He’d been shocked at the sound of her name. ‘She went away for a while. To stay with her cousins.’
‘Don’t you miss her?’ Galina shook her head. ‘I do. I admire Sonya enormously, she’s so cultured. And Maxim’s quite in love with her. When’s she coming home?’
‘When this horrible bombing stops, I hope.’ As he stepped inside, tears sprang into his eyes, and he was glad that the room was lit only by candles.
Galina had been the first person to say Sonya’s name for a long time. Even Tanya had stopped mentioning her — had she given up all hope of a return? Others referred to her absence obliquely: had Nikolai received any News about the Situation? Recently he’d begun talking aloud to his dead wife, the only other person who’d loved Sonya as fiercely as he did. ‘Tell me if she’s still alive,’ he would say as he lay in bed. ‘Please give me a sign. Is she somewhere in Leningrad?’ This was his greatest hope as well as his greatest fear: the possibility that Sonya had been brought back to the city but not returned to him, that she’d been hideously damaged in some way and was lying, unidentified, in a hospital or an orphanage. God knows he’d searched. Had gone to all the authorities he could think of, both medical and bureaucratic; had asked all possible connections for any leads. During his search he’d seen maimed children, the sight of whom he couldn’t forget: bodies torn through by shells, left without voices, sight or wits. But not one of the bandaged young girls who stared blankly at him from a makeshift ward had been his.
He stumbled on, his overcoat wet through. If he could get home without imagining he saw Sonya, then, in spite of the bread thief and the icy rain, this would have been a bearable day. It was the quick appearances that ruined him, a glimpse of her face on a street corner or through a window — and then the subsequent vanishing. Sudden hope and its equally sudden removal left him shattered, blinded, with no strength to go on.
Soon the sleet was so thick he could barely see a foot in front of him. If he could just make it home.
Rounding the corner into what he thought was Tarasova Street, he collided with someone. ‘Sorry,’ he said, glancing up.
It was a woman, thin-faced, dark-eyed under her hood. She, too, mumbled an apology and hurried on. Nikolai stood still for a second, then turned. ‘Nina Bronnikova — is that you?’ But his voice was weak, and already there was a wall of water between them; she was nothing but a hunched shape inside a long coat, disappearing into the sleet.
When at last he reached his building, the final effort of climbing the stairs was too much. Step by step, he made it to the first landing, then, even more slowly, to the second. Finally he was outside his own apartment, leaning his soaked head on the door. He let himself in very slowly and quietly. He’d begun to feel that if he did everything as silently as possible, the spectre crouching over him might leave him alone. Nothing good lies in store, it whispered with dank breath — and he believed this with all his ruined heart.
The effort of removing his boots left him breathless, and he sat down on the floor. Only when he realised that the bread would be as soaked as his clothes did he force himself to get up, take off his heavy overcoat, and place the small sodden package on the table.
He drifted like a sleepwalker towards Sonya’s door. Because it was now also Tanya’s room, he rarely went in there out of respect for her privacy. But the deprivation was like an intense and constant homesickness, a longing for a country belonging to his past. And today he was weak; nostalgia flooded over and through him, swamping him. He gave only a tiny rap at the door before pushing it open.
Tanya was standing in front of him. ‘Nikolai! I didn’t expect you home so early.’ A guilty tide of red rushed up her neck and into her face.
In her arms, she held a cello. The cello. Sonya’s cello.
Orders
Shostakovich sat and stared at the stack of paper in front of him. For the past four days he’d barely left the room, moving feverishly between the desk and the piano. His eyes hurt and so did his right hand. But the previous night, around this time, he’d finished the adagio.
The elation had been short-lived but real. Flinging back his head, stretching his arms, he’d briefly congratulated himself. He’d done it — and in only twelve days, too. How proud his mother would be! How she would crow, clap her hands, and say, ‘Dmitri, you’re a living marvel!’ But she’d always been inordinately proud of him; if he did nothing more than brush his teeth, she’d pronounce he’d done a better job than any man in Russia.
