Yulena swept Sergei up into her arms and hugged him.
“Hello, my little prince. When is Papa due home, Mama?”
“Soon. How did it go today?”
Yulena hesitated, but it was her mama and she understood musicians.
“Horrible. Secretary Andrei Zhdanov has issued a decree. Not just Dmitri; he also names Comrade Prokofiev and Comrade Khachaturian. You should have seen them, Mama, all standing on that stage and criticizing him. They have no talent. He has more talent in his littlest finger than they will ever have. His works are banned and his family will have their privileges withdrawn, and the concerto he’s working on, Violin Concerto no. 1 in A Minor, no one will be able to play it. Honestly, I could—”
“Enough, sweetheart. I do understand your frustration and anger, but you must always remember your papa’s position.” Nada’s face was sympathetic, but her eyes were grave, cautious. Yulena swallowed hard and rocked the baby in her arms.
“So what shall we talk about? How has Sergei been today?” she asked brightly.
“A little angel, as always. I took him to the Hermitage Gardens for a walk, but it was so cold we came home. But he does love the snow.”
Yulena put him down on the carpet and gave him a well-chewed wooden rattle.
“I must practice. Can you tell Papa that I need to talk to him when he gets home?”
“Of course, my darling girl. Don’t worry about the professor; they’ll not stay mad with him. He’ll repent and then everything will be forgiven, you’ll see.”
Yulena paused at the door, her violin case in her hand.
“I very much fear you’re right, Mama.”
An hour later Vladimir knocked on the door to his daughter’s room. He’d stood outside for ten minutes and listened to the fascinating interaction between violin and human brain. For long passages it sounded close to perfect and then the flow was broken by a jarring note; she’d curse and start again. She played some Vivaldi and then some Brahms, and he couldn’t help but wonder what his son would think of her choices. How could two children, from the same genes and with the same upbringing, be so unbelievably different?
“Come.”
Her voice was clear and strong and confident. He opened the door and went in. She stood in the middle of the small room, barefoot, a music stand in front of her and sheet music lying on her single bed.
“Hello, precious. I do love to hear you play; it lifts my old heart!”
He kissed her on each cheek.
“How was your day, Papa?”
“Ahh, as always, full of paperwork. The people of the occupied zones have no idea how much paperwork they create. Give me an old-fashioned battle any day. And how was yours? Your mama tells me it was not a good day for the professor?”
He could see her choosing her words before she spoke, assessing how much and what to say. He knew she understood that he walked a fine line in an administration fueled by paranoia and secrecy. The people he worked for would expect him to betray his own daughter to them if she had unpatriotic opinions and not think twice about it, but it was an unspoken pact between them: he could never betray her and she would never really give him cause.
“They’ve denounced him for a second time and banned his works. When he finishes this amazing violin concerto, no one will be able to play it. But, as Mama said, he will repent and then all will be well again.”
Her father shrugged heavily. “I know you don’t agree with Comrade Secretary Zhdanov, but he has his reasons. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Sit down, Papa.”
She pushed the sheet music aside, and he lowered his massive frame onto the bed. She put the violin and bow away in the case and took her time; he watched her expectantly and patiently.
“I want to leave the conservatory. I know I’ve almost finished there, but I want to have private lessons instead. Mikhail knows everyone and he can find me a teacher who won’t lecture me all the time about politics.”
She was avoiding his gaze.
“Can he find you someone as good as the teachers you now have?” he asked thoughtfully.
She looked surprised; perhaps she’d expected anger?
“Oh yes. There are many wonderful teachers who have to work privately.”
“You mean they’re banned?”
“Some. Would that matter?”
At last her eyes met his. She was trying not to look too fierce, but he could see the hope and it hurt him. He sighed.
“Yulena, you know that the Great Father himself takes a special interest in me, and my family. He has guided Koyla’s career and suggested him to Comrade Beria. Without the Great Father’s interest, Koyla would still be writing Party tracts for farm workers; now he’s doing important work. And he asks me often how you are and when you’ll be ready to play for him. You simply can’t leave the conservatory and learn from a teacher who’s banned. They have subversive ideas—”
“How can you know that? You’ve never even met them.”
“Neither have you. They’re just recommendations from Mikhail, and he was a friend of Sasha’s.”
When he needed to make a strong point, one she could not refute, he brought up the name of Sasha. Her best friend for many years, Sasha had become increasingly strident in his criticism of the Party and Comrade Stalin. He’d started writing for an underground newspaper, and then one day he’d simply disappeared. His mother had had one letter, from a labor camp in Siberia.
“So am I,” she said quietly.
He put his arm around her shoulder.
“Darling, I know that you’re upset by what happened today, but it’s a minor thing. It’ll be over in months. Comrade Shostakovich knows what he must do to reinstate himself, and he will do it. Please, think no more about leaving the conservatory. It’s your destiny.” He pointed to the violin case. “That is your destiny, to play with the Moscow Philharmonic.”
