She turned to the Doctor, and what she saw frightened her. She had seen him excited, she had seen him scared, she had seen him worried. But this was something new. His eyes were squeezed closed, his lips quivering. She could tell he was forcing himself to hold back from crying out. His cheeks were wet with tears, and she didn’t know what to do to help. She reflexively reached out to him, resting her hand over his lightly. She gasped as he took his other hand and grabbed her tightly, holding on to her as if she were keeping him from drowning. She sat there, letting him cling to her.
The third and final movement began, so slow, so quiet, so fragile. Woytowicz’s voice rose like an angel out of the darkness, soaring to the heights of the performance hall.
‘Kajze mi sie podziol
moj synocek mily?
Pewnie go w powstaniu
zle wrogi zabily.
Wy niedobrzy ludzie,
dlo Boga swietego
cemuscie zabili
synocka mojego?’
Rose had already looked ahead, and knew as Woytowicz sang what the words meant:
‘Where has he gone
My dearest son?
Perhaps during the uprising
The cruel enemy killed him
Ah, you bad people
In the name of God, the most Holy,
Tell me, why did you kill
My son?’
She could take no more. She already felt as if she were on the brink of breaking, and she knew, as beautiful as this music was (and it was, oh it was, she thought…the most beautiful, most sad music I have ever heard), her heart could stand no more. She slipped her hand from between the Doctor’s hands. He didn’t move, didn’t notice, and tears still flowed unabated from his eyes. She brushed his cheek lightly, wiping a few tears away, and slowly left the hall. Outside she took a deep breath and finally allowed the tears to flow without restriction.
Some twenty five minutes later, the doors to the hall opened and the audience filed out. She was not surprised to see them quiet and contemplative. She was, however, surprised to hear some of the comments from various attendees.
‘Decadent trash,’ opined one younger gentleman in disgust.
‘An affront to the true pinnacles of avant-gardism,’ replied another, his voice thinly veiled with disgust.
Rose looked at them in shock. Here was music that touched the very depths of her soul, music she’d never have heard were it not for the Doctor’s insistence she broaden her horizon, and they cast it off as something unworthy of note?
As she seethed she looked around, hoping to see the Doctor among the exiting crowd. He was nowhere to be seen. Curious, she stepped back into the hall, where she saw the Doctor still sitting. An older gentleman, perhaps in his mid 40’s, sat next to him. She could see they were talking, and Rose walked over to them.
‘The music seems to have touched you, friend,’ spoke the stranger. Rose picked up that his accent was eastern European, perhaps Polish.
The Doctor nodded, his eyes still red and wet.
‘It is more than that though, is it not?’
‘Leave my friend alone! Can’t you see how upset he is?’ yelled Rose as she reached for the stranger’s shoulder. The Doctor turned to her and shook his head.
‘No, Rose…it’s alright. Rose, I’d like you to meet Henryk Mikołaj Górecki. He wrote the symphony we just heard.’
Rose dropped her hand quickly. ‘Oh…I’m so sorry.’
Górecki smiled. ‘There is not any need to apologise, young lady. A true friend always protects those they care about. I take no offense.’
He turned back to the Doctor.
‘You have lost someone.’
The Doctor shook his head. ‘No. I’ve lost everyone.’
The composer shook his head, his silvering hair waving back and forth slightly. ‘You have your young friend, and you still have your life. You have not lost everyone.’
The Doctor looked up. ‘I don’t think you understand.’ His voice was sad, broken, with more than a touch of bitterness.
Górecki laughed, but it was not a laugh of happiness. ‘Don’t I? My grandfather was in Dachau. My aunt was in Auschwitz. Many of my family died in concentration camps. Tell me again I do not understand.’
The Doctor looked down for a moment, and then back up. He shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you that.’
Górecki placed one hand on the Doctor’s right shoulder, and motioned Rose to do the same. She reached out slowly and gently touched the Doctor’s left shoulder.
‘I look in your eyes, and I see a man who has seen far more than his face tells me. I do not doubt that you have seen horrors much like my family did. But I had a choice…I could have remained tied to the past, and a prisoner to it…’
He paused, gathering his breath.
‘…or I could break free and continue to live and do what I always wanted to do…what I was meant to do, which was write. To create.’
He paused again.
‘Do you understand what I am saying?’
The Doctor nodded. ‘I think I do, actually.’
Górecki smiled, lifted his hand for a moment, and then slapped the Doctor firmly on his shoulder. ‘Good!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now that is settled, I insist you and your friend join my wife and I for dinner, where we may hear about how I have defamed the modern music community with my blasphemous works!’
Rose looked at him, shocked. ‘You…you know what they were saying out there?’
Górecki smiled. ‘I watched them from the wings. I did not write this for them. Out there,’ he continued, spreading his arms as if encircling the world, ‘there are people who have lost something. Lost someone. Some voice inside me told me that I could write what they needed to hear.’
He looked at the Doctor and Rose.
‘I was right, wasn’t I?’
The Doctor and Rose looked at each other and nodded.
