‘What shall we do with him?’ The second flautist knelt beside the collapsed man, calling his name in a voice high with fear.
‘Take him outside. Lay him in the corridor. Cover him with a coat.’ Was the flautist alive or dead? He had no idea, no energy to find out.
It took three percussionists to drag the man out. The disruption seemed to go on forever; the rest of the orchestra simply sat where they were, many of them with their eyes closed. They were bundled in threadbare scarves and overcoats, and wore woollen gloves with the fingers cut off, but most were shivering. Elias stared fixedly at the page in front of him. The black notes looked like heavy chunks of granite.
It was time to start again. He took a deep breath. ‘This isn’t good enough. You’re making a mockery of our great composer. The music must be barbaric, it must be brilliant. Remember, you’re fighting off the enemy!’
But the musicians before him were neither barbaric nor brilliant; they were close to collapse, incapable of fighting off a horde of mosquitoes, let alone brutal invaders. The symphony crawled instead of marching.
In the bars before the trumpet solo, he closed his eyes and heard the blaring, defiant notes of the symphony’s premiere. Muted by distance, squeezed flat by the radio waves, but magnified a thousand times by the knowledge that, in far-off Kuibyshev, Shostakovich was listening to the performance. Raising himself on his toes, Elias brought in the trumpet with a downward sweep of his arm — and opened his eyes to see the trumpet player sitting with his head bowed and his instrument lying on his knees. The insubstantial strings frayed away into silence.
‘Why the hell aren’t you playing?’ Elias almost shouted from a sense of grievance and loss.
The trumpeter spoke without raising his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He spoke in a muffled voice but his exhaustion and despair were clear enough. ‘I can’t play the solo. I don’t have the breath.’
‘If you have the breath to speak, you have the breath to play.’ Yet Elias, too, was a little out of breath. The air seemed too cold to inhale, and once drawn into the lungs was hard to expel. ‘You must try. Shostakovich doesn’t write music to be performed by men who give up.’
Obediently the trumpeter raised his instrument and began. The desperate look in his eyes made Elias feel wretched — but when, after only a few bars, the man fell back in his chair, he felt even worse. This is what you’re here for, he told himself. You’re not here to save individuals, but to save the city! Even though he was trying to encourage himself, it sounded dismally like Party propaganda.
He lowered his baton. ‘You’re all dismissed. I’ll see you back here tomorrow.’ The rehearsal had taken half an hour to get under-way, and it had lasted less than fifteen minutes. ‘Don’t be late,’ he added.
Day after day, the orchestra returned to the chilly, dusty room. ‘From now on,’ announced Elias, ‘rehearsals will run for three hours, beginning at ten and finishing at one.’
‘Three hours! That’s impossible,’ objected Katerina Ginka. Her cheeks were hollow, and all traces of ruddiness had drained from her face, but still she had the strength to argue. ‘We can’t play for even three minutes without fainting — or dying.’
Elias flushed. The flautist who’d collapsed had been taken to a military hospital and no one knew if he’d survive. It wasn’t my fault, he protested silently. The man was skin and bone, he had pleurisy, he’d been giving all his food rations to his wife. Yet the sharp bite of guilt made him snap at Katerina. ‘There’s one word I won’t tolerate. Can’t is no longer a part of the Radio Orchestra vocabulary.’
He waited, expecting protests. Would any of the original members dispute the fact that a mismatched bunch of amateurs was now the Radio Orchestra? But no one said a word; even Katerina looked defeated. ‘And if anyone is late,’ he continued, ‘whatever the reason, they’ll lose their bread ration for the day.’
There was a muted gasp. Petrov’s eyes watered, Katerina opened her mouth and then closed it again.
‘Now, from the top,’ ordered Elias. Even this brief exchange had left him exhausted; raising his baton felt like a monumental effort.
It wasn’t until he heard the first sawing of the strings that it hit him. Under the music he heard the rasping of breath, deep and harsh, the very same sound he’d heard that morning as he’d tried spooning cabbage water into his mother’s mouth. The musicians ploughed on, while he lowered his arms and stared at the score with unseeing eyes. He’d only just realised the truth. His mother was dying.
