3 Great Historical Novels (70 page)

Nina was still holding his hand. ‘You did everything anyone could.’ She had no way of knowing this, but the characteristic ring of truth in her voice was somehow comforting.

After coping so long on his own, being in the hospital was curiously soothing. White-clad staff passed by quietly; the ill and the wounded lay still under their covers. Unlit chandeliers hung over the makeshift wards like the canopies of oak trees. Elias was fed, sometimes he was washed; he was treated with no more and no less respect than anyone else. It was only when he stepped shakily back into the real world a few days later and returned to the Radio Hall that he remembered what he’d been through, and what lay ahead.

Nikolai looked at him in an assessing way. ‘Why don’t you shorten rehearsal time? At least for a couple of days, until you get some strength back.’

Elias shook his head. ‘We need every minute we can get.’

‘You’re a stubborn bastard. You and Shostakovich have a lot in common. In a word, pig-headedness.’

‘Speaking of Shostakovich,’ said Elias, ‘do you know how he is?’

‘He’s worried. Worried about the war, worried about catching typhus, worried how long Leningrad can survive under siege. Essentially, he’s the same Dmitri we’ve always known and loved.’

‘But has he mentioned —’ Elias fiddled with his music stand. ‘The symphony? You told me he was concerned that Toscanini may botch it in America — but what about this performance,
our
performance?’

‘Nothing yet,’ admitted Nikolai. ‘But the last letter from him was some time ago. A good deal of post isn’t getting through.’

‘Of course.’ Elias tried to sound matter-of-fact. It was unlikely that Shostakovich would expend much thought on a makeshift orchestra in
Leningrad, when his symphony was gaining the attention of eminent conductors and critics all over the world. Yet he couldn’t help hoping for — what, a sign? Something to show that Shostakovich believed in what they were doing, and that it mattered. Stifling a sigh, he lowered his music stand. ‘Not very dignified to conduct from a chair, I know, but collapsing mid-rehearsal would be less so.’

There turned out to be one other advantage to his new, lowly position. Viewed from a chair, the orchestra seemed less of a solid mass and more a collection of individuals. He was able to see veins standing out on necks, and nervous twitching in the bars before a solo. He was less audible and less visible — but at last he was on the right level.

After the rehearsal was over, several of the musicians came up to enquire about his health, and to commiserate over the loss of his mother.

‘They seem to like me better,’ he said to Nina, in slight surprise.

‘Of course. Now they see you as a human being, instead of a conductor.’

‘Because my mother died?’ He was confused. ‘Or because I’ve been in hospital?’

‘Because you’re vulnerable.’ Nina closed the lid of the piano. Her knack of summarising things made him see life didn’t need to be as complicated as he’d always found it.

‘Are you ready to go?’ Nikolai was stationed by the door. Over the winter he’d developed a strange stillness about him — a static, waiting quality. With his long beard and eyebrows he reminded Elias of a
moss-covered
statue. Arrested in time, as they’d all been, by an ill twist of fate and by the siege. When would they be released?

Very slowly, they made their way through the ruined city, Nikolai carrying Elias’s small bag and Elias carrying the huge score. He’d boiled down his leather briefcase many months earlier; it had yielded a peculiar-tasting chunk of protein, which he’d told his mother was pork aspic, and it had lasted them some weeks.

The streets were no longer muddy but were still marked by the deep ruts from army vehicles and tanks. Young people moved in the same way as the elderly, slowly and stiffly. Only the rustling green trees seemed alive. Summer was here again, but it had returned to a suspended city: smashed, ruined, still surrounded by the enemy.

At the thought of a stalemate, of entrapment stretching ahead with no end, Elias felt the familiar stirrings of panic. How could he inspire exhausted Leningraders and their Party leaders if he had no belief in a
future? His fear grew, as it always did, at the prospect of Shostakovich sitting by his radio in Kuibyshev, listening to him conduct the Seventh Symphony. But today the thing that frightened him most of all was the thought of walking back into his empty apartment.

The closer they got, the more nervous he became. Nikolai had stopped trying to make conversation, and they turned the corner in silence. Elias kept his head down and his eyes fixed on the broken cobblestones.

‘Look!’ Nikolai nudged him. ‘You have a welcoming committee.’

There on the front steps sat Valery, tracing patterns in the dust with his stubby fingers. As soon as he caught sight of them, he jumped up. ‘Mr Elias! Hooray, you’re home!’

‘Nice to see you, too.’ Elias coughed — it was the dust, surely, that made his eyes prickle and his voice come out slightly clogged.

