He was tall, almost as tall as his father, but had not yet filled out. The combination of light green eyes behind glasses, pale skin, short black hair, and fine, aesthetic features made him look like an intellectual, a writer or a scientist. He saw himself as a simple workingman with a message for those comrades who doubted the direction of the Motherland.
Now Koyla went for a brisk walk along the beach until he found a shady spot to sit and read the Party documentation that had arrived by official courier just that morning. Back in the house his very pregnant wife, Ekaterina, had a long soak in a cool bath and then fell asleep on their bed, with pillows to support her ever-aching back. Koyla had spoken at a Party rally she’d attended on her second day in Moscow and she’d asked him for advice on literature. They’d married three months later and now she was on the verge of having their first child.
She seemed to be searching for something when they met, and Koyla sometimes wondered if she’d yet found it. She was an intelligent woman, fierce and outspoken, but she’d lost her entire family in the horrors of Stalingrad, and now all she appeared to want to do was forget it’d ever happened. If he saw flashes of anguish in her deep brown eyes and the occasional evidence of her hatred for anything German, he held his tongue.
With her sharp cheekbones, short black hair, and slightly almond-shaped eyes, she could look like a cold piece of sculpture; then, suddenly, she’d smile, and men of all ages became tongue-tied.
The last member of the household, Yulena, was helping her mother in the large kitchen. Then she spent the late afternoon practicing on her beloved 1729 Guarneri del Gesú violin. It was a present from her father after the Great Patriotic War ended, and she still couldn’t quite believe it was hers.
Yulena had shown musical promise at a very early age on both the violin and the piano. On her tenth birthday, she’d started in the musically endowed children’s class at the Moscow Conservatory and was playing her first violin solo, Brahms, at twelve. When she was eighteen, she’d headlined a concert in the Great Hall and her future seemed assured.
But one afternoon in early 1941, she heard a radio broadcast by Major Marina Raskova of the Soviet Air Force. Raskova had broken the international women’s distance record in 1938 when she flew from Moscow to Komsomolsk-on-Amur, in the Russian Far East. This had made her a folk hero, so she was the obvious choice to front a recruiting drive for female pilots. Yulena was just twenty-one and she didn’t hesitate for a second. Within hours she’d left the safe world of the conservatory behind and was on an air force base in the town of Engels on the Volga River.
A two-year course was packed into six months of intensive training. The women were issued men’s uniforms that were far too big and had to stuff their boots with newspaper. Sometimes the instructors could be brutal, but Yulena felt truly alive for the first time in her short life.
When she graduated, she was sent to the 586th Fighter Regiment. These were extremely brave women. They flew without parachutes and agreed that, if they were captured, they’d shoot themselves rather than surrender. Their role was to engage the Messerschmitt 109s escorting the bombers and then to drive the bombers away before the targets were reached.
Yulena had had five “victories” when she was suddenly transferred to the Seventy-Third Fighter Regiment, a squadron of men. At first the men refused to have a female pilot as a wingman, but when she proved her worth time and again in furious battles over the skies of Stalingrad, they had no choice but to accept her.
In July 1943, she transferred back to the 586th for the famous battle at Kursk. This proved to be the decisive point of the war. Between them, the two fronts had more than 1.3 million men in combat and over twenty thousand field guns. In the skies, four thousand aircraft operated in an area that measured only twelve miles by thirty miles, and at times Yulena was in the middle of three hundred planes. Below her, her father and Marshal Zhukov were winning the land battle. She survived, despite being shot down twice, and was awarded the Gold Star, Hero of the Soviet Union.
Almost as famous for her mane of deep chestnut-red hair and her long-limbed body as for her flying, she quickly became something of a legend. Through the intervention of Zhukov, she was recalled in 1944 and given a posting to her old camp in Engels, training both men and women. These months gave her time to reflect on her war experiences and come to terms with what she’d seen, so that the deepest emotion she endured was concern over the fate of the men and women she was training. It was a source of some pride that she never cried over the deaths of her fellow pilots.