The missing
Judging from the infrequent letters that made it over enemy lines, past the censors and into Nikolai’s hands, Shostakovich was safe but not happy. He’d been given a larger apartment, four rooms and a bathroom, thanks to an unusually helpful Comrade Zemlyachka, yet still he felt claustrophobic. His extended family had been evacuated from Leningrad at last, but he’d discovered that they were incapable of discussing anything but food rations. What’s more, Kuibyshev was hellishly provincial: there was no one with whom he could talk about work. ‘I’m surrounded by babies, the bourgeoisie and ballet dancers,’ he wrote. ‘And the dancers aren’t even pretty.’ As Nikolai looked at the fretful inky scrawl, he could imagine Shostakovich clearly: frowning, shoving his pencil behind his ear, while around him assorted womenfolk (mother, sister, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, niece, daughter, wife) chattered about bread, butter, potatoes, confectionery and coffee.
Although Nikolai longed to see him again, he was glad that Shostakovich had avoided the grim slide into winter and its gruesome consequences. Leningrad was no longer the city its exiled citizens had known. It had been ground down to muddy foundations, and the return of light and warmth had done little to restore it.
Shostakovich hadn’t forgotten Nikolai’s own personal burden. ‘We’re praying for good news,’ he wrote at the end of every letter. ‘Don’t give up hope.’ But sustaining hope was becoming increasingly difficult. Every day that passed was another step away from Sonya, and the enormity of losing her became more real. The only relief lay in work. After rehearsal each day, Nikolai stayed behind to help Elias copy out scores for all the musicians who had to return immediately to their military posts. It was a dull, monotonous task but, for as long as it lasted, it deadened the pain in his heart.
Elias had become more than usually silent. His fingers were callused from hours of holding a pen; his eyes were a mess of red spidery lines. Something seemed to be worrying him — but perhaps it was simply the pressure of having to conduct a symphony whose reputation had already grown to massive proportions.
‘Premiered in Kuibyshev, clamoured for in America, broadcast all over the world. Such a tremendous success already!’ But Elias sounded more anxious than pleased.
‘Nominated for a Stalin Prize, what’s more!’ pointed out Nikolai, trying to bolster Elias’s confidence. ‘You can imagine how pleased Shostakovich is about that.’
‘Yes, that’s an accolade he might choose to do without. But have you any idea how he feels about … about the work itself?’ There was something diffident and indirect about the way Elias spoke, like a cat sidling up to a wall.
‘Actually, from what I’ve gathered, he’s not altogether pleased.’
Elias put down his pen. ‘In what way?’
‘He can’t say much in his letters, of course, for fear of interception. But it seems he’s dissatisfied with the fourth movement — he says it suffered from being written in a different place. And it wasn’t helped by having to break for two months while they were evacuated and then relocated from Moscow to Kuibyshev.’
‘I suppose parts of it are more efficient than inspired,’ Elias admitted. ‘But symphonic finales are notoriously difficult, particularly with a first movement of such power and enormity.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Not that it matters — the quality or otherwise of the finale, I mean. I doubt we’ll make it that far.’ A look of despair swept over his face.
‘We’ll get there!’ said Nikolai, trying to sound
confident. But it was impossible to deny that the orchestra was struggling. ‘Perhaps we should try again to find a pianist? It would help no end in supporting the weaker sections.’
‘Coincidentally,’ said a voice from behind him, ‘that’s exactly what I’ve come about.’ A woman stood in the doorway, her slight frame swamped in an overcoat, her hair pulled back under a shabby hat. But there was something familiar about her posture, and the tilt of her head, that made Nikolai catch his breath.
‘Nina Bronnikova? Is it really you?’ He pushed his chair back, forgetting that his back ached and that the day’s bread ration had been made from mouldy flour and cottonseed. He’d heard that she’d survived the winter, but the sight of her filled him with relief. It was impossible to hide how glad he was; he grasped her thin hands, and kissed her several times on both cheeks.
‘Welcome!’ Elias hovered behind him like an uncertain host. ‘Welcome, indeed.’ For a moment it looked as if he might follow Nikolai’s example but, instead, he shook Nina’s hand and pulled out a rickety chair. ‘Please, have a seat. How are you?’