‘It is settled then! You will join me! Food…and wine…and wicked tales of crimes against the musical establishment!’
Górecki pulled the Doctor to his feet, wrapped one arm around his shoulder, another arm around Rose’s shoulder, and escorted them into the dimming light of day.
‘Come, my new friends…dinner awaits us!’
written by
Pewnie go w powstaniu
zle wrogi zabily.
Wy niedobrzy ludzie,
dlo Boga swietego
cemuscie zabili
synocka mojego?’
Rose had already looked ahead, and knew as Woytowicz sang what the words meant:
‘Where has he gone
Perhaps during the uprising
The cruel enemy killed him
Ah, you bad people
In the name of God, the most Holy,
Tell me, why did you kill
My son?’
She could take no more. She already felt as if she were on the brink of breaking, and she knew, as beautiful as this music was (and it was, oh it was, she thought…the most beautiful, most sad music I have ever heard), her heart could stand no more. She slipped her hand from between the Doctor’s hands. He didn’t move, didn’t notice, and tears still flowed unabated from his eyes. She brushed his cheek lightly, wiping a few tears away, and slowly left the hall. Outside she took a deep breath and finally allowed the tears to flow without restriction.
Some twenty five minutes later, the doors to the hall opened and the audience filed out. She was not surprised to see them quiet and contemplative. She was, however, surprised to hear some of the comments from various attendees.
‘Decadent trash,’ opined one younger gentleman in disgust.
‘An affront to the true pinnacles of avant-gardism,’ replied another, his voice thinly veiled with disgust.
Rose looked at them in shock. Here was music that touched the very depths of her soul, music she’d never have heard were it not for the Doctor’s insistence she broaden her horizon, and they cast it off as something unworthy of note?
As she seethed she looked around, hoping to see the Doctor among the exiting crowd. He was nowhere to be seen. Curious, she stepped back into the hall, where she saw the Doctor still sitting. An older gentleman, perhaps in his mid 40’s, sat next to him. She could see they were talking, and Rose walked over to them.
‘The music seems to have touched you, friend,’ spoke the stranger. Rose picked up that his accent was eastern European, perhaps Polish.
The Doctor nodded, his eyes still red and wet.
‘It is more than that though, is it not?’
‘Leave my friend alone! Can’t you see how upset he is?’ yelled Rose as she reached for the stranger’s shoulder. The Doctor turned to her and shook his head.
‘No, Rose…it’s alright. Rose, I’d like you to meet Henryk Mikołaj Górecki. He wrote the symphony we just heard.’
Rose dropped her hand quickly. ‘Oh…I’m so sorry.’
Górecki smiled. ‘There is not any need to apologise, young lady. A true friend always protects those they care about. I take no offense.’
He turned back to the Doctor.
‘You have lost someone.’
The Doctor shook his head. ‘No. I’ve lost everyone.’
The composer shook his head, his silvering hair waving back and forth slightly. ‘You have your young friend, and you still have your life. You have not lost everyone.’
The Doctor looked up. ‘I don’t think you understand.’ His voice was sad, broken, with more than a touch of bitterness.
Górecki laughed, but it was not a laugh of happiness. ‘Don’t I? My grandfather was in Dachau. My aunt was in Auschwitz. Many of my family died in concentration camps. Tell me again I do not understand.’
The Doctor looked down for a moment, and then back up. He shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you that.’
Górecki placed one hand on the Doctor’s right shoulder, and motioned Rose to do the same. She reached out slowly and gently touched the Doctor’s left shoulder.
‘I look in your eyes, and I see a man who has seen far more than his face tells me. I do not doubt that you have seen horrors much like my family did. But I had a choice…I could have remained tied to the past, and a prisoner to it…’
He paused, gathering his breath.
‘…or I could break free and continue to live and do what I always wanted to do…what I was meant to do, which was write. To create.’
He paused again.
‘Do you understand what I am saying?’
The Doctor nodded. ‘I think I do, actually.’
Górecki smiled, lifted his hand for a moment, and then slapped the Doctor firmly on his shoulder. ‘Good!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now that is settled, I insist you and your friend join my wife and I for dinner, where we may hear about how I have defamed the modern music community with my blasphemous works!’
Rose looked at him, shocked. ‘You…you know what they were saying out there?’
Górecki smiled. ‘I watched them from the wings. I did not write this for them. Out there,’ he continued, spreading his arms as if encircling the world, ‘there are people who have lost something. Lost someone. Some voice inside me told me that I could write what they needed to hear.’
He looked at the Doctor and Rose.
‘I was right, wasn’t I?’
The Doctor and Rose looked at each other and nodded.
‘It is settled then! You will join me! Food…and wine…and wicked tales of crimes against the musical establishment!’
Górecki pulled the Doctor to his feet, wrapped one arm around his shoulder, another arm around Rose’s shoulder, and escorted them into the dimming light of day.
‘Come, my new friends…dinner awaits us!’
written by
JULIE KAY
copyright 2013
artwork by
artwork by
COLIN JOHN
copyright 2013