The Pianist Page #8

Szpilman walks on, hears a noise, looks back to see a SECOND

CHILD trying to wriggle through the same hole. But he's

stuck. Angry German voices from the Aryan side.

2ND CHILD

Help me! help me!

Szpilman goes to him, pulls him with all his might but the

boy is jammed in the hole.

From the other side of the wall, the sound of an angry

German voice and of a boot stamping violently on the boy.

The boy screams in agony.

Szpilman continues to try to pull the boy through.

The sound of the German voice swearing and the dull,

crunching noise made by the boot smashing into the boy

continues, and with every thud the boy screams in terrible

pain.

Szpilman struggles to help the boy whose screams are

becoming weaker yet increasingly desperate.

Szpilman pulls his arms and finally manages to get him

through. The boy lies moaning.

Szpilman takes the boy's face in his hands, tries to comfort

him, revive him, but the boy has stopped moaning. His head

lolls and his jaw sags. He is dead. Szpilman stands quickly

and hurries away.

EXT. COURTYARD AND HOUSE - EVENING

Szpilman approaches the house through a shabby yard.

INT. JEHUDA ZYSKIND'S ROOM - EVENING

The noise of a mimeograph machine. A huge, CHEERFUL MAN

with a perpetual cigarette in his mouth.

JEHUDA:

I always say look on the bright

side. You're in the small ghetto,

intellectuals, professional people,

you're better off than us. Here,

in the large ghetto, it's a

cesspool. But you, you're living

in Monte Carlo. You could say you're

privileged and that, of course,

goes against my principles.

Nevertheless...

He laughs and coughs, starts looking through papers. His

room is piled from floor to ceiling with old papers and

stuff. Dark, shabby, run-down.

One of his sons, SYMCHE, is operating the mimeograph

machine. The other, DOLEK, is sorting the sheets as they

come off the roller. MRS. ZYSKIND, holding a toddler, is

cooking at a small stove.

JEHUDA finds what he's been looking for, a newspaper made

up of a few sheets.

JEHUDA:

Ah, here. Today's news from the

other side.

SZPILMAN:

You're amazing, Jehuda.

JEHUDA:

No, I'm a socialist. I have brothers

everywhere. They bring me news and

food. We care about our fellow

human beings. Workers of the world

unite.

SZPILMAN:

So, what's the news?

JEHUDA:

(scanning the paper)

The Germans are advancing on

Kharkhov.

SZPILMAN:

I don't know why I come here every

evening, it's always such bad news.

JEHUDA:

Bad news, you crazy? You have no

world view, Wladek, that's your

trouble. The news couldn't be

better. The moment Hitler invaded

Russia, I knew we'd be all right.

Remember Napoleon. Same business.

The Germans will freeze to death,

please God.

He beams. Szpilman leans over, takes a sheet from the

mimeograph.

SZPILMAN:

Jehuda, give me something to do.

JEHUDA:

You're an artist, Wladek, you keep

people's spirits up. You do enough.

SZPILMAN:

But I want to help, I want to.

JEHUDA:

You're too well known, Wladek. And

you know what? You musicians don't

make good conspirators. You're

too...too musical.

He loves this, laughs, coughs.

SZPILMAN:

There are notices going up. The

city's to be cleansed of

undesirables.

JEHUDA:

There are always notices going up.

A distinctive knock on the door. Szpilman tenses but Jehuda

beams. To one of his boys: Symche - The boy opens the door

to admit a short, neat man, MAJOREK.

MAJOREK:

Hello, Symche, Dolek, Mrs Zyskind,

Jehuda. Working hard?

He stops, seeing Szpilman.

JEHUDA:

Majorek, this is the greatest

pianist in Poland, maybe in the

whole world. Wladyslaw Szpilman.

Meet Majorek.

MAJOREK:

(shakes Szpilman's

hand)

I know your name. I've never heard

you play.

JEHUDA:

Majorek used to be in the army.

Brilliant man. He's got a mind

like a searchlight. The only thing

I've got against him is he's not a

socialist.

(he looks out of

the window.)

You'd better go now, Wladek. It's

nearly curfew.

(he hands over

pamphlets to

Majorek.)

You see these, Wladek? You know

how many copies we print of our

newspaper?

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