Chapter 34
Moscow
March 1953
Over the next few years, both Vladimir and Koyla traveled in the course of their duties to the Motherland. Vladimir was a military adviser and spread his considerable wisdom among the Communist bloc, East Germany, Poland, Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia. And then when Comrade Stalin agreed to help his ally Kim Il Sung in North Korea, he sent some of his most trusted military personnel, including Vladimir.
Koyla had traveled with the Great Father to China and was instrumental in generating the propaganda needed to explain the Party’s help for North Korea. He grew more and more incensed by the West every day and took every opportunity to tell his friends and family about the corrupt capitalist foe that the Great Father fought so patriotically on behalf of the Motherland.
The trips and the importance of his work also gave Koyla a reason to keep his distance from his son. His mother was doing a wonderful job, and when he saw Sergei, the boy was respectful, quiet, and well cared for and listened to his father’s opinions with solemn eyes. But those slightly slanted eyes reminded him of his beloved Kati, even if they were a light green like his and not deep brown like hers, and he couldn’t spend long in the child’s presence without feeling an emotion that he otherwise kept buried.
By early 1953, Koyla was deeply involved in some of the darker campaigns of the Party, things he wouldn’t share even with his parents.
On a late winter day in early March, Yulena was playing the piano for a delighted audience of one five-and-a-half-year-old boy. He was large for his age and strong, his eyes were quick, and already his language skills were well developed and he adored music.
“What would you like next?” she asked.
“The lullaby,” he cried happily, clutching his knees to his chest and rocking.
“Ah, my brave Cossack solider . . .”
She turned back to the piano and began to play the sweet, mournful t
une. She didn’t need to look at him to know that her voice and the music would hold him enthralled.
“Sleep, good boy, my beautiful,
bayushki bayu,
quietly the moon is looking
into your cradle.
I will tell you fairy tales
and sing you little songs—”
The door to the lounge flew open, and Koyla strode into the room. The delighted child launched himself upward and threw himself at the man’s legs.
“Papa!”
“What are you singing?”
His face was white, his hair rumpled, and his clothes disheveled. He bent and scooped Sergei into his arms. She stood up, alarmed by his appearance.
“Nothing. Just a folk song. Koyla, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Where’s Papa?”
He handed Sergei to her without glancing at the boy. The child’s little face crumpled with disappointment, and she felt a sharp stab of anger; why couldn’t he even pretend to care?
“At the Kremlin, where would you expect him to be? Say hello to Sergei at least!”
Koyla ignored her request.
“He hasn’t rung?”
“No. What’s wrong? For goodness’ sake, tell me what’s happened. You’re frightening him.”
Koyla slumped onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands. Yulena stroked Sergei’s hair. The child was on the point of bursting into tears.
“Shoosh, bubba, everything’s all right,” she said soothingly.
Koyla looked up. “He’s had a stroke,” he said in a dull monotone. “He’s dying. They think he’ll maybe last another day.”
A strange mix of emotion began to stir in Yulena’s stomach, but the strongest feeling was the beginning of joy.
“Who?”
His voice, when he answered, was raw with grief and disbelief and hardly sounded like Koyla at all.
“The Great Father. Comrade Stalin is dying. Yulena, he’s going to leave us.”
Two emotions hit Yulena at once. She knew she mustn’t show her brother that this news was music to her ears, because he’d never forgive her. And secondary to that, she knew that Koyla was suffering the second great loss of his life and Stalin’s death would leave him inconsolable. Instinctively, she sat down beside him, Sergei still in her arms.
“Tell me what you know, then we’ll try and ring Papa.”
He drew back from her, his body rigid.
“They found him last night, the guards. They hadn’t seen him all day, but they didn’t check on him until evening. He’s unconscious . . .”
“Who do you think will succeed him?”
He looked at her sharply. “Why?”
“Well, Papa talks about them, Comrade Khrushchev and Comrade Beria—”
“What does he say about Comrade Beria?” he interrupted.
She shrugged. “Marshal of the Soviet Union and he has never held a military post.”
Instead of contradicting her as she’d expected him to do, he seemed not to hear. Something was different about him and it was more than grief. . . .
“Koyla,” she asked quietly, “what are you afraid of?”
He got to his feet and began to stride around the room.
“Yulena, I have to go away for a while and I need to know that you’ll keep Sergei safe.”
“Of course. Go away? Where? Safe from what?”
“Away from Moscow, just for a while.”
“Why?” She knew the concern in her voice was growing. He hesitated and then turned to face her.
“This is between us. Whatever Mama and Papa ask you, you tell them nothing. Agreed?”
She nodded.
