The moonlight covered the devastated Warsaw city, and the vast snow was a shroud of pain and sin.
Pandora's Box opens. Under the moonlight, my slender fingers groped and tapped an expired can of melon in the dead silence; under the moonlight, I passed through the charred stumps and crawled among the dead; An old man in a wheelchair was thrown from a high-rise building; under the moonlight, a young mother smothered her crying child; under the moonlight, an airtight high wall was erected, and baskets of Jews were sardines and ordered to ride on the rails of fate to death. who I am? My identity and fortune were reversed in an instant. Put on the thick German jacket and I'm the German that the Russians sniped at; I'm a fugitive of hope who escaped this wall; I'm the hated Jew with the blue and white star sleeves; I'm the piano when I sit in a suit and play division.
What do you hate because of my hooked nose and curled black hair and blue eyes, or the imprint of the inferior race running in my blood. What are you afraid of because of my khaki or smog blue military uniform. Prejudice breeds hatred, ugliness, arrogance, arrogance. Power breeds desire, cruelty, greed. I run around like a rat in the gutter, hiding too long to forget how to walk in the sun, starving too long to get used to spoiled and moldy food to forget the taste of bread and jam; hunched and huddled, Fear forced me how to be a beggar. Whipped and abused for so long that I forgot how to trust an enemy's goodwill.
Moonlight shone from the narrow window, my only little spotlight in the dark, fingers trembling back and forth on the black and white keys. I rub it for warmth, I rummage through rubbish for food, I use it to pray and beg, I use it to carry the bodies of my fellow men. The enemy with blond hair, blue eyes, oily back, and a well-dressed smog blue military uniform stood beside me. As I flipped my fingers and struck the note, I forgot my fear, my hunger, my mother, my identity, my curse, my death threat, my nationality. The moonlight flows with the notes, I look at the vast and silent city of Warsaw, everything is over, the broken walls are like wounds, a huge loneliness swept me, a lost dog with nowhere to go. The vast snow will cover all these hidden ugly secrets.
Adorno said: "After Auschwitz, writing poetry is cruel and barbaric." The heavy history weighed on me, the great grief strangled my throat, and the fortunate were ashamed of the unfortunate. I can't forget how hard it was to live, how I learned to dig food in the garbage heap, and how to hide in the gutter; how to disintegrate my dignity and identity, how to learn betrayal and lamblike obedience and weakness, how to learn to hide in silence. I lost my right to rhetoric, I lost my right to dance and laugh. So I used the keys as my tongue, and I cried aloud, mourned and wept.
I remember reading Samarakis's "The Boundary River" in junior high school. The confronting two soldiers from the two countries sneaked out to take a bath in the Boundary River and met their eyes. On this bank, he couldn't pull the trigger. The two naked people who have taken off their nationality, name, and khaki military uniforms, can the people on the other side believe that he is sluggish, believing that this boundary river connects them together.
"Pa!" The birds responded, and before there was a time to smile, the small kindness went out with the sound of gunfire.
In the end, he fell to his knees and fell flat on the ground.
View more about The Pianist reviews
