‘No, I heard all of it. I sat right at the back, so as not to distract you.’
In the dim light her face looked paler than ever, and the dark rings under her eyes emphasised her frailty. Her wrist was bandaged, her black jacket was holed, her injured leg was thin. She was lovely. She was perfect.
‘What did you think?’ he asked casually, though his cheeks were burning.
‘It went extraordinarily well.’ She sat down beside him. ‘Brilliantly, really.’
‘I wouldn’t say
brilliantly
. In fact, we lost three minutes along the way. But they did well, for a recycled bunch.’
‘Zagorsky and the others were impressed. They were talking of positioning speakers towards the front line so everyone can hear the concert — not only our soldiers, but also the Germans. To make them realise that Leningrad will never be defeated.’
‘Really? My God, I hope we can live up to the challenge.’ He paused, reached out and nearly touched her arm, withdrew his hand again. ‘But how’s the wrist? I hope you’re not in too much pain.’
‘It’s going to be fine. It must be! I’m determined not to disappoint anyone.’
‘You could never disappoint.’ He said it instantly, without thinking. ‘Least of all me.’ He flushed again, yet he didn’t regret saying it.
‘Thank you.’ Nina looked at him. ‘You once told me you were no good at paying compliments, do you remember? But the things you say to me —’ Quickly, she brushed her hand across her eyes. ‘They make me feel as if I’m the luckiest person in the world.’
Elias ducked his head, staring down at his shoes. ‘Oh, no, I’m the lucky one. Knowing … knowing you.’ He wanted desperately to leave
this echoing hall, to walk through the streets and talk to her about things other than symphonies and the siege. Would it be inappropriate to ask her back for some tea?
‘I stayed behind,’ she said, reaching into her bag, ‘because I wanted to give you this.’
‘Oh! What is it?’ He took the small flat parcel. ‘A p-p-present? For me?’
‘It’s just something I thought you should have,’ said Nina with a smile.
‘M-m-many thanks! I can’t remember the last time I was given a present.’ Flustered, Elias fumbled at the layers of newspaper.
Under the dirty wrappings there was a soft grey cloth, and inside the cloth was a little charcoal portrait, with the paper slightly torn round the edges.
Elias gasped. ‘It’s him! It’s Shostakovich!’ He scrutinised the face. ‘But he’s so young here, just a boy. Where did you get this?’
‘It was made by Kustodiev. I was a friend of his daughter. After he died, Irina asked me to give it to Shostakovich, but he wouldn’t take it. He said he’s allergic to portraits of himself.’
‘It’s by Kustodiev?’ Elias looked at the signature. ‘One of the most famous artists of his time. Wasn’t he crippled?’
‘Yes, he worked from a wheelchair. Shostakovich went to school with Irina, and sometimes he stopped by their house after class to play the piano for Kustodiev. That’s when the portrait was made.’
‘But this is really worth something. If you don’t want it any longer, you ought to sell it.’
‘If I’d wanted to sell it I would have done so in December, when I thought I might die of hunger. No, I want you to have it.’
‘But why — why me?’
‘Shostakovich once told Irina he’d learnt a lot from her father. About struggling on under any circumstances — and also that, sometimes, working can save you. I thought you, of all people, would understand that.’
Elias liked the portrait so much he could hardly breathe. ‘Look! Even at that age he had that … that
resolve
.’ It was true: the stubborn perseverance was there in the smudged adolescent face, the truculent eyes suggesting he was driven by something not entirely within his control. ‘Thank you so much,’ he said, wrapping it up again carefully. ‘I’ll treasure it.’
‘Well, I should go.’ Nina stood up. ‘You must be exhausted.’
‘Don’t go!’ blurted Elias. ‘At least, perhaps we could go —’ He took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps we could go together? You’d be welcome to come back to my apartment for some tea.’
Nina nodded. ‘Thank you! That would be lovely.’
When they emerged onto the street they found the storm clouds had cleared and the sky was a deep turquoise. Sunlight slanted across the broken rooftops, casting strange shadows on the wet pavements. They walked slowly, on account of Nina’s injured leg and Elias’s exhaustion. ‘It’s not far now,’ said Elias, every now and then.
Later he couldn’t remember what they talked about. What he did remember was how, pausing at street corners or crossings, he would glance at her clear profile and the curve of her neck, and feel as if he were already home.