Valery looked earnestly at Nikolai. ‘Mr Elias has been giving me some of his rations. He says I need to get plump and strong, the way I used to be.’ He stood back, flexing imaginary muscles on his stick-thin arms.

‘That’s kind of him,’ said Nikolai. ‘Though he might consider looking after himself as well as other people.’

‘I’m fine,’ mumbled Elias. ‘Just doing what anyone else would.’

Valery took the score out of his hands and held it as if it were made of glass. ‘This is Mr Shostakovich’s work,’ he informed Nikolai. ‘He’s very famous. Soon there’ll be a big concert, with Mr Elias in charge.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ said Nikolai. ‘Shall we go inside now?’

And so Elias came home again, flanked by an eager knock-kneed boy and a generous, grief-stricken man. As he pushed open the door of the apartment and caught sight of the empty bed, he’d never been so glad of the company.

It seemed strange that no one had ever touched the trees. When Nikolai looked out his window, peering through the criss-crossed tape and scratched glass, he still saw tree-tops, now a deep dark green, in the park. Throughout the dark icy months of winter, every shelled house had been stripped and every bombed factory picked over for fuel. Anything not chained down or locked up had been removed: pulled apart by bare hands, chopped up with hatchets, tugged away on sleds to feed small smoky stoves, staving off a cold so extreme it slowed the blood to a crawl. Furniture, wallpaper, books; dung scavenged from the city stables before the horses were shot and used for meat. Anything with combustible potential had been scavenged — so why had the trees survived?

He gazed at the green clouds rising like smoke signals. Was it sheer romanticism? Perhaps — as well as a nationalistic pride. In Berlin, Hitler had ordered the lime trees felled for aesthetic reasons, while Leningraders had frozen to death rather than desecrate their trees.

The notion made Nikolai profoundly irritated. Considering the state of Leningrad, the mountains of rubble, the smashed churches and broken fountains, pitted streets and gaping holes where gracious apartment blocks had once stood —! He no longer had any patience for Russian romanticism, particularly given the mutilated bodies he’d seen that spring.

Tanya was getting ready to go to work. ‘I’m leaving now. There’s some rice on the bench for later.’ Her coat hung loosely off her shoulders and her scalp glinted through her thin hair, but she seemed more concerned
about Nikolai’s health than her own. She’d developed a remarkable talent for acquiring black-market supplies (fifty grams of lard here, a small pack of lentils there) for the sole purpose of feeding him.

‘Rice.’ He nodded vaguely.

‘Don’t forget to eat it.’ She folded her arms. ‘You’ve got to keep your strength up.’

‘Keep my strength up? For what?’ He was at a loss, in these drifting, monotonous days, to grasp the point of anything.

‘For the concert, of course!’

‘Ah, the concert,’ said Nikolai. ‘Yes, it’s most important for me to eat cold rice for the sole purpose of playing the violin well enough to distract Leningraders from the truth — that their Party has failed to prevent them from starvation and death.’

Tanya looked reproving, though only a year ago she’d considered concerts a waste of time and money. ‘The posters are already up. People are buying tickets. The whole city’s looking forward to it.’

‘The city would be better off saving its money and going to church to pray that this bloody stand-off will end. What good is seventy minutes of music if we’re to be shelled and starved for the next ten years?’

‘Don’t talk like that. One of the doctors said that, according to Mr Eliasberg, this will be the most important concert ever played in Leningrad! The most important since
time immemorial
.’

There was no trace of Elias in the phrase; Tanya had always
embellished
stories, particularly when they concerned things she knew nothing about. But the fervour and the belief were recognisable as Elias’s own. Nikolai had seen the glitter in his eyes as he drove the orchestra onwards, disregarding the musicians’ fatigue and despair. At those times it was hard to believe the rumours that had circulated before the war — the lack of discipline in the Radio Orchestra, the public mutinies and practical jokes, and one musician in particular (was his name Alexander?) who regularly ridiculed not only his colleagues but also his conductor.

Tanya was almost misty-eyed. ‘After the concert, morale in the city will soar. That’s what the doctor and Mr Eliasberg say. Through the strength of the music, our army will gain strength — and then I expect we’ll win the war.’

