No Safe Place

by Deborah Ellis

  The music room had five small soundproofed booths. Cheslav went into one and closed the door. He tried again to make a sound, and again it was awful.

  He started to despair.

  Finally he turned his back to the door, stood right in the back corner, squished his eyes shut and put the trumpet to his mouth once more.

  The sound that came out was sweet and clear.

  Startled, he almost dropped the instrument. Then he tried again.

  It worked better when his eyes were closed, when he could block out the world around him and just feel the music as it came out.

  He played around with notes, with pressure, and with breath. He played at the mouthpiece with his tongue, changing the pitch almost just by thinking about it.

  He stood with his eyes closed, playing with these new sounds, until he felt a soft tap on his shoulder.

  Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

  The music was gone, and he was back in the gray practice room.

  “The dinner bell has gone,” the teacher said. “Come back again tomorrow.”

  Cheslav handed over the trumpet without a word and floated to the mess hall. He didn’t notice until later that evening how much his facial muscles hurt. The ache made him smile.

  “I’ve got a trumpet face,” he said to his dorm-mates.

  “You’ve got an ugly face,” they said back, and looked relieved when he just smiled.

  He went back to the music room the next day, skipping breakfast. He played in the practice booth with his eyes shut until he felt the tap on his shoulder.

  “You’d better learn how to read music,” the teacher said.

  Cheslav worked hard at it. The first time he followed the notes and out came a recognizable tune, he felt so happy he was sure he could float right up over the academy.

  They put him in the marching band, and that was okay, because he could march and he could play, but his trumpet sounded better when his eyes were closed. They put him on stage with the senior band to play for Founders’ Day and graduation.

  When Cheslav was thirteen, the Founders’ Day ceremony was attended by important men in the Russian military. A new missile factory was opening in their area, and a general stopped at the school after inspecting the factory.

  “We live in a time of Russian strength,” the general said in his speech to the students. “I envy all of you being young and coming into the army at this great time in our history.” He talked for a long time, but Cheslav, sitting with the band, was not listening. His eyes were closed, and he was listening to how his first solo in front of the school would sound.

  Finally the general stopped talking and Cheslav took his spot in the center of the stage. He waited until the music teacher nodded, then raised the trumpet and closed his eyes.

  He played a piece by Tchaikovsky, a piece usually played by a whole orchestra, but he played it all with just his trumpet. With his eyes closed, he could see the notes, feel the crescendos and inhabit the music as it inhabited his trumpet.

  The applause was jarring to him. He would have preferred silence so that the music could fade slowly away, but he took his bow as he’d been trained and went back to his seat with the band.

  Later that day, he was summoned to the headmaster’s office. He sat in the reception room and listened to the voices coming from the inner office.

  “A talent like that can’t be stuck in this backwater.”

  “Irkutsk is a vital part of the nation.”

  “I have already made the calls. You act like this is an injustice.”

  “He’s happy here.”

  “The decision’s been made.”

  Cheslav was called in. He made a salute and stood at attention before the headmaster’s desk.

  “You’ve been given a great opportunity,” the headmaster said. “You are being transferred to the Army Cadet Music School in Moscow.”

  “There are fine musicians there like yourself, and you will learn from them and be a credit to Russia,” the general said.

  “Can’t it wait until the boy is sixteen?” the music teacher asked. “Sixteen is the age for cadets.”

  “Special circumstances,” the general said. “Have him ready to go first thing tomorrow morning. He’ll fly back to Moscow with me. The defense minister is attending our next company assembly. I’ll present the boy then.”

  Cheslav was dismissed. He skipped the evening snack and sat on his bunk. He didn’t know how to feel.

  In the morning he was bundled along with the general and staff into a military plane. The general let him have a window seat. He slept most of the way and missed seeing Russia from the air.

  The academy of music was in a large building of yellow stone, part of a complex of military buildings on an army base a little way from the center of the city.

  Cheslav was the youngest student and the smallest.

  “We’ll need a doll uniform for you,” the cadet in charge of the clothing supply said. “You got any dolly uniforms back there?” he called to his assistant.

  The smallest uniform was handed to Cheslav, and even then he had to turn up the cuffs.

  “We’ll have that,” the head boy in his dorm said, sweeping away the dark blue uniform of Cheslav’s old school. “If you run away, we’ll want to know what color to tell the police to look for. It’s army green now for you, dolly.”

  The barracks at the music academy was much like the dormitory at his old academy in Irkutsk, although he now had a foot locker instead of a cupboard. The sounds that came from the boys were louder and deeper. The sounds of men, backed up by the muscles of men. Muscles that shoved Cheslav away from the sinks in the lavatory and slammed him into the gravel of the exercise yard.

  “We worked hard to get here, dolly,” he was told again and again. “What have you done?” and, “This is an army for men, dolly, not little girls.”

  It didn’t help that he’d joined the school months into the new term. And it didn’t help that the older cadet assigned to show him the ropes was embarrassed to have Cheslav in his company and lied to get out of his duty. Cheslav was forever getting lost, arriving late and breaking rules he didn’t know existed.