After a few minutes, he’d realised how cold he was. In spite of his two pairs of socks, his feet were numb and his fingertips were white. Almost instantly, the old fear had started up again. He could barely remember where or how he’d started; the entire symphony had become cloudy, a muddle of themes, secondary themes and reiterated secondary themes. Where were the clean lines of the original idea?
He got up from the desk and paced along the wall, catching sight of himself in the small mirror as he did so. Red-eyed, stubble-chinned, he had the same gaunt look as a drunkard or a tramp. He couldn’t bear to glance at what he’d written; already, the certainty of the final bars had left him. To end by returning to the first subject — was this satisfying or merely predictable? He felt exposed and alone.
He opened the study door. ‘Nina?’ But everything was quiet, both inside the apartment and out in the street. He peered around the blackout blind and through the criss-crossed tape, but there was no one about — the night-time curfew meant only the most foolish or desperate ventured out this late. ‘I miss voices,’ he whispered. ‘I miss ordinary life.’
He needed to talk to someone. The sense of anti-climax was as predictable as it was inevitable — though no easier to handle because of that. ‘Ivan Ivanovich. Where the hell are you when I need you?’ Restlessly he wandered around the room, taking a swig of cold unsweetened tea, spitting it out in the sink. He clattered a few glasses together and restacked a few plates, and soon, as he’d hoped, Nina appeared in the doorway, her hair in a long braid.
‘Sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you!’ It was a lie. Just the sight of her made him feel better.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘On the contrary. Not ten minutes ago, I finished the third movement! It’s even — well, let’s say it’s satisfactory.’
‘That’s wonderful! Quite worth being woken up for.’ Though she still looked half asleep, Nina went to the cupboard and took out glasses and a bottle of vodka.
‘Three down, one to go.’ But as he sat down at the table he felt so tired he had no idea whether he could pick himself up again and launch into that most difficult of things, a symphonic finale to not only recap but also surpass everything that had gone before.
‘To the war symphony.’ Nina raised her glass.
‘To the end of war,’ said Shostakovich, refilling his.
Later, giddy with exhaustion and vodka, he led her into his workroom to show her the score paper spread out on top of the piano. She bent her head to scan the notes (did she hear anything of what he’d heard?), and he was at once distracted by the sight of her — the swell of her breasts under her nightgown, her nipples hard from the cold. How could he live so close to her, yet not notice her for weeks on end? He’d done it again: treated her as nothing more than a wife and mother, the provider of meals and manager of accounts, the staver-off of unwelcome attention and the smoother of social waters.
‘You’re so beautiful tonight!’ he murmured. ‘And I’m a blind fool.’ He pulled her hair out of its braid so it fell in a smooth black rush. ‘Why do you still love me?’ He led her to the divan then, and slipped her nightgown off over her head. She remained silent, but pulled him to her so closely it felt they would never separate again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, under his breath. ‘I’m sorry for my absences.’
When, much later, he woke in the still-dark morning, under a rough grey blanket, Nina had already gone — but his depression had disappeared, too, so he could fall back into a deep and peaceful sleep.<
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Now, he was at his desk again, the lust and the loving of the previous night almost forgotten, his stomach as empty as his head. At lunch, Nina had suggested that he rest for a day or two, but he’d shaken his head. ‘I must get on.’ He’d pushed away a lukewarm cup of borscht, made with no meat, very little beet and large amounts of cabbage water. ‘Who knows what will happen in the near future?’
For most of the afternoon he’d sat in his study but not written a note. Two trips to the bomb shelter within five hours — and he realised, with dismay, that the interruptions hadn’t been entirely unwelcome. He had no idea how to continue. How could he follow such unearthly, funereal music with anything at all, let alone a fourth movement that might inspire the starving Leningraders and satisfy the clamouring Party officials?
