Prologue
Warsaw, Poland. Evening. September
24th, 1939. Royal Palace Wilanow
The evening's crowd was the largest
seen in years. Not even the German threat had kept hundreds of
attendees from gathering to listen to the their city's beloved
pianist. He was the best in the world, many said, and possibly the
greatest ever. Tonight he played for his homeland, entertaining the
mass of people with revamped versions of his greatest songs, and his
playing did not disappoint anyone. He'd kept to himself that tonight,
in the Royal Palace, he would debut his greatest masterpiece yet.
The man, remarkably young for his
talent, sat at the black, polished grand piano. His face and upper
torso reflected on the lib on the piano as his hands effortlessly
danced over the keys, ebbing and flowing like the tide. A small bead
of sweat gathered at his brow as he furrowed in concentration. As
always, there was no music in front of him, just some loose sheets
scattered on the side for looks.
Although seemingly lost in his music,
Jedrzej Mikolajski was, in fact, thinking of his life, family,
friends. As he started the fifth movement, his mind wandered to the
future, his future. He had often heard that a good ship's captain
would prevent his ship from ever sinking, but that a great captain,
after all could be done, would go down with his ship. Jedrzej
wondered if he really was the greatest pianist of his time.
Far away, through hilled plains,
Jedrzej imagined that he could hear the thrum and whirs of the
approaching planes. He knew, without a doubt, that tonight they would
come; his dreams had told him as much, he had known for quite some
time that tonight his childhood home would be ripped from the face of
the earth.
But he said nothing, did nothing.
Tonight was for his people.
He kept playing.
Quickly, he realized, the bomber
engines he heard came not from his head; rather, from the city down
below the palace. Thudding and cracking echoed up to the concert hall
as the full force of the German air-force few over Warsaw.
Those in the hall looked around
themselves in panic as, one by one, they realized what was happening.
Some began running, pushing others out of the way to reach the
nearest exits. Women screamed as planes swooped over the Palace. The
sound of shattering stone and twisting metal distorted the terror in
the hall as the explosions thundered closer and closer. Parents
grabbed their children, clutching them close to their chests as they
scrambled over one another.
Jedrzej, as if dear to the screams
around him, seemed not to notice; he simply kept playing, nearing the
head of his masterpiece.
Engines began roaring overhead. Soon,
he knew, it would all be over.
Above him, Jedrzej pictured the bomb
bay doors opening, dropping their warheads directily over the Palace.
Over where he was seated. Slowly Jedrzej let out a sigh and closed
his eyes.
The ceiling burst into pieces as the
bombs from a Junker88 overhead made contact. Large sections of the
ancient stone ceiling fell directly over the piano and its master,
threatening to crush both. Time seemed to slow. Had anyone been able
to pay attention, they would have seen a most remarkable thing: the
piano, bench and loose sheet music flew outward from where Jedrzej,
their loved piano prodigy, had been sitting, propelled outwards and
away not by the large hunk of ceiling that smashed into the floor,
but by the mysterious disappearance of the man.
No, he
thought, his image vanishing from sight, I'm not a great
pianist. He felt his body
disappear, stretch, tighten, reform.
He looked up at
the night sky as he say upon the rubble of his favorite concert hall,
staring at the dawning sky.
….Not
yet, anyways.
Chapter 1
The sun set silently on the endless horizon of hay and wheat as it
always had; tonight was no different. Slowly it sunk, descending
lower and lower, turning knots on the old oak tree into haunting
faces. It sent the shadow of the swing into the far recesses of the
hedges that surrounded the house, and began casting an eerie
blackness across the yard.
As the shadow of the tree swing reached the burning-bush hedges, a
pair of mourning doves landed noiselessly onto the branch that held
the swing. They cooed, a heartbreaking song, and enveloped the
dimming scene. Mosquitoes, almost as if in a trance by the doves'
song, flocked from their resting places into the evening air.
Overhead, the slight whir of black bats could be heard as they rushed
by, snatching their breakfast in tiny, toothy mouths. The flutter of
the bats wings, the cooing of the mated doves, and the silent hum of
the mosquitoes soon was joined by the intermittent chirping chorus of
a few lone grasshoppers.
The symphony of the rising night was beautiful in its simplicity,
eerie in its sadness.
In the darkening horizon, long blades of browning grass and wheat
bent gently as a smooth, gentle wind pushed them to the ground. The
mosquitoes hum ceased for the breeze as they rested their wings,
floating along with it.
As the breeze passed, it seemed as though the house released a deep
and mournful sigh. An old wicker rocker, sitting on the
green-and-black molding deck, creaked as it moved back and forth. Its
blotched reed seat, cracked and broke more. The swing moved slightly
as well, joining in unison with the old rocker, pieces of crusted
mold and grime flaking off the thick, yellowing rope.
Inside the house, a black widow in the nook of the kitchen corner
swayed with her web. The wind mixed with the stale air of the house
as it entered through a hole in the window above the sink. The smell,
the taste of iron lifted and trailed with the wind. Flies, disturbed
from their mating and eating, buzzed in annoyance at the breeze. As
if in response, the air settled, and the usual murmur of the evening
filled the area once again.
Outside, gravel flung into the air as wheels screeched to a halt.
Pieces hit the side of the peeling white house, making staccato 'tik
tik' sounds as they collided with the metal siding. The red and blue
rotating lights broke the last moments of the setting sun, preventing
it from seeing a last look at the house. Both of the car's doors
opened, and the crunching of red granite gravel sounded underneath
the heavy leather boots of the squad car's two occupants.
They entered the house, covering their noses as the smell of decayed
iron and rot hit them in the face. They didn't need to look long
before they found the kitchen; the distinct aroma led them directly
to it. One man, the large and taller of the duo, slowly shook is head
and looked to his partner, Alexi Dukov, his grey eyes full of pity,
sadness and depression.
Dean _____ turned around and headed back to the squad car, motioning
his partner to follow. He reached the car a few paces ahead of his
partner. Alexi climbed in first, then, noticing Dean had not
followed, looked at his partner, and found him staring up at the old,
forlorn house. Before he could say anything, Dean keeled over and
threw up.
Standing upright, Dean wiped the remains on his blue cuffed sleeve,
reached over to the dash in the car, and called for a coroner as he
sat down on the faded brown leather seat of the aging police car. He
looked at Alexi, a longing look in his steely eyes, saying, without
words, that tonight was going to be a long and arduous one.
As they waited for the CSIs and the coroner to arrive, the detective
futzed around the interior of the vehicle. Out of an instinct bred
from being a cop for what seemed his whole life, he shifted his gaze
to the rear-view mirror and quickly turned his head around, startling
Alexi.
Too late, however, the figure that he'd seen was gone.
* * * * *
* * * *
Silently, a young man rose from his resting place behind the old
tree, nearly unseen. Taller than most men, his tall, lanky body stood
rigid, joining ad blending with the shadow of the tree. The tips of
his sandy blonde hair still held the remnants of the red he used the
last time he'd dyed his hair; it gave his head the appearance of
being slightly dipped in blood.
