends. When Walter Lee's friends abscond with two-thirds of
the money, the family is devastated. Sister Beneatha is particularly distraught
over the loss, saying of her brother, "That is not a man. That is nothing but a
toothless rat." But Mama Younger asks Beneatha, "Have you cried for that boy
today? I don't mean for yourself and for the family 'cause we lost the money. I
mean for him: what he been through and what it done to him. Child, when do you
think is the time to love somebody the most? Measure him right, child, measure
him right."
How we respond to crisis reveals a lot about who we are. Reading about crisis
invites us to examine our own character and ask ourselves how we would measure
up. Would I have the strength to endure? Would I have the courage to resist?
Would I have the wisdom to know when and how to fight? Or would I simply run
away? The extraordinary story of "The Pianist" seems to ask the right questions,
and provides many of the right answers. Perhaps the permanent uniting of the
Polish Jew with his German Catholic benefactor between the covers of a single
book is the most important answer of all.
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