‘Mr Eliasberg has his own axe to grind. The Astoria Hospital may be convinced by his mission, but it’s unlikely he’s risking his life for this concert for purely altruistic reasons.’ Nikolai had become disconcertingly
aware of an anger growing inside him. Anger with Tanya for unexpectedly championing a musical cause, and with Elias for growing so bold he made others look cowardly in comparison. With Shostakovich for writing a symphony that had already become symbolic, and with the people of Leningrad who were so desperate they would throng to the concert house to listen to an orchestra of walking cadavers. He was angry with the politicians for setting in motion such a musical farce, and with the pilot who’d risked his life flying the score in over enemy lines, and with the Red Army for not having the strength to push back the Germans. There was only one person in the world with whom he didn’t feel angry, and she had become the stuff of fairy tales and fables: the needle in the haystack, the pea under the mattress, irritating his memory, preventing sleep, never forgotten yet never appearing. Day by day, he was drained. He’d survived the winter, only to be fatally weakened by the sight of green trees and the scent of emptiness.
Sonya, you are killing me. Your absence will be my death.

He watched Tanya tie a scarf over her patchy scalp and bustle out the door. Filled with relief, he ran his fingers through his long beard; at least she’d forgotten to nag him about his hair.

‘One more thing.’ Her head reappeared around the door. ‘You should trim your beard. You look like a sailor, without the legitimate excuse of weeks at sea. When Mr Eliasberg was in hospital, he shaved every day.’

There was nothing to throw at her; most of their possessions had been sold, exchanged, or chopped up for firewood. He waved his hand in a peremptory gesture that might have meant ‘All right’ or might have meant ‘Go away’. It seemed to satisfy her; she retreated again and her footsteps faded down the stairwell.

At last he was alone.

Over the past few months, he’d been trying to exist in the moment. But his desperation for escape was growing. He felt suffocated in this city where resignation coated the streets like the sticky juice from the lime leaves. Officially it had been suggested that the siege would be over by the end of summer — but he could hear the hollowness behind the assurances. Nothing but propaganda, and a large measure of hope.

In the quietness that descended after Tanya’s departure, he came to a decision. It wasn’t as hard as he’d anticipated, for with the closing of the door he’d finally realised that Sonya was never coming back. He hadn’t talked about her for weeks. Tanya no longer spoke her name; their few surviving neighbours passed him quickly in the crumbling stairwell.
With every lost opportunity, every time she might have been mentioned and wasn’t, Sonya disappeared a little further. Daily, the images in Nikolai’s head were fading — her eyes, her smile, the tilt of her nose. Soon there would be nothing left of her.

He would wait until the night of the concert — this much he owed to Shostakovich, and to Eliasberg. Then he would make his escape. He would invite Tanya to the victory party, which would happen whether or not the performance was a triumph: commissars glowing with unearned pride, musicians seated at a table laden with rich food that might, earlier, have saved other lives. He would slip away and come back here where he belonged, and, finally, he would do it.

He felt for the small tin taped under the windowsill, a strange but not entirely unwelcome gift from a pathologist who’d lived in the apartment below with his wheelchair-bound, music-loving wife. ‘She’s listened to you practise for years,’ he’d said to Nikolai. ‘Your playing has been her escape. The least I can do is offer you an escape in return.’

Dr Ostrovsky had died on the coldest day in January, two days after his wife. The ostensible cause of his death was pleurisy, but Nikolai believed otherwise, knowing how much the doctor had loved his wife. After hearing the news, he’d opened the tin and stared at the capsule — cyanide, mixed with acetic acid for what Ostrovsky had called ‘more certain results’. How odd that such a small object could smash open a claustrophobic world and let the air in!

He’d believed, for a time, that Nina Bronnikova might be his saviour. In the long vicious grip of winter (searching, always, for Sonya’s small figure), he’d glimpsed Nina and his heart had lifted. The occasional sightings had kept him going — as, later, had the certain prospect of seeing her at rehearsals. Her frailty, her rare smile, her battle to accept her ruined career: these had amazed and impressed him. But before long it became clear to him. He’d already loved not once but twice, such fierce and loyal loves they could never be surpassed. What he’d received from his lost wife and his lost daughter was more than anyone could expect in a lifetime. And so he’d retreated from the flame that was Nina, abandoning the possibility of warmth, and he neither missed nor regretted it.

Although the room was full of sunshine, his fingers were numb. The effects of malnutrition had proved far worse than he’d believed possible; he felt cold all the time. He opened his violin case with difficulty, blew on his hands, tried some exercises. But even simple arpeggios were beyond him.

He swore, and threw down his violin with a discordant clash of strings. It was intolerable! To make it so far, and now be unable to play! He looked around for something, anything at all, to burn in the stove. ‘But not that,’ he said aloud. ‘But not you.’

