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Handsome Frederyk Weisensteinowitz skipped jauntily toward his new future, each stride more optimistic than the last. A gingham bundle of his belongings tied to the end of a stick bounced with each step. The sun was shining, a somber sheet of slate colored clouds were obscuring it, but still, what a beautiful, damp 38 degree Polish day. It was August 31, 1939 and everything was still in black-and-white. An elderly Polish store keep saw Weisensteinowitz and was curious as to why anyone in the first third of the 20th Century Poland would ever be so happy. The store keep stopped the young Frederyk Weisensteinowitz in mid-stride, his knee nearly banging his chin, so jaunty was the overall affect of his jauntiness. “Why, what are you so happy about, young man?” “I’m going to the big city, pops. I’m going to be a dancer!” “A dancer? But that is such a competitive field here in Poland. How are you going to make ends meet? Shouldn’t you pursue a more sensible trade like shoe cobbling or watch finagling?” “Don’t worry pops; I’m through your stinking post-feudal trades. I’m going to be a star. The most spectacular dancer Poland has ever seen. The best there ever was.” “You don’t say,” croaked the old man, suddenly despondent at his own parochial life, and what little remained of it – his simple minded son, his stooped, mumbling wife, a village of creeps always going on about the status of the field and whatnot. “Why I sure do,” he said grabbing a depressing wrought iron flame pole and performing a buoyant Astairean loopdiloop around it. “Whenever the people see the graceful swoop of the sparkling fluffy Long-tailed Tit, they will think of me dancing, dancing, dancing!” “And where is this city where you plan on making a name for yourself young man?” Weisensteinowitz cocked his head up and to the right as if he was staring at the metropolis' name in big, recently developed, neon lights, and whispered with a real dreamy sense of awe: “Krakow. They call it Krakow.”
Date Written: December 09, 2005
Author: scoop
Average Vote: 4.125