When the Great Patriotic War ended, she returned to the Moscow Conservatory to resume her studies. After her first concert in four and a half years, her parents had treated her to dinner in a restaurant and then her papa had presented her with a battered black violin case. There were one or two tiny cracks in the body, nothing important, and she’d had them repaired. The oil varnish was in amazing condition and the color was a deep burnt sienna, with the merest hint of red. The sound had reduced her to tears in seconds.
Two years later it was her pride and joy, her dearest friend, and she bore the teasing of others with a good-natured smile; no one understood what this “piece of wood” meant to her. No one except her papa. He’d found it in a little violin shop, miraculously saved from the bombing, and he’d bargained with the owner to get it for a very good price. Yulena understood the realities of war only too well and had decided almost immediately that she wouldn’t question her papa too closely about just how he’d persuaded the shopkeeper to part with such a treasure. All that mattered was that he had; it was his gift to her, his way of saying she had brought much pride to the name of Valentino and he adored her for it.
It was still daylight when Nada finished laying out her son’s birthday feast. The long table was groaning with dishes of Beluga caviar, chicken pudding, stuffed cabbage leaves, beef stroganoff, fish rolls, stuffed carp, and bottles of fine Georgian red wine. She knew that Koyla would comment on the amount of food and the apparent extravagance but she didn’t care; Vladimir worked hard, and their ability to put good food on the table was his reward.
“Good grief!”
She looked up to see Koyla standing in the doorway and wiped her hands on her apron.
“It’s your birthday, my boy. And it will be our one holiday feast.”
“It’s wonderful, Mama. You must have cooked all day.”
She smiled with relief and straightened a chair as he walked around the table to her side and kissed her warmly on the cheek.
“And all for me? Thank you, I’m very touched.”
“It is my pleasure. How’s your darling Kati?”
“Feeling better; she slept this afternoon. Her back hurts and the heat makes her ankles swell.”
“Oh, I do remember that. It was so hot before you were born I thought the doctor would have to hose me down.”
He laughed.
“She’ll be glad when it’s all over but she’s very good, she doesn’t complain. Shall I get the others? They’re in the drawing room. Papa is telling us about Comrade Stalin’s latest favorite artist; he sounds very good.”
“Thank you, darling. Open the wine and then ask them to come.”
Chapter 32
There were nine of them around the table, five family and four neighbors. They ate and laughed and talked and made toasts to General Secretary Comrade Stalin and to Marshal Zhukov. Yulena told them about her adored professor Dmitri Shostakovich, and the exciting plans for the conservatory’s end-of-year concert. She saw Koyla’s expression harden when she mentioned Shostakovich but ignored it. Mama had worked so hard and it was Koyla’s birthday; the last thing they needed was an argument.
“Been fishing lately, Koyla?”
The question came from their neighbor Ivan Suvokinov.
“Not since the winter, Comrade; no time, and I didn’t want to leave Kati once she came close to her date.”
>
Fishing and the Party were the only passions her brother seemed to indulge in, and at times, Yulena was tempted to tease him about how the Great Father viewed his stories of the five-hundred-pound catfish on the river Don and huge salmon in Neva, but she knew that Comrade Stalin was not a subject for humor.
“My dream remains the Baltic sturgeon in the headwaters of the Elba,” Koyla added.
“An admirable dream.” Ivan was warming to the subject. “You know there are fish in the Elba with over eighty pounds of caviar inside them? I’ve seen them, with my own eyes.”
“So tell me, Koyla, how is the farm policy seen by the Party in Moscow?” asked Pavel Volkov, another neighbor.
Yulena suppressed her amusement; the two neighbors were easily impressed by power: Ivan pandered to Koyla’s interest in fishing, and Pavel knew he adored talking politics. Almost instantly her brother was on the edge of his seat and she could see his eyes bright with enthusiasm. Here we go, she thought.