“I’ve been working on a very important campaign, something that the Great Father expressly authorized. Something that would benefit the Motherland and all true Russians. But now, with the Great Father about to leave us and someone else—well, there may not be such a level of understanding of what we’ve been doing.”
Something akin to dread was replacing her secret joy. “What have you been doing, Koyla?”
“An anti-Semitic propaganda campaign.”
She couldn’t hide her shock. “But we have Jewish friends.”
“I know, but this wasn’t aimed at them. This was to condemn the Jewish doctors who’ve been trying to poison our great leaders. Thirty-seven Jews have been arrested.”
“And you think Comrade Stalin’s successor could disapprove?”
“If it’s Beria, he will. I’ve heard murmurings that the Great Father had approved the plans of Comrade Ignatiev to deport all the Jews to the farthest camps, as far from Moscow as possible. But I have no proof. They might want me to incriminate . . . I don’t know what methods they’ll use. I just think it would be best if I went away for a while.”
He bent down and kissed Sergei on the top of the head. She tried to grab his arm, but he pulled away and walked to the door.
“Make sure he doesn’t forget me,” he said simply and then he was gone. Yulena sat very still, her brain racing and tears starting to fill her eyes. She hugged Sergei to her and felt his little body shaking. They began to sob at the same time.
Chapter 35
Sochi, Russia
Summer 1962
Sergei sat on the warm sand and watched the water lapping at his feet. It was yet another scorching-hot day and he was counting to a thousand before he ran into the cooling water. He loved numbers and he loved setting himself tasks: how slowly could he eat his meal and not be scolded by his grandmama, how many times would his grandpapa walk around the lawn before he settled in the summerhouse, and how long could he hold his breath under the water, even how many days it would be before he got another of those stiff, formal letters from his father in Berlin.
He knew that his father was an important part of Walter Ulbricht’s government and that they’d built a massive wall around the West German part of the city. When his grandmama had told him that his father was getting married to a German woman and asked if he’d like to live with them, his response had been instantaneous. He didn’t know his papa at all, couldn’t speak German, and couldn’t imagine life without his grandparents. Although he hadn’t been involved in the final discussions, he knew his opinion mattered to them, and they decided he was too old to adapt to his father’s life. Nevertheless, his grandpapa told him he should be proud of his papa’s work. He was a bright child, however, and he could tell that his beloved aunt Yulena wasn’t so sure.
Aunt Yulena. How many hours would it be before she arrived? He tried not to be impatient and yet he wanted to see her so badly. She brought laughter and music into the house, and she took him on walks and talked to him as if he were already grown up. Damn! Now he’d lost count somewhere in the seven hundreds and he’d have to start all over again . . . or maybe not. He leaped to his feet and ran into the water, his tall body plowing through the delicious coldness.
Where’s Sergei?”
Vladimir laughed heartily. “Nice to see you too, precious. He’s outside in the garden, with your mama. She had to do something to keep him distracted. He’s been counting the seconds until your arrival.”
She left her suitcases in the lounge and walked through the open French doors onto the lawn. Nada was showing Sergei something in the flower bed, their heads very close together. He was thickset and long limbed, with black hair and his father’s high forehead. Her heart leaped at the sight of him.
“Hello there.”
They both looked up at the sound of her voice. Sergei ran across the grass and threw his arms around her.
“Aunt Yulena!”
She kissed him on each cheek.
“Hello, handsome. How tall you are. I swear you’ve shot up in four months.”
She could see by the blush that he liked the compliment.
“How was i
t? I want to know everything.”
She laughed and broke away from him to kiss Nada. “Hello, Mama.”
“Hello, my darling. Come into the house. I’ll make some iced tea.”
Sergei took her arm and walked with her. “Which city did you like the best?”
His voice was lower than she remembered, and there was a trace of dark down on his upper lip.
“Oh, Paris. It was amazing and they just loved us. We played an extra concert and they applauded for what seemed like hours—”
“How’s the violin?” he asked suddenly.
Yulena smiled at him.
“She’s just fine; she loved the trip, but she missed you. I will play for you later.”
After dinner Yulena told them all about the tour of Russian and European cities that her quartet had undertaken. It wasn’t easy to get permission to leave the country, although Comrade Khrushchev’s policies were considerably more liberal than those of his predecessor. Vladimir had used his influence to secure the necessary visas, and she knew he took a measure of responsibility for the success of the venture. Yulena was a regular first violin with the Moscow Philharmonic, but she loved the quartet more than anything.
Sergei hung on her every word, his pale eyes shining and his expression one of rapt concentration. He bombarded her with questions about the sightseeing she’d done, the monuments she’d seen, and the food, the shops, and the hotels. At last Nada called a halt and reminded them all that it was late, Yulena was tired, and they could start again tomorrow. Reluctantly Sergei kissed her good night and went upstairs to bed.
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