Above his head, behind the ceiling panels, lay the cello, wrapped in threadbare blankets like a sleeping child. He thought back to the first rehearsal, when musicians had unpacked violins with smashed scrolls, and cracked double basses. ‘Does anyone know of any spare instruments?’ Elias had asked despairingly. Nikolai had shaken his head. The cello would stay hidden, perhaps forever.

The sight of the apartment — the cracks caused by the bomb-blast next door, the dark squares where pictures had once hung — filled him with such rage he could barely contain it. A year ago, this had been his home. A year ago, he could play melodies to make the eyes of his audience glitter with tears. ‘And now?’ He spat on the bare floor. ‘Now I live in an empty shell and play no better than a child.’

Pulling on his gloves, he seized up the hatchet from behind the stove. He slammed the front door behind him and clattered down the stairs two at a time, swinging the axe over the stair rail so recklessly that steel clanged on steel.

By the time he reached the entrance hall, Mrs Gessen had emerged from her door in alarm. ‘I thought I heard something. Mercifully, it’s only you.’ Since the night of the near-miss she’d become uncontrollably nervous; her eyes flickered like a lizard’s and her head jerked.

‘Yes, it’s only me,’ repeated Nikolai, but his voice echoed through the damaged hallway, sounding nothing like his.

‘What’s that you’re carrying?’ Mrs Gessen’s relief visibly faded at the sight of the hatchet. ‘Where are you going with that?’

‘I need firewood. My hands are numb and I can’t practise.’

‘But where are you … what are you —? Surely not the
trees
?’ Mrs Gessen seemed to have absorbed his earlier thoughts; it was as if his anger had run through his cracked floorboards, through ceilings and floors, and finally seeped into her living room.

‘Well, there are plenty out there for the taking.’ He shrugged. ‘If the city wishes to hear the musical evocation of angels, then it must make sacrifices. Don’t you agree?’

‘Angels?’ stammered Mrs Gessen.

‘Shostakovich’s Seventh.’ He spoke impatiently. ‘I’ve been starved for eleven months, my circulation is so wrecked from malnourishment that
I can neither get warm nor play a note, yet in five days I’m expected to perform a symphony for the city. Do you think that’s fair?’

‘But the trees! If every Leningrader cut down a tree, where would we be?’

‘Leningraders do not cut down trees.’ He thrust his face close to hers. ‘Most, it seems, would rather sit and look at the trees while waiting to die. I refuse to be one of them.’ He was so angry that the hallway began spinning around him and he clutched at the stair-rail. As he leaned there, breathing hard, surveying the familiar surroundings — the chipped plaster flowers above the door, the scratched floor, the far wall with its rows of letterboxes — reason reasserted itself. Perhaps he should consider an alternative plan? After all, the trees were in full view of a police patrol, and a madman wielding a hatchet would certainly be arrested. (
Reasonable to the last!
said Shostakovich, in his usual half-admiring, half-mocking way.
How sensible to avoid trouble, so you can go on quietly planning your death!
)

‘All right, you win.’ Nikolai, wiping his forehead, addressed both Mrs Gessen and the distant Shostakovich. ‘The trees can stay.’

Mrs Gessen let out her breath. ‘They
are
the property of the city. I would have had to report you if I’d caught you in the act — or even en route to the act. And no one wants to report a neighbour, not after all we’ve been through together. A whole new collective spirit, that’s what these dark times have given us. A brave new —’

‘Yes, yes. Excuse me, please.’ Nikolai pushed past her new-found idealism and headed towards the letterboxes.

‘You won’t find any mail today.’ She shook her head. ‘Not today, and probably not for a long while.’ All the same, she moved a little closer; she’d always kept an avid eye on other people’s post. ‘My cousin works in the postal depot, you know, and she tells me there’s been no mail over Lake Ladoga for a week. It’s not clear why, but her hunch is —’

‘I’m afraid I have no interest in your cousin’s job,’ interrupted Nikolai. ‘Only in mine.’ He eyed up the letterboxes in a professional kind of way; his own box sat in the middle of a row, which made his task much trickier. He raised the hatchet high over his shoulder. ‘Stand back, please!’

Mrs Gessen let out a shriek. ‘Are you crazy? That’s public property!’

Ignoring her, Nikolai took a swing and the blade crashed deep into the wood. He wrenched the hatchet free and raised it once more. The second, equally accurate blow splintered the box into dozens of pieces. ‘What use is a mailbox if mail is never delivered into it?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’ll put it to better use.’

‘You’re going to burn our mailboxes?’ Mrs Gessen sounded aghast.