“It’s a brilliant concept, you know. Before the next decade, less than two percent of all our land will be in private production and with State-set targets and quotas, we will achieve higher levels of productivity than ever before! Vegetables, meat, milk, potatoes, grain, and eggs.”
Yulena sipped her wine and smiled innocently across the table at him.
“So why are there so many shortages then? Why do we queue for hours for a loaf of bread?”
“We’ve been through a brutal war, Yulena. You can’t expect an economy of this size, even one guided by the Great Father himself, to recover from years of war so quickly. Of course there are shortages. We need more people to work the land, especially men. Comrade Stalin says that far too many of the workers on the collectives are elderly, female, and illiterate. It’s hard to teach them how to farm productively. But there are plans in place to encourage more men to move to the country and help produce food.”
“Encourage?” she echoed. “How will he do that?”
The atmosphere was heavy with a sudden intruder who’d slipped between the chairs, and his name was Fear. For all it took was one word, one question, one suggestion that you disagreed with any of the Great Father’s policies. Nada moved a couple of spoons around in the now-empty serving dishes and looked sharply at her husband. Yulena saw him catch the glance and immediately raise his glass toward her.
“Enough of politics. We’re on holiday and we should be celebrating. Yulena, my darling, will you play for us?”
She smiled at him affectionately. “Of course, Papa.”
“Splendid! Let us all go through to the drawing room and take coffee in there. Thank you for a wonderful feast, my dear, it was spectacular.”
Her mother accepted their congratulations and ushered them through to the large and comfortable drawing room. The doors were open onto the back courtyard and a welcome breeze floated in, heavy with the scent of flowers.
Yulena busied herself preparing the violin and tuning it at the upright piano in the corner. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ekaterina have a quiet word to her husband and her mother-in-law and slip away.
“Thank you for your patience. I’m ready now.”
The audience took their seats.
“Tonight I will play two pieces. One very old and one quite new. The first is the canzonetta from the Violin Concerto in D by Pyotr llyich Tchaikovsky.”
Her body moved constantly as she turned from her mother at the piano, to the audience, and then out toward the gardens. She played with power and passion, her technique confident if lacking in subtlety. The sound had an eerie quality, almost a gypsy refrain, and she put her heart and soul into it. When she finished, they all applauded loudly, especially her father.
“Thank you on behalf of my divine instrument. It is the interpreter of the composer’s genius. I merely do its bidding. Now, for something a little more modern.”
Without introducing it further, she launched into the refrain, melodic and light, yet with an undercurrent of something darker; a longing unfulfilled, passions unrequited. It echoed around the room and held everyone spellbound until the last hypnotic note. Vladimir let out his breath after what seemed like an age.
“My God! What was that?”
She lowered the violin and smiled.
“That was ‘Liebesleid,’ Papa.”
Koyla’s voice was tinged with suspicion, as she’d expected it to be.
“Who wrote it?”
“Fritz Kreisler.”
He was on his feet before she’d finished the name.
“He’s German. Yulena, how could you? I thought we agreed never to play anything Ger—”
“Actually, he’s Austrian, born in Vienna; and he’s now an American citizen. He hasn’t lived in Europe for years, and he certainly had nothing to do with the Third Reich. This piece was written in 1938 and means ‘Sorrow of Love.’ It has a companion piece called ‘Sorrow of Joy.’ He’s one of the most brilliant violinists of our age, Koyla, and he has a 1733 Guarneri del Gesú.”
Her brother was glaring at her, his anger looking for an outlet.
“All the same, I’ve heard you playing Bach and Mozart—”
“Another Austrian. And a complete genius. For goodness’ sake, Koyla, not even you can extend blame for the actions of Hitler onto the great composers of generations past. I flew against them, remember? They tried to kill me and I don’t include people who lived two or three hundred years ago. It’s plainly ridiculous.”
“Are you saying the policy of Comrade Stalin is wrong?” Koyla asked. His voice was quiet and his tone measured, but she knew he wanted her to say yes. Maybe he wanted to report her? Again there was an icy-cold moment of silence broken by Nada as she rose from the piano.