I
t felt odd opening the door to the apartment and ushering Nina inside. He’d spent so little time here since his mother had died. Soft dust lay on every surface, and the air felt thick with grief and silence. As he looked around, the memories and the exhaustion overcame him and he began to shake all over. Very carefully, he laid the portrait on the table and covered his face with his hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, in a muffled voice. ‘I’m just so extremely tired.’ Even boiling water for tea seemed an impossible task. It was all he could do to crawl over to the narrow divan and lie down. Nina covered him with a blanket and sat beside him. After some time, when he hadn’t stopped shaking, she lay down beside him and stroked his hair.
It was a long time before he emerged from the darkness and opened his eyes. He was abashed and amazed to realise that, somehow, he had ended up lying on a bed next to the beautiful Nina Bronnikova. But then the year had been so full of strangeness.
‘Are you feeling any better?’ Nina spoke quietly, and as calmly as if the situation were nothing out of the ordinary.
‘A little,’ he said, turning his head to look at her. ‘I suppose the stress of today’s rehearsal was greater than I thought.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you think Shostakovich would have any faith in what I’m doing?’
‘Shostakovich is just one man,’ said Nina, ‘doing the job he was born to do, in the same way that you do yours. You must try to believe that.’ She told Elias what she’d heard about the Shostakoviches’ journey
east: their long wait to board the overcrowded train to Kuibyshev, Shostakovich standing on the platform with a sewing machine in one hand and Maxim’s teddy bear in the other. Seven days and seven nights in a packed carriage: lost suitcases, borrowed socks and underwear. Shostakovich, wearing his old worn suit, wading into the snow at the side of the tracks to rinse crockery, fetching kettles of water from station houses, too shy to strike up conversations, too proud to ask for help, in a constant state of agitation.
‘Apparently they got off at Kuibyshev,’ explained Nina, ‘because he couldn’t stand the lack of privacy any longer. They were supposed to go all the way to Sverdlovsk.’
‘Shostakovich — shy? But he’s so forthright, even abrasive! And so highly respected. He’s already a legend.’
‘He’s a great composer. He may well end up a legend. But in this case, his share of the task is done and now you must do yours. What he might think of your efforts — well, perhaps that’s less relevant than you believe.’
They lay there together and watched the golden evening light stretch over the wall. From the other side of the city came the distant wail of sirens; otherwise, all was quiet. Finally Elias plucked up his courage, hitched himself up on the pillows and put an awkward arm around Nina. Her bones jutted through her woollen clothing; her ribcage was as frail as a bird’s. But the strength he remembered from their first meeting was still there at her core.
‘Don’t you ever worry about anything?’ he asked softly. ‘You seem to have everything worked out.’
Nina laughed. ‘If you knew how I felt today! The last time I was in that hall was to hear a performance of Mahler’s Fifth. When I walked in that evening, people noticed me. I was considered beautiful back then.’ She closed her eyes, but a tear slid down her face and into the pillow.
‘You’re still beautiful,’ said Elias. ‘You’re more beautiful than ever. Distractingly so. You distract me.’ He leaned closer and kissed her forehead, feeling neither tentative nor nervous, and he left his lips pressed against her temple, feeling the even beat of her blood.
‘I could conduct to your heart,’ he whispered. ‘It’s as regular as a metronome.’
Slowly, Nina opened her eyes to look at him. ‘And yours? Is it steady?’
‘Some people say that I don’t have a heart. Many people say so. Surely you’ve heard that?’
She slipped her hand inside his coat and under his shirt, so that her palm lay flat against his chest. ‘How could you possibly do what you do and not have a heart?’
When the sunlight had slid away from the room and the sky was turning grey, she got up off the divan. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said, kissing him lightly on the lips, refusing his offer to see her home. Nonetheless, he went to the open door and stood there until he could no longer hear her uneven footsteps in the stairwell, and then he went to the window.
She was already in the street, treading carefully through the rubble, her hair glinting black like the wings of a swallow. She was known, and not yet known. He watched her slight, upright figure reach the corner. As she disappeared from sight, he felt a conviction, stronger than any he’d ever felt, that one day she would be his wife.
Now he was alone but not lonely, and he picked up the neatly folded piece of paper from where it lay on the windowsill. Already he knew it by heart.