‘What the hell do they expect from me?’ He jabbed his pencil into the desk. ‘What do they want — and, more to the point, what do I want?’ This, he knew, was the whole problem. He’d made the fatal mistake of inviting in an audience before the work was completed. Had become conscious of the way other people might hear it, and now craved further applause — that rapturous applause offered to him on his birthday, as his friends praised his magnificent march and his lyrical scherzo. ‘The movements sing of Leningrad today and of Petrograd in the past!’ Izrail had had tears in his eyes. And Shostakovich had murmured ‘Yes’, though whether his assistant’s words were true was beyond knowing.
‘Between them, they have created a monster,’ he muttered — but the accusation was directed at himself. Now, when he needed encouragement once more, all he could hear was silence.
The longer he sat there staring at his work, the more unbearable it became. He could think of only one person who might help. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’ll call him.’ He sprang up and went to the door.
Nina was sitting at the table. She wasn’t reading one of her scientific papers, nor was she sewing or counting food coupons. She was simply sitting and staring at the table top, looking as if she, too, were carved from wood.
He sat down at the other end of the table, waiting respectfully, picking at his thumbnail. Finally he spoke with attempted brightness. ‘What are you thinking about, sitting here all alone?’
‘If you must know, I’m scared.’ When she looked up, her face was so bleak that his heart lurched.
‘But I’ll take care of you. You know that. I’ll take care of you all.’
‘The children are getting so thin. And everyone says rations are going to be cut again. Soon it will be winter — and what will we do for heating?’
‘Nina, it was my decision to stay. So it’s my responsibility to solve our problems.’
She gave a half-smile. ‘You don’t understand. They’re not our problems any more, but the problems of the entire city. We’ve been so lucky until now. Privileged, most of the time, with the dacha, the car, the extra food. Don’t you see that even your position won’t save us now? Leningrad is running out of food and fuel. Already people are dying in the streets. Fame counts for nothing.’
His face began to burn. ‘I’ll call Party Headquarters tomorrow. I’ll see what can be done. I realise I’ve been focused on the symphony, but of course you and the children are more important. Please don’t worry any more!’
Nina said nothing, simply laid her hands on the table in a hopeless gesture. The only sounds were the distant knocking of anti-aircraft guns and the faint splutter of the candles.
After some time, Shostakovich cleared his throat. ‘Just one thing. I need to get hold of the conductor. Do you know if he has a working phone line?’
‘Who, Mravinsky?’ Nina looked puzzled. ‘Or do you mean Samuil Samosud?’
‘Neither. I’m talking of … oh, you know —’ He rapped the table with his knuckles. ‘That tall thin fellow with the Radio Orchestra, quiet man, big glasses, doesn’t speak much.’
‘Karl Eliasberg? Whatever do you need him for?’
Shostakovich picked wax off the candle and fed it back into the flame so the light flared and Nina’s shadow-profile leapt on the wall. ‘With Sollertinsky gone, there’s no one I trust to judge my work. The adagio, for instance — is it too funereal? And the way the symphony is developing overall. I can’t tell if there’s a shred of merit in it.’
‘Judging by the general reaction the other night, I think you can rest assured on that point.’
‘But that’s just it — it was a general reaction. A chorus of approval. And you know what Meyerhold said about that.’
‘No,’ said Nina, ‘I have no idea what Meyerhold said.’
‘That if your work pleases everyone, you must consider it a total failure.’ He slumped in his chair. He could hear the playwright’s voice as clearly as if he were in the room, though it was three years since poor Meyerhold had disappeared, removed for failing to please the ‘Everyone’ who counted.
‘The people who liked your work were hardly ill-educated,’ said Nina. ‘They represent some of the finest musical minds in the city. Didn’t you see Nikolai’s reaction? Even in the midst of his grief, he was uplifted by what he heard.’
Shostakovich shook his head. ‘Nikolai’s an admirable musician. He’s greatly talented, both as a violinist and a teacher. But he expends too much energy on making other people feel good.’
‘Is that such a bad fault?’ asked Nina, slightly reprovingly.