“It’s time for a sing-along, don’t you think? I thought we’d start with Rachmaninoff. Yulena, play the ‘Maiden Fair’ and, Koyla, sing for us. Please, darlings!”
The two siblings had been eyeballing each other across the room, but now Yulena turned away and smiled at her mother.
“Certainly, Mama. I need an E if you would be so kind.”
Koyla sang the words from the Pushkin poem “Oh, Cease Thy Singing, Maiden Fair” in his clear, rich tenor voice. He scowled at her as he watched for his cues, and Yulena wanted to burst out laughing at him. They were almost finished when the double doors to the hall swung open to reveal Ekaterina standing in the doorway, one hand gripping her lower stomach. Her face was very white, covered in a shimmer of sweat, and her eyes were full of pain.
“Forgive the intrusion”—her voice sounded rough, as if it was difficult for her to breathe—“but my baby has decided to . . . oh, God! Help me, Koyla!”
Fifteen hours later the local doctor and an ancient babushka delivered Ekaterina of a healthy baby boy. He was over nine pounds and the effort almost tore her tiny body in two, but she was conscious enough to hold him. Wrapped in swaddling and yawning with obvious exhaustion, he peered up at her through tiny slit eyes. Koyla strode over to the bed and kissed her forehead gently.
“What an effort, what a wonderful woman you are. Hello, my boy!”
He reached out and stroked the chubby face with one finger.
“What do you want to call him?” Ekaterina murmured. The pink-and-white bundle was beginning to swim before her eyes.
“He will be a great servant of the Party. I know this. He will achieve great things for the Motherland. I think we shall call him Sergei. It means ‘servant.’ Sergei Koylaovich Valentino.”
She smiled happily, then her grip on the baby loosened as the room swirled into a dancing whirlpool of light and she felt a huge rush of warmth between her legs. Four hours later Ekaterina Valentina died from a massive postpartum hemorrhage, and the household was plunged from joy into profound grief.
Chapter 33
Moscow
February 1948
Yulena
had truly believed that things would change after the Great Patriotic War. During the 1930s, as she grew from an uncertain young girl into a confident and articulate woman, she’d watched the purges of the intellectuals and the scientists and the military and always held her tongue. The horror grew throughout the decade, but then suddenly they were all united against a common enemy and the military restored her respect for men in power.
It was a freezing day in early February and, as she sat toward the back of the Great Hall at the Moscow Conservatory, her heart was breaking. This was the scene of some of her musical triumphs and she adored the place. With its intricate plaster decorations and portraits of famous composers in oval frames surrounded by laurel leaves, the high ceiling, and the lovely half-circle-shaped boxes, it seemed to enfold her in a sense of history and pride. What would the great musicians think of the debacle currently taking place on the stage? she wondered.
Through tear-filled eyes she gazed at her professor Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich, in his dark suit, striped shirt, and striped tie. He wore round black-rimmed glasses, his black hair cut short, and a serious expression on his long, thin face. One by one the others were taking turns to criticize him and his music. He was accused of being a “formalist,” writing music that was too elitist and inaccessible to “the common people.” Finally she could take it no more and she dragged herself to her feet and walked out.
When she got to the apartment, Mama was playing with Sergei in the lounge. As always the boy gurgled with delight at the sight of her and held up his chubby arms. He was eight months old and his father had seen him twice. Both Nada and Vladimir understood that Koyla was consumed with grief and didn’t want to see the child. Fortunately for Koyla, his mama was delighted to take over the care of her grandson and told him she would continue for as long as was necessary. She believed that in time her handsome and talented son would find another wife and that he’d do his duty and choose someone prepared to raise a child that wasn’t hers. Until that time Nada and Yulena made sure that Sergei didn’t go short of attention and love, and Vladimir tolerated the noise and found him a captive audience for all his best stories of the Great Patriotic War.
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