  The first company assembly was held a week after he arrived. The general was there to introduce his discovery to the school and to the honored guest, the minister of defense.

  The whole academy was assembled in the Great Hall. On stage was the First Tier Band — the band that was reserved for the most talented senior students. Cheslav was backstage, running through some scales to warm up.

  It felt wonderful to have a trumpet back in his hands. He hadn’t been able to hold one since coming to Moscow. The general had ordered him to keep his talent a secret so that everyone would be overwhelmed at his debut.

  The First Tier Band had completed its number and the general started to speak.

  “We will finish off this assembly with a special treat. I am about to bring out a boy I discovered in an academy in Irkutsk. He is our newest cadet, a boy of extraordinary talent. He is living proof that the Russian people are great, even in the most far-flung corners of the Motherland.”

  “So, that’s your friend, is it, dolly?” whispered the cadet in charge of pulling back the curtain. “You’re the general’s dolly? Better fix your tie before you go out there.”

  Cheslav put down the trumpet and went to the small mirror at the side of the stage to make sure his uniform tie was straight. Then he picked up the trumpet again and stood ready to go on.

  The cadet opened the curtain and gave Cheslav a rough push that had him tripping his way onto the stage in his too-large uniform. A bit of laughter came from the audience.

  Cheslav didn’t care. He stood alone in the middle of the stage and raised the trumpet to his lips. But when he took a breath and started to play, no sound came out.

  The snicker
ing grew louder. Cheslav raised the trumpet again and took another deep breath. He put his lips to the mouthpiece, but again, no sound came out.

  He looked inside the trumpet. In the short moment he had put it down to straighten his tie, someone had stuffed his horn with putty or chewing gum.

  The laughter from the audience didn’t matter. The anger on the general’s face didn’t matter. All that mattered was that someone had interfered with his ability to make music.

  His body began to shake. He flung the damaged trumpet far out into the audience, ran back to the band and grabbed the first trumpet he saw from one of the band members.

  Back on the center of the stage, Cheslav planted his feet, raised the trumpet in front of him and blasted out “Flight of the Bumblebees” by Rimsky-Korsakov — as loud and as angry as he could make it.

  Not a sound could be heard when he finished playing. Cheslav remained on the center of the stage, holding the trumpet. A tall cadet with a trombone in his hand took his arm and led him offstage, through the halls and into the music room. He closed the door.

  “My name is Kolya,” the cadet said. “Have you ever heard jazz?”

  And then Kolya lifted his trombone and started to play.

  A whole new world opened up for Cheslav.

  During the day it was marches by Borodin and Kozlovsky. But at night it was Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie and Louis Armstrong.

  There were six cadets in an informal jazz group. They were all seniors except for Cheslav. The age difference disappeared when they played music.

  “Throwing your trumpet was a very jazz thing to do,” the older boys told him. “Jazz is about making your own rules. It’s about feeling things and living by the off-beat, not marching in step.”

  Their days were so full of classes and military training it was hard to find the time to play. Or a place.

  They were thrown out of the mess hall when they tried to play jazz during their lunch break. They were banned from playing jazz in the senior boys’ common room, and when they tried to play outside on good days, they were told it interfered with close-order drill.

  “You have not been brought here to waste your time playing such music,” the headmaster told them when they were all summoned to his office. “You are corrupting our youngest student. I order you to stop.”

  Cheslav was forbidden to associate with them. He did it anyway, and walked punishment tours back and forth across the assembly yard.

  One night, Cheslav was awakened in his dorm by Kolya, who pressed a hand over his mouth to keep him from crying out in surprise. Throwing on a sweater over his pajamas, he followed Kolya through the quiet halls to the music room. The clarinet player had stolen the music master’s key. They all crowded into one of the soundproof practice booths and played until first light came through the music room windows.

  After that, they played jazz together every night. Cheslav stayed awake until the other boys in his barracks were quiet before sneaking out to the music room. He often fell asleep in class. He didn’t care.

  “We need to go to America,” Kolya said. “We should all go to New York or New Orleans or Chicago. These are cities that appreciate jazz. We will get jobs playing the right kind of music. And we won’t have to sneak around as though we were criminals.”

  “Let’s go now,” Cheslav said. “Let’s leave right away.”

  “Oh, we are going to go,” they all said. “We will leave Russia behind and cross the sea to the United States. What good lives we will have!”

  “I’m ready,” Cheslav said.

  Every night they talked about their plans. They talked about how they would steal things from the school and sell them at pawnshops to raise the money for their trip. They talked about the vodka they would drink, the women they would get and the music they would make. And every night Cheslav said he was ready to go.

  Until one night a cadet from his dorm followed him down to the music room and brought a prefect with him.

  The music academy had a brig just like the academy in Irkutsk, only this one was larger and cadets had to stay there longer.

