Elias felt such distaste for Alexander that his skin crawled. ‘Shostakovich doesn’t ignore people. He’s short-sighted, not stuck up. He’s … he’s wonderful.’ Where were the words coming from? Now he’d started, he couldn’t stop. ‘Shostakovich is one of the greatest composers Russia will ever have.’
Alexander lurched. ‘But he’s derivative — you said so yourself. Everyone knows he steals material and buries it deep in his precious
music, hoping no one will notice. That’s not wonderful, that’s plain stupid!’
Elias’s heart sank. It was true — he’d publicly denigrated Shostakovich. And the result? The man he least respected in the world was siding with him against the man he admired more than any other. ‘Shostakovich is a master of quotation.’ His voice was uneven. ‘That’s always been one of his gifts. Now take your seat. We’re running late as it is.’
‘Shostakovich is a coward!’ Alexander remained standing, though he swayed as he spoke. ‘He pretends he’s stayed on to defend Leningrad, but do you want to know something? He was about to leave at the end of August, when Kozintsev and the film studios were shipped out, but the planes were full. My cousin told me! Too bad for Shostakovich that he crept to the authorities too late.’
Was it true? Looking away, Elias caught Nikolai’s eye.
Nikolai gave a tiny nod. ‘For the safety of his children,’ he said, over the heads of the orchestra. ‘At the insistence of his wife. Dmitri himself was most reluctant to leave.’
Receiving this unexpected, unwanted information filled Elias with fury. ‘He’s neither a copyist nor a coward. And I will not give you time off, Alexander. If your sister’s ill, she must go to a hospital. What would happen if I gave leave to everyone with a sick or injured relative? I’d have no orchestra left!’
‘My sister has dysentery, you heartless bastard!’
‘Two minutes ago she had diphtheria,’ said Elias. ‘Make up your mind. If you’re placing her at death’s door, you might at least decide what disease you’re killing her with.’
The orchestra sniggered, and Alexander turned purple. ‘All right. It’s me. I’m exhausted. I can’t go on like this — the air raids, the shelling, the cold. I’m not getting enough food, I can’t sleep. I need a rest.’
Elias stared at him in disbelief. ‘Do you think it’s different for anyone else in Leningrad? Didn’t you hear Shostakovich’s radio address? Whether we’re artists or artillerymen, at this point in time we’re all soldiers — and that includes you.’
A sneer spread over Alexander’s face. ‘Shostakovich, Shostakovich. It’s always Dmitri Fucking Shostakovich. I believe you’re in love with him. Do you hear me, comrades?’ He spun around to face the orchestra, his oboe hitting a chair with a sharp crack. ‘Did you hear? Our conductor’s in love with the famous composer!’
It was Elias’s turn to sway. ‘Sit down. Sit down and play.’
But instead Alexander leaned on a pillar and leered at him. ‘You’re a bastard. And I won’t play.’
A sharp twang came from the string section, making Elias jump. A violin string, tightened too far, had snapped, and it curved in the cold air like a whip. He surveyed his musicians with their deathly pale faces and sunken red-rimmed eyes. The sight filled him with horror. He stepped closer to Alexander.
‘You will play. It’s your duty.’
‘Get fucked,’ said Alexander. ‘You’re a dictator and a cunt.’
A purple haze washed over Elias’s eyes. He could no longer see the drunk oboist, nor the open-mouthed musicians, nor the cracked walls and the broken windows. Instead, he had a horrifying vision that he couldn’t place: a marble slab, a white neck, veined eyelids wrapped over swollen eyeballs.
‘Karl?’ It was Nikolai’s voice, calling from the back of the room. ‘Are you all right?’
Elias stepped back, his vision clearing. ‘Get out,’ he said to Alexander. ‘Leave.’
‘First you order me to play, now you want me to leave?’ Alexander sounded incredulous.
‘You’re a drunkard and a liar. If you look at your oboe, you’ll see that you’ve damaged it, and your oboe is the only reason I’ve tolerated you for so long. We’ll be better off without you. Go to hell.’ In the back of his mind, he heard distant horns starting up: the prelude to a march.
After Alexander had stumbled out the door, the relief was so overwhelming that Elias also stumbled as he walked to the podium. But behind him he heard a welcome sound. Petrov was clapping. With his weak hands and chapped palms, the sound of his approval was tiny. But it was applause, nonetheless, and soon it spread from player to player until every member of the orchestra was clapping.
N
ikolai walked home with his bread ration hidden inside his coat. There had been a scuffle outside the bakery: a woman pushed against the wall by a teenager, the bread snatched from her hand. When Nikolai himself emerged from the bakery, the woman was still sitting empty-handed on the muddy curb. No one had helped her; the rest of the queue had said nothing, done nothing, simply stared as if they had no connection to thief or victim. The crime, the indifference — neither was out of the ordinary. By now everyone had learnt that survival meant looking after yourself. But, trudging along the gritty street, Nikolai felt both sad and wary.
Just as he turned into Belinsky Prospect, it began to rain, a low slanting rain that was almost snow. He turned his collar up and put his head down. Within minutes his violin case was slippery and wet; he tried to hoist it onto his shoulder but found he didn’t have the strength.
He struggled on through the mud, avoiding the potholes left by the rumbling tanks. He was only dimly aware of others toiling along beside him, moving as slowly as possible to save energy. The whole of Leningrad was grinding to a halt, winding down like a clock with no key.
As his tiredness had grown, he’d become less certain about what to do. For the well connected, there was still the occasional chance of evacuation. Being flown over enemy lines, or crossing Lake Ladoga to reach the last unbroken railroad linking Leningrad to the rest of Russia — both were risky. But they were the only two ways of escaping this living hell. Now, peering through the sleet, Nikolai saw the future more
clearly than he had since the first shock of the invasion. The German Army had a stranglehold on Leningrad, and it was choking the city to death.
Realising this, he tried to convince himself that sending Sonya away might have saved her life. But, as always, his brain cried out:
You made a mistake! Whatever the situation was or will be, Sonya belongs with you
.
Only the previous week he’d felt her absence more keenly than ever when he’d arrived, alone, at Shostakovich’s apartment. Galina had opened the door. ‘Where’s Sonya?’ Her face fell. ‘You should have brought her! There are too many grown-ups at this party. We wanted Sonya to come.’
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.
S
hostakovich 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.