In 19th century Poland’s Shtetls, going to school was considered the biggest luck. Some of the people weren’t lucky, Roma was one of them.

In the windy air of mid-March, a pair of slim and slightly crooked legs slowly, but confidently made their way through the small village. A tall, lanky and hunched over figure was the owner of them. Covered with nothing more than sandals, socks, a long pair or shorts, and a long black overcoat that slightly revealed a white shirt and a vest, a snug grey scarf on his neck and a fedorah resting firmly on the top of his head, surprisingly, he was uneducated.

A local, he was - probably not surprising, then. His long, slender fingers were wrapped around the neck of his balalaika as if it was a lifeline, his black, tired eyes screamed for slumber, the curly hair that went to his shoulders seemed to have their own mind in the wind, and the nose that would stick out almost ridiculously in his side profile probably was the main cause of him being seen as an absolute clown.

As he’d walk through the village, he’d be avoided by everyone and anyone. People would go out of their way to speak in that annoying tone behind his back, the ones inside would slam the window shutters so hard the tiles on their roof would clank. But, he was still smiling, even though he’d be used to everyone calling him the ‘Last Town’s Weirdo.’ He did know, the local pub what the only place he’d be tolerated in.

And that was the life of Roma Szymankiewicz, the misunderstood musician.

As usual, he sat by the wall, his fingers silently making the said balalaika cry. The hat on his head was used for a tossed cent or two, though, not much was in there. The most charity he’d get would be a non-needed piece of change, or a sorrowful look from a passerby’s child.