‘Well, I can’t dance any more, even if there were a company here to dance with.’ She limped forward. ‘But at least I’m alive.’
‘Perhaps when the siege is over, the Kirov doctors will be able to help you?’ said Nikolai. ‘They’re so experienced, and will surely know what to do.’
‘I’m sure with modern medicine,’ ventured Elias, ‘and proper nutrition, and a long rest —’
‘I’m afraid that for me to dance again will require a miracle.’ Nina gave a tired smile. ‘But thank you both for trying. Besides, this war has other victims far worse off than me.’ As she looked at Nikolai, her eyes grew even darker.
Please don’t mention Sonya! thought Nikolai desperately. I can’t speak of her! Not today!
Nina seemed to understand. She nodded, a tiny coded message of sympathy, and turned to Elias as if wanting to give Nikolai time to recover. ‘The reason I’m here is because Comrade Babushkin said you may need a pianist.’
‘You can p-p-play the piano?’ Elias’s face lit up.
‘I used to, quite passably, but I’m very rusty now. Still, perhaps even inadequate hands are better than none.’
‘Almost all our musicians are inadequate! I wonder why Babushkin didn’t contact you earlier. We’ve been searching for a pianist for weeks.’
‘He said the idea had only just struck him. They were talking about the Kirov, and someone mentioned me; he remembered I played because my old teacher was a crony of his — you know how these Leningrad connections are. Anyway, he seemed quite pleased with himself for coming up with a solution.’
‘Belatedly! That imbecilic —’ Elias stopped short. ‘What I mean is, we’d be extremely g-g-grateful for your help. There’s only one problem.’ He glanced over to the huge stack of paper. ‘As yet, we have no part for you to play from. C-c-c —’
Quickly, Nikolai stepped in. ‘Is there any conceivable chance you might help us with this as well? As you see, we’re up to our eyes in copying.’
Nina smiled. ‘My copying is probably better than my piano playing. And I have nowhere to go this afternoon.’ She took off her hat. Her once glossy hair was dull and rough, and her skin had the same greenish tinge as all malnourished Leningraders. But she regarded the world around her with her usual self-possession.
For the next hour, the battered studio was filled with an air of studious industry that made Nikolai feel almost normal. Only when a siren wailed did he remember that everything was far from ordinary, and he himself not fine at all. Within a year, his stable world had been shattered and its inhabitants flung about like dice on a gambling table: Shostakovich packed off to a southern city on the Volga, a place too confined for his restless soul, where he fretted about each successive performance of his symphony. ‘My nerves are playing up,’ he’d written. ‘Thankfully we have a bathroom with a lock on the door, so my tears can flow in peace.’
And what about Sollertinsky, banished to Novosibirsk where the Siberian winds wailed day and night? How was he making use of his quicksilver wit, his knowledge of Shakespeare, his mastery of Sanskrit, ancient Persian and Portuguese?
The pen fell from Nikolai’s hand. We were a triumvirate and we worked together. We stood for intellect, instinct and integrity. His longing for ordinary life, for an end to the siege, was so strong he felt he would choke. He turned to his current companions as they bent over their work. The thin, maimed, still beautiful Nina Bronnikova; the emaciated, stubborn Karl Eliasberg. These people hadn’t been his friends before the Germans marched on the city. Where were his real friends?
And then it happened. His defences crumbled, and the small face he’d kept at bay through sheer determination rushed into his mind. As sweet as a mountain stream, as unyielding as a rock-bed. Stern yet infinitely caring; womanly without knowing it, childish without playing on it; dark-eyed, raven-haired, chubby-cheeked, slim-legged Sonya! The loss of his friends was great, but far greater was the loss he’d precipitated on that day last summer. He’d given away the person most precious to him, had handed her to an unknown woman and left before the train had even pulled out of the station. Sonya, Sonya. He couldn’t imagine where she was, didn’t dare to do so, for as soon as he started his body became slick with sweat, his guts churned, and he loathed himself— for sending her off, for letting her go — with such intensity it terrified him.