But already his mind had returned to Elias’s visit earlier that month — was it only a few weeks ago? Already it felt like a lifetime. Such an odd tension surrounding the man, such a mix of reserve and resolve in his face. Even as Shostakovich had thundered through the march with his back to the room, he’d known how Elias would be sitting: muscles taut, nerves strained, critical faculties alert. What had happened after Shostakovich had finished playing? He couldn’t remember much of the ensuing discussion, he’d been so keyed up from performing as well as steeling himself for work on the next movement. Nonetheless, there was something about Elias that was implicitly trustworthy. Certainly, he was an oddity, and gauche in the extreme. (That note under the door! Even now, it made Shostakovich smile.) But he had an inner severity about him that Shostakovich identified with. If one didn’t like something, it was one’s duty to say so, whether or not it caused offence.
‘I need the conductor,’ he repeated. ‘He’s the listener I need.’
‘Who knows if he had a telephone before this chaos started?’ said Nina. ‘And even if we could find a number for him, and even if you were able to get a connection — well, it’s far too late for phone calls.’ She came to stand beside him, stroking his hair. ‘Why don’t you try to sleep? You can go to the Radio Hall tomorrow and find him.’
Shostakovich sprang up, away from courtesy and common sense. ‘No. I need him now. Not tomorrow.’
He went back to his workroom and paced about. No music in his head and no help at hand! It was intolerable. He dragged on a third-rate cigarette, bitter makhorka tobacco sprinkled with nicotine and rolled in wafer-thin newspaper. How could he pass the dragging hours until morning?
‘Dmitri?’ It was Nina, knocking at the door. ‘You have a phone call.’
He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed. ‘Didn’t you tell them it’s far too late for calls?’ But he ground out the foul-tasting cigarette and went back out into the main room with sudden hope. ‘Is it Sollertinsky?’
Nina shook her head, with an expression that was half apprehensive and half something he couldn’t identify. He picked up the receiver warily. ‘This is Dmitri Shostakovich. With whom am I speaking?’
‘It’s Comrade Kalinnikova.’ The voice was tinny, sharp and unmistakably authoritative. ‘From the Leningrad Party Committee.’
Then he realised what he’d seen on Nina’s face had been hope, as well as nervousness at how he might react.
His conversation with Kalinnikova was brief and largely one-sided. He answered in short unemotional phrases, as he was expected to. ‘Yes, I understand. Yes, I�
��m willing.’ After a couple of minutes he asked, ‘And is there any chance of taking my mother or sister?’
When he hung up, he turned to look at Nina. It was a long quiet look, implying that she’d got her wish at last, and that he was immensely grateful for the sacrifice she’d made but nonetheless he thought it had been worth it.
Finally he cleared his throat and spoke. ‘You’d better get the children’s things together immediately. We are to leave by plane tomorrow morning, for Moscow.’
PART IV
Winter 1941– Summer 1942
The crawl
Looking back, Elias thought of the winter as a long tunnel. Darkness so complete there was no rest from it. Cold so intense his bones felt frozen to their very centre. But worst of all was the hunger, for it reduced human beings to animals, fighting in the street for food, grovelling through piles of rubbish for scraps, and dying where they fell.
He could feel himself slipping. The civilised exterior he’d built up so painstakingly over twenty years was crumbling, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The process had begun that day in December, shortly after what had proved to be the final concert, when he’d closed the official orchestral logbook for the last time. Even writing had become an effort. With a hand so cold he couldn’t feel what he was doing, he picked up his pen; its weight felt enormous, dragging down onto the page. Clumsily, he managed a few lines in child-like letters. ‘Rehearsal cancelled from today. Nebolsin dead. Malko dead. Petrov too ill to walk. Orchestra can no longer work.’
And from the moment he’d closed the book, everything became a blur. As long as he’d been in front of the orchestra, it had seemed as if he could fight off starvation and fear. Keeping his musicians motivated, though one by one they were collapsing from malnutrition and disease, had driven him on. But at one point during the performance of the 1812, he’d known they were in serious trouble. The faces in front of him were deathly pale and covered in welts; many had a greenish tinge. During bars of rest, the players put their heads between their knees, or laid down their instruments as if they were made of lead. Each time he raised his arms to bring in a section, he feared there would be no response.
The Conductor Page 24