  Cheslav was given a punishment of two days for being out of his barracks after hours. It took six senior cadets to get him into the cell and shut the door.

  “We will put your bad behavior behind us now,” the headmaster said when Cheslav was brought before him after serving his punishment. “The older boys have been a bad influence on you, but you have an incredible talent. With proper guidance you will grow to be a true credit to Russia.”

  “What about Kolya and the others?”

  “They will no longer bother you. There is a great need for new young officers in Chechnya. You can be proud of them. They are on their way to becoming heroes.”

  Cheslav tried to leave that night but his dorm-mates stopped him.

  “We’ve been ordered to watch you,” they said. “We’ll be in trouble if you leave.”

  “I don’t care about you,” Cheslav said.

  “Then care about this.” A fist went into his stomach.

  Night after night it was the same thing. Cheslav showed up at each flag raising with fresh bruises. Finally the music master had him placed in the infirmary. He was afraid Cheslav’s face would be injured and he wouldn’t be able to play the trumpet.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” the music master said. “You stop trying to leave and I’ll let you play any kind of music you want when there is no one else in the music room.”

  “I don’t want to stay here,” Cheslav said.

  “You are a cadet,” his teacher reminded him. “The school is in charge of you. If you leave, the police will bring you back. So it would be better for you if you learn to like it.”

  The music master kept his word and let Cheslav play jazz and rock solos when the music room was empty. Cheslav shut himself up in a practice booth, turned off the lights, shut his eyes and played. He missed the others, but it helped him get through the days.

  He moved back to the dorm. The other boys were ordered to leave him alone.

  Three months after the jazz band left the academy, it was announced at the morning gathering that Kolya had been killed by a sniper while on patrol in Chechnya.

  The academy flag was lowered to half-mast and a memorial service was held in the assembly hall. Everyone wore full-dress uniform.

  After Kolya’s name was entered into the Book of Honor, joining the other graduates who had been killed in battle, Cheslav stood up to play.

  He’d been assigned to play Chesnokov’s “Keep Peace in Our Souls.” When that was done, he was supposed to return to his seat and the assembly would be dismissed.

  Instead, when the piece was finished, he kept his trumpet raised and blasted out “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

  A cadet in the rhythm section was the first to join in, then two from the brasses and a few of the woodwinds. Kolya had been their friend, too. They let Cheslav play the lead and when he took them off into dazzling flights of improvisation, they backed him up solidly.

  That night, Cheslav put a spare pair of socks in his jacket pocket, grabbed his trumpet and walked away from the school.

  He headed west, walking as far as he could. He stole food from street vendors and traveled by night, avoiding the police. He stole civilian clothes off a clothesline and buried his cadet uniform in a forest. He crossed the border into Belarus hidden in the back of a truck that took him all the way to Minsk.

  By the time he got to Stuttgart, he hadn’t eaten for four days.

  He found a pawnshop and walked inside.

  “How much?” Cheslav held out the trumpet.

  “No good.” The pawnshop owner pointed out all the marks and dents on the trumpet. It had been well used at the school and had traveled roughly with Cheslav.

  He slapped fifty Euros down on the counter.

  “More,”
said Cheslav.

  “You steal it?”

  “No!”

  “Identification.” The pawnshop owner held out his hand.

  “Never mind,” said Cheslav. “I want my trumpet back.”

  “My trumpet now,” the shop owner said. “Go ahead. Call the police.”

  Cheslav threw himself at the pawnbroker, but the man was ready. One punch landed Cheslav on the floor. Before he could get to his feet, the pawnbroker picked him up and shoved him out the door, locking it behind him.

  Cheslav yelled and rattled the bars that covered the glass.

  A police car drove by.

  He backed away. He felt bitter and hollow inside.

  His mood had not improved by the time he got to Calais.

  THIRTEEN

  The yacht inched along in the darkness and the fog. Abdul had no idea where they were, if they were closer to shore or farther away from it. He stood at the front of the boat and kept watch.

  The fog started to lift as the wind came up, and daylight found the boat rising and falling in big rolling waves.

  “Are we heading northwest again?” Abdul asked Cheslav, popping his head into the wheelhouse on his way to the kitchen to make more tea.

  “Unless you’ve changed your mind and would rather go back to France.”

  Abdul left him to it and went below to put water on to boil. He thought about changing into dry clothes, but decided that could wait until they got to England. Surely it couldn’t be long now.

  It was tough keeping his balance on the rocking boat while carrying a tray of tea things, but he managed, only spilling a little. Rosalia, keeping watch at the front of the boat, lowered the binoculars and accepted a mug, along with a slapped-together sandwich of cheese and bread.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “You’re welcome. Long night.”

  “Long journey.”

  “I hope it’s almost over.”

  Rosalia nodded toward the sky. Dark storm clouds were sitting like boulders in front of them.

  “It’s going to be rough,” she said, after swallowing a mouthful of bread and tea.

  “We have a bigger boat now,” Abdul said. “It won’t be like last time.”