Dear Karl Eliasberg. Warmest wishes for Leningrad premiere. Deeply regret my absence. Am convinced performance will be MAGNIFICENT. I greet you warmly. D. Shostakovich
He leaned his head against the cracked window. ‘You can do it,’ he said, refolding the telegram. The chill from the glass entered his skull and spread through his body. It felt like strength.
W
hen the sun hits the edge of the mattress, he opens his eyes. Sleep-dust clogs his vision, and the room is indistinct. He senses, rather than sees, familiar shapes around him: the high rectangular window, the small stove, the dangling light bulb.
It must be late because the sun’s already high. It seems surprising, after all that’s happened, that the sun still rises. He’s no longer the person he was a year ago, and the city, too, has changed beyond recognition. Yet the summer is familiar in all its blowsy green fullness and, as always, the stone walls and streets — however battered — have absorbed its heat.
He stands up and stretches, making his spine crack and his shoulders loosen. As soon as he puts on his glasses, the room jumps to attention. As if for the first time, with the utmost clarity, he notices the straight-backed chair, the right angles of the window, the layered score on the windowsill.
Below the window, the street is quiet and empty, but he can still see her walking there, threading her way past the broken houses, transforming the world. When he closes his eyes, his fingers feel the smooth coolness of her face. Behind him, the stove has become a small point of warmth, a leaping blue flame, and there’s the bubbling roar of water coming to a boil.
Later, after a breakfast of strong unsweetened tea and black bread, he’ll read over the stack of paper, listening with his eyes, moving his hands in the air, shaping something invisible to others. If the day stays fine and there are no air raids, he’ll walk along the canal, just a few bridges, and then back home. It’s important not to meet or talk to people in the hours before.
Later still, he’ll walk the long stretch of Nevsky Prospect all the way to the Philharmonia Hall, slip in a back entrance and shut himself away in a small one-windowed room. Shortly before 6 p.m., while putting on his white shirt (not pressed as perfectly as he’d like, but clean), he’ll turn on the radio to experience the odd sensation of hearing himself speak.
‘Comrades,’ announces his voice in crackling tones, ‘a great cultural occurrence is about to take place in Leningrad. In a few minutes you will hear live, for the first time, the Seventh Symphony of Dmitri Shostakovich, our outstanding fellow citizen.’ And he knots a threadbare black tie around his neck, pulls on his jacket and slips a folded piece of paper into his breast pocket. Because he’s clearing his throat, he misses a few sentences of his first pre-recorded public address.
Opening the door, he walks steadily down a narrow corridor, leaving behind his radio-self still addressing the city of Leningrad. Or, at least, addressing those not already waiting for him in the auditorium, row upon row, stretching to the very back of the hall. ‘Europe believed that the days of Leningrad were over,’ the voice behind him is saying. ‘But this performance is witness to our spirit and courage. Listen!’
Pausing in the wings, he listens, too. What does he hear at this moment? The scraping of chairs, the small twang of violin strings, a quick arpeggio from a clarinet; and, beyond these, the rustling of clothing and shifting of bodies, some coughing and murmuring, the sounds of anticipation. When he cranes slightly forward, he can see a row of microphones pointed like guns towards the stage, ready to catch the Leningrad Symphony and broadcast it to the world.
He takes a deep breath and steps into the blaze of electric light, far brighter than any sun. Sweat leaps on his back, the orchestra rises to its feet, and the audience also stands, a dark gleaming mass of military badges and medals, and pearls.
Soon the fluttering will stop and the musicians will become still with concentration, their backs straight, their fingers in position, their bows and mouthpieces raised — and their eyes also raised to him. For one perfect complete moment he stands, poised on the edge of silence. The only sound is the telegram in his pocket, rustling as he breathes, moving as steadily as a beating heart.
I have found a number of books and articles about Shostakovich and the Leningrad Symphony extremely useful while working on this novel. They include: ‘Orchestral manoeuvres’ by Ed Vulliamy published in
The Observer Magazine
, 25 November 2001;
Shostakovich: A Life
by Laurel E. Fay;
Shostakovich and His World
, edited by Laurel E. Fay;
Shostakovich: A Life Remembered
by Elizabeth Wilson;
Story of a Friendship: The Letters of Dmitry Shostakovich to Isaak Glikman 1941-1975
, with commentary by Isaak Glikman, translated by Anthony Phillips;
Testimony: The Memoirs of Dmitri Shostakovich
as related to and edited by Solomon Volkov, translated by Antonina W. Bouis;
The New Shostakovich
by Ian MacDonald.