Pushing aside the stack of paper, he laid his head on the table. His eyes were streaming but he didn’t make a sound. He cried so silently that it was several minutes before he heard exclamations and felt an awkward hand on his shoulder.
‘Nikolai? What’s the matter?’ Elias sounded more worried than ever.
He raised his head, his nose running and his hair soaked through. ‘My eyes. So weak these days. They water for no reason.’
Elias hesitated for a second. ‘Mine, too. Damn inconvenient, isn’t it?’ He blundered away to open a window, muttering about vitamin deficiency, scurvy, and the effect of malnutrition on one’s retinas. ‘Fresh air,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Fresh air will do you good.’
Nina put out her hand and laid it over his. After a while, she passed him a shred of handkerchief.
He’d never been so grateful for reticence. Wiping his nose and eyes, he picked up his pen again. But even though he copied like a man possessed, concentrating on Shostakovich’s maniacally leaping octaves, his heart continued to cry Sonya, Sonya! like a gull wheeling above a barge, not knowing where it was headed nor what might be gained from following.
Elias comes home
The sun had been shining for many days, but Elias was feeling increasingly cold. As he left the apartment he realised that he was trembling all over. His fingers were a waxy yellow, his nails as white as plaster. He banged his hands against his thighs but felt nothing; nor could he feel his feet, wrapped in rags and stuffed into his boots. He hobbled around the corner and stood in the sunshine, waiting to thaw.
Nothing happened. His body remained frozen. He felt as if he were looking down on himself, a stick figure in a rag-bag of coats and scarves, leaning against the same wall where once a much better-dressed, nervously correct man had stood, afraid to approach the kiosk standing (if his hazy memory was correct) on the very spot where a steel pillbox squatted. From a great distance, he marvelled at the naivety of the former Karl Eliasberg. Obsessing over the review of a rival who wouldn’t even acknowledge him as such! Being scared to converse with a portly music professor in a rumpled suit!
He willed the sun to thaw him, his heart to pump his blood more effectively and his feet to carry him to the rehearsal room on time. You’ve never been late in your life, he told himself, and you will not be late today.
The previous week he had trudged once again down Nevsky Prospect to the Arts Department headquarters and waited another two hours under the ticking clock before speaking as fervently as he could on behalf of his musicians. They were ill and weak; they could bare
ly sit on their chairs. A flautist named Karelsky had already died from severe malnutrition, and if the authorities didn’t step in many others would also die. The officials listened impassively as he told them of instruments falling from players’ hands, and of undermining silences instead of loud morale-raising music.
Apparently, he’d convinced them. The very next day Zagorsky had announced that Radio Orchestra rations were to be increased, and would stay at that level until the day of the concert. Furthermore, all musicians would receive badges marking them out as members of Eliasberg’s orchestra, allowing them medical privileges and faster access through checkpoints. But Elias knew it would take far more than extra wheatgerm and watery bean soup to turn back the clock. There was no quick way of transforming a band of walking skeletons into efficient musicians and soldiers.
Sure enough, as he entered that morning — slowly, clumsily, but on time in spite of his frozen feet — the conversation wasn’t about fighting or music but about food. Or, to be precise, the lack of it.
As he limped to the podium, a dutiful silence fell; there was a general tightening of bows and opening of scores. This much, at least, he’d achieved. He signalled for an A and waited for them to tune up — not that pitch was of particular concern to the players in front of him. Any musician trained in an army band placed more emphasis on keeping time than staying in tune. The scraping and dissonance, the ragged sliding chords: not so long ago these would have made Elias wince. Now they scarcely bothered him. If the orchestra managed to play the symphony with nothing more than workmanlike skill, he would have pulled off a miracle.
‘We’ll start with the adagio,’ he said, opening the score.
Today he felt more detached than ever — so much so that it felt like calm. He was nothing more than an observer, surveying the orchestra from afar. The only thing that brought him momentarily closer was the sight of Nikolai helping Nina Bronnikova with the piano stool, cradling his left arm behind her in a movement that was like a caress. Then, for a second, blackness roared up in Elias’s head. But once Nina’s eyes were fixed on the music and Nikolai had returned to his seat, he could retreat once more into his floating state.
The Conductor Page 27